Being wed to a hard man takes it’s toll on a woman.
Some go crazy, wander off into the hills and are never heard from again. Others seek rest in a bed of red dirt under a hand-carved stone.
For Leona, five years of daily fear had driven the youth from her heart. By the time she was twenty she felt as worn down as the Tennessee mountains that had bred her.
Leona knelt in her kitchen garden, thankful for the sharp pebbles that ground into her knees. The pain helped crystallize her thinking. She rocked back and forth as she weeded the Hearts-ease that flourished, neatly disguising two tiny depressions in the tilled earth. She glanced over at her daughter Keziah. The three year old was sound asleep, nestled in a faded quilt, her defiant red curls stirring in the brisk October breeze. Leona’s heart contracted with love and fear and she began to hum a nameless lullaby.
Anyone listening would have thought the tune was for the sleeping child but Leona’s song belonged entirely to two small ghosts who haunted the herb garden. Each day, she visited her sons with a mother’s guilty and determined concience. Crouched among the lavender pansies, she conjoured what only she could remember and honor.
Tiny fingers, complete with tissue-paper nails. Huge, sightless, black eyes. Fragile white bones, the width of threads, shining through transparent flesh. By now, they were most probably gone, melted into the soil like sweet butter left out in a warm Smokey Mountain rain.
Keziah cried out in her sleep; a tremor ran through her body. Leona froze at the soft echo of the terror that had ripped the air earlier that day.
The shriek of fear had brought Leona running to Keziah’s aid, only to see the child dangling from Titus’ huge hands, a bright red mark rising along a cheekbone from a vicious slap he had just delivered. She snatched Keziah away and shoved her screaming into the kitchen then turned to face her enraged husband.
“She gets the strap, ya hear me? The little bitch told me NO! Her Pa, and she tells ME no?? I’ll break her from it, sure as shit!” He pulled the belt from his pants and started for the kitchen. Leona grabbed his arm and hung on in desperation.
“Please, Titus! I’m sorry…I’m sorry! I’ll teach her better. She won’t say it no more.”
“I said she’s gettin’ the strap.”
“Please, don’t. Don’t, she’s too little. You’ll kill her Titus!”
She froze as he pivoted towards her and she felt her bowels turn to water. His face was a few inches away and she recoiled from his hot breath and the fine spray of saliva as he hissed.
“Then you take her lickin’. Maybe she’ll larn quick thet way. Maybe larn ya to be a better Ma, too.”
There was no way to argue or beg his mercy. The marks of the strap and the sounds of leather meeting flesh were the only things he wanted now.
Leona walked on rubbery legs to stand in front of the fireplace mantle; numb fingers fumbled at the buttons on her dress. She watched in apprehension as Titus crouched before Keziah. Their daughter stared, mesmerized by his soft whisper and insane eyes, searching consolation from the thumb jammed in her mouth.
“See what ya done? See what happens when ya sass me thet way? Yer Ma gits the whuppin’. Ya unnerstand me, Girl?”
Keziah bobbed her head as he strode into the front room to Leona, waiting in patient terror for the lick of the strap on her bare back.
Leona slowly stroked Keziah’s hair, lulling her girl back into a deeper sleep. She inhaled the fragrance of her sons’ graveyard as her hand traveled slowly down the front of her still flat stomach. She didn’t need a checkmark on the feed-store calendar to verify what she already knew; she’d been down this particular road to hell three times before. The two unmarked graves near by were bleak testimony of what would come her way once Titus noticed that her waist was thickening up again. Only Keziah had survived the onslaught of her father’s fists as he savaged Leona’s swelling belly during her pregnancies.
Leona had learned early on not to run. The night of her first beating, she took off down the mountain, almost making it to Red Deer Hollar. Titus’s cousins, Marcus and Julius Trent, found her and dragged her back to him. After they helped him drink a jar of whiskey, he took a hickory cane to her.
The next morning she crawled to the creek and soaked her blood-caked clothes from her back. Leona miscarried her first son before noon. Dizzy with blood loss, numb with grief, she buried the translucent body and cleaned the mess up before her baby’s killer came home that evening.
By her own reckoning, she had about eight weeks before Titus took notice of the coming baby. This next beating would be the worse. He’d be determined to make this one work and with his violence increasing with each passing fit, she could very well lose her life. Keziah would be left alone with a man who had no soul.
There was no alternative.
For Keziah’s sake and the sake of the young one inside Leona’s womb, Titus would have to die.
An accident was necessary; one that would never be doubted. If the authorities caught her they’d allow her to give birth to the baby, then they would hang her. As desperate and beat down as she felt, Leona did not want to leave this world. Keziah and the new one would end up in an orphanage; few folks would want to adopt the children of a drunken father and a murdering mother. Or worse, the Trents would get them and they’d be raised up in the same nasty world that had fashioned Titus.
The solution eluded her for a week. As she began to prepare a cobbler for supper one day she worried it around again. It wasn’t until she popped the lid off of some canned peaches, that Leona had her inspiration. She nearly dropped the Ball jar when it dawned on her that her weapon lay beneath her feet.
