Bastard Out of Carolina - Dorothy Allison [107]
“Glen,” she called. “Glen.”
“You think ’cause your aunt died you can mouth off to me?” Daddy Glen was almost spitting with rage. “You think you can say just anything you damn well please! You got another think coming.”
He dragged me into the house. Reese jumped up off the couch and ran for the bedroom. “Glen,” Mama called again, coming after us, but he didn’t stop. My shoulder hit the door-jamb as he pushed me ahead of him into the bathroom. I stumbled and would have fallen on the floor, but he was still hanging on to my arm. The door slammed behind us.
“Glen! Don’t do this, Glen!” Mama’s hands beat on the bathroom door.
I stood, looking up at Daddy Glen, my back straight and my hands curled into fists at my sides. His features were rigid, his neck bright red. He kept one hand on me while he pulled his belt out of its loops with the other. “Don’t you say a word,” he hissed at me. “Don’t you dare.”
No, I thought. I won’t. Not a word, not a scream, nothing this time.
He pinned me between his hip and the sink, lifting me slightly and bending me over. I reached out and caught hold of the porcelain, trying not to grab at him, not to touch him. No. No. No. He was raging, spitting, the blows hitting the wall as often as they hit me. Beyond the door, Mama was screaming. Daddy Glen was grunting. I hated him. I hated him. The belt went up and came down. Fire along my thighs. Pain. Had Aunt Ruth felt pain like this? Had she screamed? I would not scream. I would not, would not, would not scream.
Afterwards it was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. Sound came back slowly. There were speckles of blood on the washcloth when Mama rinsed it. I watched, numb and empty. I was lying against her hip, on their bed. The house was cold. From the radio came the low sound of Conway Twitty singing “But it’s on—ly ma-ke be-lieve.”
“Why, honey? Why did you have to act like that? The funeral’s tomorrow, Raylene’s expecting us to help clean up at Ruth’s before everybody goes back over there, Alma’s baby’s sick, and now ...” She put the cool cloth on my neck.
“Bone. Is it because of Ruth? Is that why you started yelling at Glen? Honey, you know you can’t do that.”
Her skin was so pale, the shadows under her eyes so dark. She had wiped her lipstick off, but there was a little blotch still on her chin. Her lips trembled. She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, keeping one hand on my shoulder. I could feel the bones in that hand. I heard her whisper as if she were talking to herself, “I just don’t know what to do.” I closed my eyes. There was only one thing that mattered. I had not screamed.
I spent the night before the funeral with Aunt Raylene over at Aunt Ruth’s place, helping her clean things up a bit and cook a ham and two different casseroles, one with noodles and cheese and one big vegetable mix with a cornmeal crust. Deedee had spent the evening locked in her bedroom playing the radio, and Travis was still down at the funeral home when Aunt Raylene made me go to bed. I woke up late and had to hurry to get a bath while Aunt Raylene cooked some biscuits and a pan of bacon. I’d been careful the night before not to let Raylene see the bruises on my legs when she had put me to bed in Butch’s old room. She had been so distracted she’d noticed nothing. This morning I had no appetite but ate a bacon biscuit dutifully and drank the rest of Aunt Raylene’s coffee while she finished getting dressed. Then I went out on the porch to wait for her.
The radio was playing “Get a Job” by the Silhouettes, the chorus staccato and driven, echoing loud in the early morning. Deedee was sitting in the porch rocker in her nightgown with her hair still done up in pin curls.
“I hate that damn hillbilly music, always have,” she told me conversationally while I stared at her.
“You got to get dressed. Aunt Raylene is just about ready to go.” I looked around for somebody