The Choiring of the Trees - Donald Harington [9]
Oh, she was beautiful, there’s no dispute of that, and those who wondered how a man as grossly repulsive as Ike Whitter could have had a baby sister as magnificent as Dorinda were the same who said that Saltus and Fannie Bourne must have adopted me. But I’m not going to say much else about myself, except that I was Dorinda’s best friend, off and on, for all the years that this story took place. We always sat together in school at the same double-desk, even when Miss Blankinship kept on holding Dorinda back a grade after promoting me, because Dorinda simply didn’t want to learn how to read, or couldn’t, and we always put our arms around one another at recess, and kept them there, and in the days of our growing up and filling out we always compared ourselves in every little detail and told each other that you are more pretty than me.
Now, that day Sull Jerram took her brothers to Jasper and wouldn’t take her, she had a fit and cussed and broke up some things in our playhouse. The back of her father’s forty met the back of my father’s forty at a basso profundo oak tree way up on the ridge of Ledbetter Mountain, and beneath that oak we’d long ago carried some planks of scrap lumber from Murrison’s and stacked and nailed them against one another in a shelter against the wind and rain and winter chill, and inside that small space we had our secret home with a few shards of china and mostly stoneware, some chipped glasses and rag napkins, dolls we’d outgrown now and cast-off calendars for the years from 1908 to 1911, when we’d still been children. Dorinda was not a virgin. Sure, I’ve heard the jape that by definition hereabouts it’s a five-year-old girl who can outrun her brothers, and Dorinda was way past five and had six brothers. Ironically, it was the only one of the six brothers who was younger than her. We had invited him to the playhouse, Lewis, when he was just ten, I was nearly twelve, and Dorinda was already twelve. Although she was older than me, I had “accomplished” one thing she had not: I had lost my virginity, and without the help of any brothers, for I had none. He was a cousin, and twice-removed at that, named Every Dill, a year older than me, a year ahead of me in school, and a virgin himself. It had been almost happenstance, not premeditated, one night when I’d been left alone at his folks’ cabin while they and my folks and sisters and everybody else went off to a funeral. Nothing I’d care to go into here, except to say that Dorinda knew about it and envied me it, and now was determined to lose hers too, even if to her own brother Lewis. He was the first boy ever to go inside our secret house, and Dorinda had dared me to do it with him since I already had experience, and I’d taken the dare but lost my nerve while he was trying to position himself atop me, and she’d said, when I got cold feet, that she’d do it herself, and Lewis didn’t care which one of us it was, so long as he had a hole he could enter. Of course he wasn’t old enough to make babies, but he was sure old enough to do it, in the sense of what they actually placed inside of what, and how they moved, and how long it lasted, and the noises they made. I watched, but they seemed to forget I was there. Watching them do it, I wondered if I had looked like that and sounded like that and smelled like that when I had done it with my cousin Every.
There was one big difference, I learned later.