Leona lifted the heavy door of the root cellar, lit the kerosene lantern and made her way down the steep stairs. Red beets and cherries, honey and peaches, rich jams and apple butter glowed in the lamplight. Everything grown on the farm was carefully preserved for the coming winter. Her mind slipped back to her first canning lesson
and her mother’s calm voice explaining the cardinal rule of the art.
“Sugar, ya got to mind the tops. If one don’t clamp down, the jar gets thrown out. Ya don’t take chances. It’ll kill you slow and sure.”
She stood before the jars and methodically began to depress the middle of each golden lid, listening intently as she went from shelf to shelf. Tapping, tapping, tapping…searching for the one poorly sealed jar of canned goods loaded with the ability to kill a man. Halfway through the green beans she heard the satisfying sound of a top as it depressed and popped back up to meet the finger applying the pressure. It reminded her of the sound of the metal clicker old Miz Dobbs used to
get your attention in Sunday School class. She stopped short.
What in Heaven’s Name would that old woman think of her right now? Leona McKenzie Trent… studying ways of killing her own husband? She jerked her hand away from the jar and wiped her brow, shaking in horror. The realization of how closely she had been driven to consider murder overwhemed her; she ran like a whipped cur to the darkest corner of the root cellar and lost her breakfast. Trembling, she sank to the bottom step and began to pray, suddenly terrified that she was too depraved for God to pay her any mind at all.
The sound of the wagon rattling into the clearing in front of the cabin silenced Leona’s pleas for forgiveness. A second later, Keziah’s frightened face appeared in the opening overhead.
“Mama? You come up now? Mama?”
“I’m comin’, Sugar,” she reassured the child above. At that moment, she noticed a familiar, almost non-exisistant flutter in her womb. Shocked and pleased she nodded a greeting to her unborn baby as well. Her spine stiffened and she felt an unusual surge of courage, something she thought had been beaten from her a long time ago.
“Damnation or not, he ain’t layin’ a finger on any of my babies agin.”
She carefully stashed the jar in the back row before she left the cellar. She’d give Titus until the harvest was over. Once he finished smoking the meats after slaughter, she would act.
Leona whispered the Grace before supper that evening. “Bless, Oh Heavenly Father, this bounty to our use and us to thy lovin’ service; and keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen. ”
Eyes downcast, she added a silent prayer that Titus would not spot her excitement. She had dusted her flushed cheeks with a small amount of talcum powder and worked at keeping the same listless look that he was used to seeing. She didn’t worry about her trembling fingers as she spoon-fed creamed peas into Keziah’s small mouth; he would just assume it was her usual nervousness.
Later that night, Titus put his rough hands on her and forced his way inside, making his usual hate to her and grunting as he scraped back and forth. This night was different, however. As he spewed his seed into her, she felt a thrill she had never before experienced; she flooded her own form of hate right back at him. Drunk as usual, he never noticed her orgasm. But Leona recognized it as the most pure,
blazing and righteous release of a woman’s power there is… and tonight it was hers alone. Quietly, she crept from her bed, wrapped up in a quilt and sat on the porch under the stars, hands resting protectively on her stomach.
Titus and his cousins slaughtered the hogs the middle of October. Next came the 12 head of steer. The walls of the barn had hides tacked along them, ready for tanning through the winter and the smokehouse was waiting only for the hogs. She fed the men three meals a day, keeping out of their way by doing the chores well out of eye-sight. Halfway through the month, she wetted long strips of rags with chicken
blood and dropped them into the openings in the outhouse several times a day for five days. She had made sure one stuck to the rim of the seat. Titus’ foul temper at the prospect of no sex made him backhand her in the mouth. Nursing her split lip, she strode to the root cellar the next day and brought the beans upstairs. She left the jar in the sun between the laundry tub and the hand wringer for a week.
The day they started butchering the pork, Leona put Keziah in the front seat of the battered Model A and dropped her off at her Aunt Libby’s house on the next ridge. Since Libby had no children of her own, she looked forward to spoiling Keziah for a time. Leona stayed for a few hours and lied about how much better Titus was behaving these days.
Aunt Libby aimed a sharp look her way. “Honey, I don’ believe one word of whatcha bin handin’ me. Ya better be careful. I don’ want no preacher comin’ to the door with bad news. Whatever ya plannin’, do it smart and don’t git caught.”
Six days later, after breathing a sigh of relief at seeing the back end of the Trent boys as they headed down the Hollar, Leona set about fixing the perfect Sunday dinner.
She selected a plump leg of lamb, pierced it in several places then stuffed the slots with sprigs of mint, a green onion and a clove of garlic before putting it in the hot oven. Then she fetched the green beans, the glass jar warm from sitting under the direct noonday sun. She popped the lid and immediately noticed the foam that covered the surface.
She wondered if the beans had gone over. If they had, there was no guarantee they would kill him; Titus had the constitution of an ox and he could just end up with a case of the trots. She hesitated as the full impact of what she was planning sank in. Could she actually do murder? Did this mean she was as bad as Titus now? He was what his family had made him, it wasn’t his fault anymore than a wolverine could be blamed for it’s evil temper. She was his wife before God, bound to him no matter
what came their way. After all, no-one had held a gun to her head and forced her to marry him. She had wanted him, wanted him enough to ignore the all warnings of her Aunt and the rumors about Trent men that were floating around the bolts of cloth in the General Store. He was beautiful then and strong; brought her pretty presents and whispered honeyed words into her eager ears. She had sprinted as fast to that altar as her legs could get her there.
