Mud Creek (12 page)

She stood and rummaged in Helen’s dresser, finding Helen’s nightgown and placing it on the bed. She was nervous, fumbling around, and wouldn’t meet Helen’s eye.

Her demeanor bothered Helen very much, and there had been those awful stories about Violet in New York. Helen was very loyal, and she’d discounted them, declining to believe the worst of her sister, but how could an unwed girl of eighteen be so conversant in marital behaviors?

“Violet,” Helen asked, “how did you…learn about this?”

“I told you: A friend explained it to me. She’s married, so she’d been through it all.”

“What friend?”

“You didn’t know her.”

Helen nodded, eager to probe further, to demand answers from Violet that she’d never been good at eliciting. But they heard noises outside that might have been footsteps, that might have been Albert coming home.

They both jumped.

“Is there anything you need before I go?” Violet offered.

“No.”

“Would you like me to help you change or maybe brush out your hair?”

“I’m fine,” Helen lied, just wanting to be alone.

“Don’t be afraid,” Violet counseled. “Every woman in history has had to get past it.”

“That doesn’t ease my mind,” Helen said, but she was smiling.

“It will be over in a flash.”

“Until tomorrow night—when I have to do it again.”

“Yes, until you have to do it again.” Violet went over and opened the door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

And she left, the darkness swallowing her up as if she’d never been there.

The quiet descended, and Helen froze, listening, but there was no one outside, so it hadn’t been Albert, after all.

She hustled around, yanking on her nightgown so he wouldn’t show up and catch her half-dressed. Hastily, she brushed and braided her hair, then she blew out the lamp. She didn’t care what Albert might want. She was
not
having any illumination when he joined her.

She crawled under the blankets and snuggled down to wait. Her heart was pounding so hard, she worried it might burst out of her chest.

*    *    *    *

Albert entered the cottage, his home, his castle—paltry though it was. With Helen as his wife, everything would get better.

They’d build a bigger house, a
real
house, and they’d fill it with furniture and children. They’d become the most important family in the area. Everyone would befriend them. Women would seek out Helen, desperate to be included in her social circle. Men would seek out Albert for advice and assistance, which he would graciously give.

The last three years were over, and he was relieved to have it all finally coming together in a successful way.

The bedroom door was ajar, and Helen was in bed. She was very still, and he couldn’t decide if she’d dozed off or if she was simply pretending to be asleep.

A flare of temper ignited. He’d dawdled with the horses so that she would have plenty of time to prepare for his arrival. She should be as thrilled as he was for the pending consummation.

It was the greatest event of his life! His marriage to her—the prettiest girl in Maywood—was his crowning achievement. He’d never been lucky, so he’d had no chance to distinguish himself, to shine or prove his mettle. At winning her, he was triumphant and wanted to shout his feat to the world.

How could she fall asleep?

He tiptoed over and closed the door. Then he shucked off his clothes, washed and dried himself with a scratchy towel. The air was cold as ice, and he shivered, goose bumps popping out across his skin.

With him naked and Helen just beyond the wall, the situation felt sinful and debauched. An unusual wave of lust surged to his loins. He was never tempted to strong passion and didn’t spend hours pondering loose women as his brother, Arthur, had.

Arthur had been so titillated by the notion of wicked conduct that he’d kept a stash of obscene pictures hidden under his mattress. He’d often begged Albert to look at them, but Albert had always refused. After Arthur’s funeral, Albert’s first act had been to burn the disturbing images, lest his mother or—Lord forbid—Carl or Robert stumble on them.

When he’d fed the immoral pages into the flames, he’d barely glanced at them, so he hadn’t viewed himself as interested in the pleasures of the flesh, and the power of his arousal surprised him. Perhaps he was excited by the novelty of the circumstances. Or perhaps it was the fact that he was about to claim Helen as no other man ever could.

She was so pompous and spoiled. She thought she deserved better than he’d been able to provide, and her vanity enraged him.

He was trying his best! Why couldn’t she see that?

Every second of every day, he was working as hard as a human being could work. For her. To give her what he could. So she’d be happy. But she never was.

