Homecoming (7 page)

It felt as though she were made for reading, the way the words rolled around on her tongue like candy. She didn't see why this simple, glorious act was considered sinful in her grandmother's eyes. Especially when what she was reading was the blueprint of Christianity itself.

She dropped her stitch, biting her lower lip in unconscious punishment. Her nerves were her worst enemy, she thought, as she absentmindedly scratched her calf with her fingernails. She realized she was digging her nails into her skin, almost drawing blood, and stopped herself. The itchy feeling was starting all over her body, and she willed herself to relax, to slow her breathing down, to stop her heart from racing, to stop itching. These were the tells of her fear, and her grandmother could read every one. She took a few deep breaths, her inhalations becoming a funeral dirge set to the clunking beat of her grandmother's metal brace thumping up the stairs.

The house and stairway were built before the turn of the century when people were smaller and, seemingly, required less space. The clearance of the long and narrow stairwell was so low that only her grandmother didn't have to stoop to climb it. The stairway shot straight up, and if you wanted to make it to the top, you were forced to hold on to the railings, using them to drag yourself up, one step at a time.

Her grandmother was pulling her twisted foot, along with its corrective metal brace, behind her, which meant it would take her just that much longer to reach Eleanora's room. Precious extra time she'd use to collect herself and pretend she'd been knitting instead of reading.

Though she already knew their number by heart, had counted those stairs in her nightmares—both the dreaming
and
the waking ones—she still kept a running tally of them in her head as her grandmother climbed. Thirteen steps—the Devil's number, her grandmother would say—and each stair ascended was one stair closer to the landing leading to Eleanora's room.

She shivered. As always, she wondered how someone so small and wizened could possess the power to cow her so deftly. Her grandmother saw the Devil in everything, and this fanatical obsession, born out of righteousness, gave rise to her all-consuming crusade against Lucifer, the Fallen Angel.

No one would ever suspect the odd things that occurred in their house. The strange rituals her grandmother made her endure in order to stay free from the Devil's clutches. To the outside world, everything appeared completely normal:

Eleanora attended school like a normal thirteen-year-old; she and her grandmother went to the First Lutheran Church every Sunday come rain, snow, or shine, and her grandmother was involved in a number of charitable church activities.

Everyone in the community called her grandmother a saint. The way she cared for her invalid husband, who, after suffering a massive stroke, was unable to care for himself or even leave his bed. Eleanora and her grandmother did everything for Papa, feeding and changing him, making sure he didn't get bedsores—her grandmother even massaged his arms and legs to keep them from atrophying. It was arduous work, but Eleanora didn't mind. She loved her papa and spent each day after school telling him funny stories about the kids from school, or things she “saw”—

“Wipe that smile off your face, sister.”

She was thinking so hard she'd lost her count. Now she wasn't prepared—and one had to be vigilant in this house. Otherwise, there would be hell to pay.

She set her knitting down, but the ball of yarn fell off the bed and tumbled across the floor. She didn't dare leave it. That would be messy and a sin against God—the Lord abhorred anything being out of place. With the quilt still wrapped around her shoulders, she climbed off the bed and retrieved the yarn ball, the material soft in her hand.

Her grandmother stood in the doorway watching her.

“What were you doing up here?” her grandmother asked.

It was a straightforward enough question, but it sent adrenaline racing through her body.

“I was just knitting, Mimi.”

She balled her free hand, hidden underneath the folds of the quilt, into a fist, her fingernails digging into the callused skin of her palm. She hated the way her hands felt, dry and cracked and rough. Hours spent washing clothes in the wringer washer, scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees; she was forever toiling, a servant in her own home.

It was for her own good, her grandmother said. Idle hands are the Devil's playthings and cleanliness is next to godliness.

“Really, I was.”

Eleanora could see straightaway her grandmother didn't believe her. She didn't know why she bothered to rebel. She was always caught for her indiscretions, like reading when she was supposed to be knitting, or humming when she knew work should be done in silence. Her grandmother's intuition was uncanny, and if Eleanora hadn't known magic was the Devil's work, she'd have said the woman was a witch.

“Lying is a sin, Eleanora.”

“I'm not lying—”

“Repent and God will be lenient on you.”

She stood there on the bare wooden floor, wrapped up tight in the quilt.

“I didn't lie, Mimi!”

The brace on her grandmother's leg didn't slow the old woman down. She was at the bed, yanking the pillow away, before Eleanora knew what was happening. She held Eleanora's old Bible aloft—as if it were a burning piece of brimstone straight from hell.

“Liar!” her grandmother intoned, waving the Bible in the air. Its cover flapped back and forth like a broken shutter in the wind.

“No, don't hurt it!” Eleanora screamed, crawling across the bed, the quilt forgotten on the floor where she'd been standing.

Her grandmother was quick, stepping away so Eleanora couldn't reach the book.

“It's Mama's!” Eleanora cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, please don't hurt it!”

Jaw set, her grandmother locked her fiery gray eyes on her face.

“The Harlot's Bible. I should destroy it right here and now,” her grandmother spat at her. “It will only lead you into temptation.”

“No!” Eleanora cried, collapsing on the bed. “Please, Mimi, don't.”

She was hysterical. She had no control over herself. She lay on the bed, flailing about like a small child having a temper tantrum.

“The Devil's in you, sister,” her grandmother said, still holding the Bible out of Eleanora's reach.

It was an old ritual and Eleanora knew her part well.

“Yes, Mimi,” she cried, in between hiccupping sobs. “The Devil's got my foot.”

Her grandmother sighed, shaking her head.

“I knew it, sister. I just knew it.”

Eleanora sat up, long hair tangling around her shoulders, and choked back another sob.

