My dear Rachel—
Do you remember all the years I struggled to fit in at other places? How I longed to make a difference but felt I always fell short or was spinning my wheels, fighting futile battles? Do you remember all the self-doubts that plagued me before I came here, and all the fears and headaches that followed me to this end of the world?
They’re gone.
Love,
K
? ? ?
On the second Saturday in October, in an iron skillet, venison stew simmers on the woodstove, thanks to Jerome Biddle’s generosity. Oil lamps stay lit in the tin, dull day. Rain that won’t stop prattles on, and the roof leaks into buckets and bowls I’ve scattered around the floor to catch the steady plunk of drips. The creek has risen and steadily inches toward my door.
I lay content, warm, and dry on the sofa with my copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, and Dog sleeps on the floor, happy to be out of the elements. Out the window, I watch Jerome chop wood in the rain. Then he stops, looks up the hill for something, then chops more wood.
Suddenly, Dog sits at attention and Jerome drops his ax and runs. I jump up too, and spill the book off my lap. Over the ridge, I see Sadie Blue, pale as the mist, make her way through the icy drizzle. She limps and clutches her tummy. I grab the blanket off the back of the sofa, hold it to the woodstove to collect warmth, and watch Jerome and Sadie’s final steps. I open the door, and she collapses in the blanket’s warmth. I carry her to the sofa.
“Get Birdie,” I say.
I tuck the blanket around the girl, put on more water to heat, all the while thinking about Jerome scanning the hills like he knew Sadie needed help on the day the rain wouldn’t stop.
In minutes too quick for real time, the door opens, and Birdie and Jerome enter with a sack of herbs and clay pots they stack on the table. Earthy fragrances crowd the air. I step back and watch Birdie probe Sadie’s bruised head, arm, belly. She mixes a pungent tea, and while it steeps, she coats the injured arm with a green salve and wraps it in strips of cotton. A hot water bottle made from a deer or goat’s stomach goes under the blanket and rests on the girl’s mounded belly.
“How far along is she?” I ask.
“Not far enough,” Birdie answers.
“My baby…” Sadie murmurs.
“It’s Roy, isn’t it?” I whisper.
Birdie doesn’t have to answer.
Jerome watches from the corner by the door. Water drips off his clothes onto the floor. Dog walks over and licks the puddle at the man’s feet. I stay out of the way in a cabin too tight for four people and a dog. Birdie spoons tea between the girl’s blanched lips and soothes her swollen face with a compress.
This protracted scene in primitive Appalachia—in the throes of another angry storm that refuses to end, when political assassinations and civil rights battles and the birth control pill change tomorrows down below—is timeless and tiring. Who will keep sweet Sadie safe from harm’s way? Not the church, though Eli undoubtedly prays every day for Sadie and those like her. Not the mountain or valley laws, which turn blind eyes to this intimate crime. Not anyone who sees consequences of today but can find no easy recourse.
My anger is focused. I want to dismember Roy Tupkin limb by limb. I’d use a rusty saw.
? ? ?
Dull daylight wanes, and Jerome and I empty pots of water that catch endless leaks in my roof. He refills the woodstove. Now our shadows loom large and crawl up the walls and hover over Sadie in protection. We eat because we should while Sadie fights her fight. She shifts and moans and seeks comfort. Birdie mixes more herbs and steeps more tea and speaks soothing sounds to mend the damage Roy delivered. I sleep fitfully in the loft in hour-long snippets, wake guilty, and climb down the ladder as dawn creeps in.
The storm finally decides to subside, and Sadie opens her eyes.
“Hey,” Birdie says. Her voice sounds big in the quiet where the pounding rain has lived for days and has gone away.
Jerome slept standing. He stirs at the woman’s word and shakes each leg awake.
“Hey,” Sadie says back and pushes herself up. Birdie stuffs pillows behind her for support. Jerome feeds the fire, I make coffee, and the tinge of color seeps into the girl’s cheeks. Hope shifts to more solid ground.
“Is she over the danger?” I whisper.
“The day will say,” Birdie answers.
The old woman steeps yet another tea that smells more rank than the ones before, so I step outside into the dripping forest with my mug of coffee, and Dog does his business. Jerome is back to splitting wood. He doesn’t want to leave. I think he will find wood and cut and split it as long as Sadie stays. His loyalty is pure.
“Jerome Biddle,” Birdie calls from the porch. “Come sit with Sadie.”
He drops the ax and lopes in with a quick step. Birdie squats on the ground to relieve herself, then stands and lights her pipe. Today’s smoke is green. I step closer, inhale deeply, and feel my tired mind clear.
Out of the blue, she says with a sly grin, “You ain’t got no simpleminded sister named Rachel, do you?”
I don’t hesitate. “No, I don’t.”
“You smart.” Birdie cackles and shakes her head.
? ? ?
I realize, with a quickened pulse, I feel more purposeful, accepted, and liberated in this community than anywhere else. Suddenly I’m famished and go inside with Birdie behind me and fix buckwheat pancakes. We spend the damp day as a family of sorts, united by love for Sadie, who is recovering amazingly well, thanks to herbs and youth’s resiliency. By midmorning, the girl stands and sips more rank tea without complaint, her hand tender on her belly, her movements easier, her face calm.
None of us are surprised when Roy Tupkin comes out of the woods in the afternoon, drunk, slipping on slick leaves, stopping short before he reaches my door.
“Sadie Tupkin!” he shouts. “I come to bring you home. You get outta that place with witches and dykes and shitty retards. They freaks!” Roy wails and whines and turns in dramatic circles, like a spoiled child onstage.
“You and that baby of mine don’t belong in there.” Roy howls like a wounded animal. “You’re mine, mine, mine.”
I look at Sadie looking at Roy, and I see how brave she must be to face the volatile danger of him every day. I watch her face shift, turn to granite, resigned. I want to clutch her arms and shout, You deserve more! You are more! This is not your life!
“You made me hurt that baby,” he rants. “You got me riled is what you done. Made me feel small.”
Does she see how pathetic he is? Does she see he is a war she can never win?
“Goddamn it, Sadie. Why you gotta ruin everything?” Roy runs down like a windup toy, drops his head to his chest, and sinks to his knees.