Rain Village - Carolyn Turgeon [3]
He turned back to the sink and we were all silent then.
Usually my father’s disapproval could put a halt to anything brewing inside me. His disapproval could freeze up a river, it seemed, in the middle of June. But something had shifted in me, and that night I lay in my bed, listening to Geraldine snoring from the other side of the room, and I thought and schemed and reflected.
The next morning I dutifully hung from the bar. My muscles were so strong I could hang for hours, and on most days I just lifted myself up and over it or tried hanging from my ankles. That morning I hung still as a board, dreaming of my escape. Waiting. I stared out into the fields, at my parents’ and siblings’ bodies bent over the crops, the sun burning their backs. The corn jutting up.
When it came, lunch seemed to last for hours. I stood on a stool stirring the stew, as usual, while Geraldine set the table and my father and brothers rested in the den. At the table, I shoveled in my food without tasting it, trying not to stare at the clock or my family’s shrinking bowls of stew. I could barely sit still, and more than once my mother had to warn me to stop fidgeting.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, my feet burning, my whole body straining toward that library across town.
As soon as the bowls were washed and the house empty, I hurried outside, crouching down in the dirt road so my family wouldn’t catch sight of me. I scrunched myself alongside the corn and moved as quickly as I could toward open space. Once I was out of their line of vision, I ran and ran and nothing else mattered. The whole countryside smelled thickly of manure and growing vegetables and cut grass, but I ran so fast all I smelled was wind. It was exhilarating, breaking their hold like that. I could barely breathe, and my muscles burned from my shoulders down to my calves, but I laughed and whooped when I reached the main road that stretched through the farmland: the fields of crops and the creeks and rivers that crisscrossed our part of the world like veins. I followed the road through the country and into town, sweeping past all the people who stopped in their tracks and just gaped at me. I didn’t care. For a minute I thought: the world would be so beautiful, if it were just this, this feeling right now.
Finally the library loomed up in front of me. The air seemed to go cool and misty, all at once, as if a thunderstorm were about to burst on us. From the outside the place looked like a massive barn more than anything else, except for the piece of metal swinging from a stick out front saying “Mercy Library” and the fact that it had been painted stark white. There wasn’t much around it, just piles of overgrown grass and clumps of dandelions and some trees hanging down into the road, one with branches so long they scratched across the library’s roof. I stared up at the library, my heart pounding so hard it threatened to break through my chest.
It was the farthest I’d ever been from home. Already it felt like hours and hours had passed, though it couldn’t have been more than forty-five minutes. For a moment I considered turning back, but something inside me wouldn’t allow it. All the bravery buried within me seemed to push up to the surface, forcing me to take another deep breath and walk toward the front door. This is my chance, I thought. My one chance for something new.
Just then an old couple pushed out past me.
“I saw the way you were looking at her!” I heard the woman hiss to the man under her breath.
“I was getting book advice, Meg, book advice. . . .”
Startled, I slipped out of their path as they barreled by, then stepped into a vast, almost church-like space with old wood floors and a breezy high-beamed ceiling. Light streamed into the space from the huge