“Mimi?”

Her grandmother had softened now. They were on well-trod ground. Things could proceed as usual from here.

“Yes, sister?”

Eleanora brushed her hair out of her eyes and rubbed her fists against her wet cheeks, swiping at the tears.

“I need a cleansing.”

Her grandmother closed her eyes, the hand with the Bible in it dropping to her side.

“Praise Jesus.”

She opened her eyes, smiling down at her granddaughter. Then she offered Eleanora her free hand. Eleanora took the proffered thing, a claw of a hand, really, knuckles swollen with arthritis, and long nails warped and yellowing. She climbed off the bed—the covers disheveled where she'd lain on them—and let her grandmother lead her toward the stairs.

The Bible, her mother's Bible, was the lure. It and the star quilt were her prized possessions. She would do anything her grandmother said, so long as nothing happened to them.

The afternoon was starting to fade, but still a few rays of sunlight streamed through the windows as she followed her grandmother down the stairs. She held on to the handrail, her teeth chattering with nervousness as she descended. She stared at the back of her grandmother's neck, at the loose strands of gray hair that'd fallen out of her bun and then stuck to her neck, held there by sweat.

There was only one bathroom in the house, and she and her grandmother shared it, each taking their turn in the mornings. Her grandfather had added the addition when Eleanora's mother was a child, so the floor wasn't even with the rest of the house. You had to take a giant step down in order to reach its plain tile floor.

She took a deep breath, then followed her grandmother down into the cramped room.

“Sit down, sister,” her grandmother said, indicating the white porcelain toilet.

Eleanora did as she was told, watching as her grandmother set the Bible down on the side of the pedestal sink. She relaxed, knowing the Bible was safe . . .
for now
.

Her grandmother rolled up the sleeves of her loose cotton blouse and began filling the claw-foot tub.

“Take off your clothes.”

Eleanora stood and began to disrobe, unbuttoning her dress and pulling it over her head. She folded it neatly, placing it on the sink beside the Bible, then did the same for her slip and underwear. She was a late bloomer with no breasts to speak of. Some of the other girls in her class made fun of her for it, but frankly she didn't care. To her grandmother, women's bodies were sinful and led to temptation. She was glad she didn't have breasts yet, that her grandmother couldn't use them against her.

When she was finally naked, she knelt down on the floor beside her grandmother, and thus began the “laying on of hands.”

“Send the Devil out of this sinful girl, Lord. Rip Lucifer's hands from this girl's soul, keep her safe and part of your flock,” her grandmother said, each word overenunciated. “In Jesus' name, amen
.”

They rose together.

“I'm ready, Mimi,” she said, trying hard to hide the quaver in her voice.

Her grandmother turned off the tap and, in the silence that followed, Eleanora could hear the delicate
plosh
of the water as it settled in the tub, steam rising in thick waves from its surface.

She took her grandmother's extended hand and stepped over the lip of the tub, sliding her foot into the near-scalding water. It burned, the pain radiating up her calf, making her eyes water. She closed them and bit her lip to keep from crying. Mimi always made sure the water was just hot enough to hurt but not to cause any serious burns.

“Go on now, sister.”

Her foot made contact with the bottom of the tub, and somehow the porcelain was hotter than the water. She wanted to pull her foot back, but this would cause all kinds of trouble. Instead, she put all her weight on the scalded foot, then lifted the other one over the edge of the tub. The pain was excruciating as her toes broke the surface tension of the water, then drifted down to meet their mates at the bottom of the tub.

She stood there, holding her grandmother's hand, legs submerged to the tops of her calves. She looked down and saw that underneath the shifting surface of the water, her skin had begun to turn bright pink. She looked back at her grandmother, who nodded, and then Eleanora held her breath and sat down in the tub.

Her body involuntarily tried to jerk away from the heat, but her grandmother was already there, pushing her backward. The skin on her back screamed as it hit the water, and she resisted, twisting like a hooked fish in her grandmother's hands.

“In Jesus' name, cleanse this child, cleanse her dirty, sinful soul . . . In Jesus' name, save this wretched girl from her sinful ways, release her from temptation . . .”

It went on like this, her grandmother holding her under the water, so she couldn't breathe, air bubbles rising from her nose as she tried to keep her eyes shut, to block the water from scorching her eyeballs. The liquid separated them, muffling her grandmother's words, but Eleanora knew them by heart. She didn't need to hear them.

She held her breath for as long as she could, but then she began to panic, unable to raise herself from out of her grandmother's killing embrace. The need for air was overwhelming. She tried to kick out at her grandmother, but she was getting weaker, the fight inside her disappearing along with whatever oxygen was left in her lungs.

She didn't want to die, but then the realization hit that with death came release and a chance to see her mama again for real, and she changed her mind. She let go, giving in to the blackness as it draped itself around her . . .

She was still sitting on the kitchen floor. It was drizzling outside and the light was fading, casting a burnished orange glow as it congealed in pools around her calves. The rest of her body was in shadow, blocked by the sink she was propped up against.

Her grandmother's voice was exactly as Eleanora remembered it. Slow and reedy—it had sounded no different coming out of Daniela's mouth earlier that afternoon.

She tried not to think about Mimi, about the atrocities she'd endured at her grandmother's hand, but now all those miserable years filled her head. To combat them, she felt an overarching urge to hold her mother's Bible in her hands. She got to her knees, but a sense of vertigo kept her from climbing to her feet. Instead, she began to crawl across the kitchen floor, the linoleum cushioning her palms and knees. The Bible was in the living room bookcase, on the bottom shelf in between a set of outdated World Books and the
Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology
. She pulled it out, settling it in her lap, then leaned back, her head and neck pressed against the wooden wainscoting.