She’d probably hate their joining, but he intended to enjoy himself. It was
his
wedding night,
his
reward for all his effort toward her.

He lit a candle, then walked into the bedroom. There was an old crate by the bed, and he set the candle on it. He slipped under the covers and stretched out, his arms circling her, pinning her back to his front.

Apparently, she actually had been sleeping, because he’d startled her. She flinched, as if to roll away, and he gripped her more tightly.

In his marital bed, he would be lord and master, and the notion of controlling her, of ordering her about, was a potent incentive. His lust blazed beyond any level he could manage.

In all his lengthy musing about the approaching experience, he hadn’t planned how he would proceed. Whenever the prospect entered his head, the images were so shocking that he couldn’t bear to reflect on them. He’d had some nebulous idea that he would take it slow, that he would teach and guide her, that it would be wonderful and she’d thank him after.

Yet the reality was much different, and he simply couldn’t delay.

“It’s me,” he murmured.

“Well, of course, it’s you. Who else would it be?” She chuckled, struggling for levity, but she was very tense, her body stiff as a board.

“You’re not to fall asleep before I arrive,” he sternly said. “I shouldn’t have to wake you up.”

“I’m just tired from our trip to town.”

“I’m tired, too, but from now on, you’ll wait for me.”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

He pushed her onto her back, and he came over her, crushing her into the rough mattress. He could feel every inch of her, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. The dark, foul woman’s spot between her legs lured him to his doom.

“Could you blow out the candle?” she asked.

“No.”

“Please? I’m a bit nervous. It would help me to relax.”

“No!” he said more firmly. “Don’t argue with me.”

“I wasn’t arguing. I’m sorry.”

She flashed a pathetic smile, hoping to avoid a quarrel. She didn’t understand that he was her husband, that she couldn’t act as she had in the past. For too long, she’d been on her own and able to make her own decisions, so she didn’t know how to be a wife. But she would learn. He’d see to it.

She was wearing a nightgown, and he wanted to rip it off, but he had no idea how. Instead, he grabbed the hem, tugging it up, baring her legs so they were tangled with his.

She wrestled briefly, trying to stop him, but he ignored her protest. It was only to be expected.

Her breasts were flattened to his chest, the nipples poking into him like shards of glass. He couldn’t resist dipping down, sucking on them. The fabric of her nightgown was too much of a barrier, but still, he was too flustered to remove it.

“Albert”—she whimpered with dismay—“could we slow down?”

“No.” It seemed the sole word in his vocabulary.

“I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

“You don’t need to know. I am your husband, and it’s my duty to show you.”

“But…but…”

“Be silent, Helen.”

He started in again, pinching and biting and bumbling like an idiot.

He yanked her thighs wide, his torso dropping between them as he dug with his fingers, finding her wet, sticky center. He clasped his cock, wedged in the tip, and began pumping with his hips. He’d never previously lain with a woman, so he wasn’t sure of the mechanics, but his body proceeded by instinct alone.

He pressed and pressed and pressed into her. Finally, she wailed softly, and he slid inside, his rod buried to the hilt. Instantly, he spilled himself in her womb.

He pulled out and flopped onto his back, an arm tucked behind his head as he gaped in wonderment at the ceiling.

It had been the most pleasant sensation ever. He’d never experienced anything remotely close. It was all that Arthur had claimed it to be—and so much more. He was eager to try it again and again.

Helen shifted away and curled up in a ball.

“Was that it?” she asked. “Are we finished?”

“For now,” he said.

He leaned over and blew out the candle, and he grinned with satisfaction, realizing what a manly man he’d turned out to be, after all.

He’d always fretted over how he would perform with a female. Arthur had explicitly explained the required behaviors, but they’d disgusted Albert. He’d been terrified that he would embarrass himself. Yet it had been easier than he’d imagined.

Down below, he was already growing hard, and he thought he might reach for her, but before he could, exhaustion swept him away.

His eyes drifted shut, and he tumbled into a deep slumber. When he roused, it was full morning, his wedding night over. Helen was gone, the bed empty.

