The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [85]
“Honey,” I said, shocked by what I’d done. I’d hit her hard, harder than I’d ever hit any of our children. I reached out for her to make it right, and as I did, she drew herself up and rolled under the bed. The bandage on her burned hand came undone. She shrieked with pain. “You’re all right,” I said, coaxing. I got down on my hands and knees. “Now come on out.”
Emma whined, holding her hurt hand close to her chest. “Honey,” I said. She whined louder, making my skin crawl, my nerves bad all over again. “Come out from there,” I said. “Right now.” She started crying. A sudden wildness rose up inside of me. Jerseybell dead, winter coming, another baby on the way. I wanted to hit something. I glared at Emma. She flinched, whining all the more. “Stop it,” I hissed. Emma’s face froze.
Gripping the feather mattress, I pulled myself up. I grabbed the syrup bottle from the dresser and reared back, aiming to throw it against the wall.
Emma made a funny gurgling sound; I wanted to slap her. I pulled in some air, and all at once I saw Emma’s scared face and I saw what I was about to do. Calm yourself, I imagined my mother saying. Calm yourself. “Mama,” I whispered, “oh, Mama,” and I rushed out of the room, through the parlor, and out the front door, slamming it behind me. On the porch, I slumped against the door.
Emma shrieked. I started to cover my ears but stopped. The syrup bottle was still in my hand.
I held it up before me. The bottle sparkled in the sunlight. Calm yourself. Some of the syrup had spilled on my hand but there was a good three inches of it left. Maybe a little more. I licked my hand, liking the sweet, heavy syrup. Isaac and the children were on their way to the canyon. There was only Emma, and she was inside. There was no one to see. I put the bottle to my lips.
The heavy liquid coated my throat, and I felt the syrup slip down into my belly. It felt good. I drank the rest of it. I sat down in one of the rockers and waited for my nerves to settle as the syrup slid down my veins all the way to my ankles.
I pulled in some air and blew it out. My arms turned heavy like they weren’t part of me anymore. I watched the turkey vultures float. They were the prettiest things, riding the air that way with their wings outstretched. They tilted from side to side, making the silver in their wings shine in the sunlight. In a week’s time, there’d be nothing left of Jerseybell but her bones. I heard Emma crying, but she was far away. The vultures circled and dipped, swooping in and out of the canyon.
I leaned forward in my chair. Isaac and the children stood on the canyon’s rim. Isaac was probably saying something uplifting about Jerseybell.
I closed my eyes, liking the looseness in my arms and legs. The house was quiet. Everything was quiet. The baby wasn’t going to be born today or tonight, and Isaac had plenty of time to get to Al’s. My hand found the letter in my pocket that I was waiting to send to my mother. My mind was made up. I was taking the children to Chicago for the winter. Mary was going to go to a dance. Isaac didn’t know a thing about any of it, but that didn’t matter. I was doing it anyway.
After a while, I got up and looked in the bedroom window. Emma had come out from under the bed and laid on the middle of the floor, sucking her thumb. She’d worn herself out.
I walked behind the house and down the rise a short way to the trash heap. With my foot, I buried the syrup bottle under a pile of rusting tin cans. Taking my time, I walked back to the house. I was the first in my family to own a house. Dad and Mama always had a landlord; so did Sue and her husband, Paul. Johnny and Pearl rented a room in East St. Louis. I was the first to own anything that meant something.
Winter would go hard on our house with nobody here to care for it. I could hardly bear to think of it. Isaac said he’d get a hired hand in, but with me gone, it’d take at least another one. I didn’t know how I was going to work that all out,