From
the beginning, the child growing inside her seemed aware of the
need for secrecy. It took her monthly flow quietly, swelled her
fingers quietly, introduced quietly a craving for mayhaw jelly and
Karo syrup straight from the bottle. And the girl- Charlotte-told
no one, and no one suspected. For in that fall of 1941, the people
of the town could not look at her and see a growing baby. They saw
only Charlotte's mother, ambushed by sudden and merciless
flames.The
outrageousness of Charlotte's condition furnished more protection.
How could a barely kissed Baptist girlnewly sixteen-have conceived
anything two weeks after her mother was killed? For in the grief
that follows horror there is no room for any Events, only the slow
opening of doors and pickle jars, the refusal of a pet to leave the
site of a grave, the sudden tears called forward by the sound of
Bible passages and the faint aroma of bacon in the black-eyed peas.
Tragedy cannot follow so closely on the heels of Tragedy; the Bundt
cakes the neighbors bring over must first have time to
cool.Her
father and her little brother Milo knew nothing about monthly blood
and its co morning sickness. Like men, they were busy basking in
their sorrows. In the comer of the backyard, not far from the edge
of the woods, Milo built a shrine to his mother: loose buttons he'd
found in her drawer, her garden gloves, a set of silver teaspoons,
her lavender hand cream and the laces of her Sunday shoes. He
worked on it every morning before school, adding little trinkets,
straightening the border of magnolia leaves, mumbling to himself,
while Charlotte held her long black hair away from her face and
threw up in the pink impatiens."Are
you sick?" Milo asked.She
shook her head."Charlotte, don't be sick. You can it die."Charlotte had stopped speaking on the day the soldiers had held
her down, and so she went inside the house for her tablet and
wrote: I'M NOT GOING TO DIE."You
better not," said Milo when he read her message.No,
she thought, she was not the one whose death was
deserved.She
had heard of treatments. Folklore. Things other girls had tried.
She found a bottle of apple cider vinegar in the cabinet and drank
as much as she could, tears running from her eyes at the taste of
it.It
didn't matter. Deep in her womb, that trembling inch continued to
flourish.Salt
had worked for a girl in Baton Rouge. So Charlotte had heard one
night at a slumber party, years before, when the girls were
gathered in her friend Belinda's room. One Saturday morning
Charlotte poured a large handful of salt into a glass and forced
herself to swallow all of it. She sat on the back porch afterward,
looking into the woods.By
noon her head was swimming, and she was seized by a ravenous
thirst. Belinda was having a garden party at one o'clock, despite
the chill in the air. She had advised Charlotte to attend. "All the
girls are turning against you, Charlotte," she had whispered
urgently. "They understand about your mother, but they think you're
being stupid. You won't say a word and you don't want visitors."
Belinda was Charlotte's best friend, but enough of an enemy that
Charlotte could not confide in her. And so Charlotte drank three
glasses of water and went to the party. The girls were sitting
outside on filigreed lawn furniture, sipping strawberry punch.
Belinda greeted her in a wool dress, her eyes red. She had been
grieving ever since her boyfriend, Richard Stanley, had been called
to an air base in Virginia in preparation for the new
war."My
soldier of the sky," she whispered. "Sometimes I wish I'd never
fallen in love with him. What if he's killed?""Don't think like that, Belinda," the other girls said
soothingly. Charlotte started to write something on her tablet,
then thought better of it. Instead she drank another glass of
punch. And another.Belinda was telling the story of how she'd met her perfect
boyfriend, although everyone had heard it before. She was standing
in a green field, in a dress once worn by her grandmother . .
.Charlotte drank another glass.And
the sky was so blue . . .Charlotte drank another glass. Her head was filled with
patterned light. Her breath fast. Thirst like a seizure.And
his plane came out o the clouds as if in a dream . . .
ofCharlotte leaped to her feet and staggered behind the house.
She was drinking from the hose when Belinda found her."Charlotte," she said severely, "what are you doing? Why did
you interrupt my story?"Charlotte didn't answer."Listen to me. None of the girls really likes you anymore. You
won't talk. You do strange things. And now you're drinking from the
hose like a dog. I'm sorry about your mother, Charlotte, but there
are other people suffering too. My boyfriend's gone. And he may not
come back.--From The House of Gentle Men, by Kathy
Hepinstall. © February 2000 , Bard Books used by
permission.