He dawdled for a moment, relishing the warmth of the blankets, the lazy interlude where he had no worries or chores. Then he threw off the covers and rose to face the day.

*    *    *    *

Violet stood in the yard, gazing up at the moon. The silvery light slid across her skin, almost like a lover’s caress. It added to her sense of disorientation, her sense of disorder and disquiet. Her mind was raging, and she couldn’t find any peace.

There was an energy building in her, and she couldn’t tamp it down. She was spending the night on the floor in Florence’s kitchen, while Helen endured her deflowering by Albert.

Violet had arranged a pallet by the stove, and the rest of the family was in bed. She should have been sleeping, too, but she couldn’t calm down.

The exhilaration of traveling to town had ignited a fire in her, and it might be weeks or months before it burned out. The noise, the crowds, the men, the games, the races, the excitement. It was an intoxicating combination.

She was meant for a life of gaiety, where every minute was filled with fun and interesting people who knew how to live.

She would die here on this paltry farm, with Albert lording himself over her and Helen the constant intermediary in their quarrels. Albert was a fool, and Violet wouldn’t pretend that he wasn’t.

She’d tried to convince Helen to flee the ranch, and with the nuptials over, Helen had trapped herself. She’d uttered a vow to Albert, and she’d keep it to her death.

Violet would rather grab a knife and stab him in the eye. She considered it sometimes—when he was barking at Helen or complaining about Violet—and she received a particular amount of pleasure from picturing how he’d stumble around when he was blind.

She wouldn’t maim him, though. She had to leave, but couldn’t figure out how.

If she could have a single wish granted, she’d sneak to Mud Creek and locate Harry Carstairs. She’d beg him to take her away. He was the kind of fellow she liked, the kind who would give her what she craved.

After Helen’s wedding ceremony, Violet had searched for him, but she hadn’t seen him again. When Walt had announced that they were heading home earlier than planned, Violet had nearly wept with frustration.

She had to run away, but in order to escape, she needed money. She suspected that Walt had some stashed away, but she hadn’t found his hiding spot.

So she was stuck. With crazy, flighty Florence. With brooding, gloomy Walt. With cruel, petulant Albert. With tedious, boring Helen.

She groaned, her bones aching, her hair and skin aching.

The moon continued to rattle her, and her growing mood would sweep away all common sense, all decency or decorum. And once she was in the middle of a full-fledged spell, she wouldn’t care about her inappropriate conduct.

She would embrace it and ride the tide to the bitter end where she would collapse in a state of confused, mystifying exhaustion.

Ablaze with a sort of physical pain, she wanted to sing and dance and shriek with glee. She wanted to be loved and touched and hurt until she couldn’t bear it anymore. Why was she so alone? Why was there no one to help ease her misery?

The back door opened, and she glanced over as Walt stepped outside. He was wearing britches and socks, no boots on his feet, so he would have passed silently through the house without waking anyone. He had on a shirt, but it wasn’t buttoned, so his chest was visible. The sight riveted her, urging her to recklessness.

They stared, not speaking, then he pulled out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette. He lit it and waved the burning tip in her direction. The smoke was like a talisman, drawing her to him.

She sauntered over, liking how he watched her, how he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips.

“I checked your pallet in the kitchen, gal,” he said. “Why aren’t you asleep on it?”

“I’m not tired.”

“Neither am I.”

He offered her the cigarette, and she took a deep drag, holding the smoke in her lungs, then blowing it out against his chest. His nostrils flared, his lust for her blatant.

“I have a bottle of whiskey in on the table,” he mentioned.

“Why would I care?” she claimed, though her pulse raced at the prospect.

“I thought we might get out some cups, sit on your pallet, and drink it together.”

“You and me?”

“Yeah, gal. Just you and me.”

Without another word, Violet circled around him and went inside. He followed, both of them quiet, not making a sound as he shut the door behind them.

Helen stood at Florence’s sink, washing the last of the dishes. Florence sat at the table, staring out toward the graveyard in the pasture. It was a scorching July afternoon, the sun beating down, the temperature in the kitchen unbearable. Helen was hurrying to finish, desperate to go outside before she expired from the heat.