She hadn’t been prepared when the monster lying in wait within Titus, had erupted, leaving her broken and bereft.
She looked out the window in time to see Titus aim a vicious kick at one of the hounds. He caught the animal square in the middle, sending it squalling into the woods. Staring at her husband, her own ribs aching in sympathy with the poor dog, Leona dumped the beans into a pot.
She added a good dose of salt pork and bacon grease to season them and to disguise any unusual smell. They cooked at just below a boil for the next several hours and were exactly the way Titus liked them by the final time she basted the lamb. She boiled carrots for glazing, potatoes for mashing and stewed up some tender, young collards. A fat chocolate pie, topped with browned meringue sat on the sideboard,
ready for dessert. When she finally removed the roasted meat from the oven and replaced it with cornbread, she called him in to eat.
She blessed the meal with quiet fervor that afternoon.
Her husband rooted at dinner like a starving boar. He had two helpings of everything and three of the beans before topping it off with an enormous slice of pie. He grunted his approval and moved slowly into the living-room where he flopped into his favorite chair and fell asleep. Leona carefully wrapped up all the remaining food, and put it all away in the ice-box. She washed the dishes, swept the floor, scrubbed the table.
Nervous energy consumed her and she found herself unable to sit still.
Next, she folded the laundry, hanging dry and sweet on the line. Grabbing a rake, she scratched together a huge pile of red and orange leaves to burn later then moved on to gathering every last apple from the tree near the side porch. Soaked in sweat, she worked like a field hand until dark, jumping at every sound from inside the cabin, praying to God and to the Devil for help. She didn’t much care who came to her aid.
Leona entered the house just as Titus woke in his chair. He hauled himself up.
“Goin’ to bed. So damn tired my eyes are crossin”.
He stomped past her and she heard stuffing in the mattress rustle as he as he laid down. Her heart sunk. He seem the same old Titus to her.
“Jesus wept!”
Leona awoke to the sound of Titus lurching from the bed and stumbling out in the dark, feeling his way to the outhouse. She rose and pulled on her robe, then leaned against the window frame, looking out at the privy. He was gone a good, long while and the slow passing of time was unbearable. She straightened as she saw the door open and Titus make his way toward the cabin, hand clutching his gut. Leona
was suddenly hopeful, for the first time in five dreadful years.
She approached him slowly as he entered the kitchen. She had enough experience to know that an injured copperhead made a much more dangerous snake.
“Are ya okay, Titus? Kin I git ya anythin’?”
“Water. I’m dry as dust.”
Leona returned with a cool glass of spring water. He drank it down in six enormous gulps. He thrust it out and she pumped it full once more.
“How ya feelin’?”
“Like shit. Stomach’s hurtin’. My throat’s dry, and I’m still havin’ trouble with my eyes. Kind of blurry. Dinner just came up.”
“I’ll mix somethin’ up for ya. Kill some of them cramps, keep ya from throwin’ up.”
“Fine.”
She made him a strong tea from ginger root, then she helped him to bed. By the time the tea worked and the cramps had eased he drifted off, passing a noxious smelling gas.
By the next evening Titus’s vision had gotten worse; his eyelids were drooping and he complained of seeing double. He was weak and Leona had to support him to the outhouse several times. His bowels seemed packed solid. He used a bed pan to pass water. The tea and other herbs kept the vomiting to a minimum. Leona checked him every half hour or so, doing chores close by in case he called out for anything. At first, she started to weaken and thought about getting Doc Hamblin sooner than she planned. But each time, she would feel a small tickle in her womb, as if the new child was begging her for the chance the lost babes never had. Her conscience lost against her heart and Leona continued her vigil.
The 3rd day began like the others. Sometime before dawn she fed Titus some barley and carrot gruel then she helped him from bed to his chair in the living-room so she could change the bed-linens. She emptied his bedpan and then opened the windows, allowing fresh air into the claustrophobic sickroom. She scrubbed the surfaces in the room with a mixture of borax and vinegar. The little jobs were soothing. Familiar routines helped calm her and the homemade lemon polish that she applied to the dresser and bedstead helped cover the sick smell of the room, elevating her mood a bit. She found herself smiling, and without realizing, began to hum. Then abruptly, with a queasy twist of her gut, she knew she was being watched.
Titus stood unsteadily, leaning against the door jam, his bulk filling 15the doorway.
“Whatcha grinnin’ fer?”
Leona quailed under his glare.
“Why ya singin’?”
She backed slowly away. He moved a step towards her, anger giving him a surge of energy.
“Ya never do thet shit. Why ya doin’ it now?”
“No reason, Titus. I jist fergot myself a minute.”
Titus’ eyes followed each of her movements, like a cougar pursuing a stray calf.
“Ya got no reason to be this happy. What are ya up to?”
A sudden look of guilt and panic flashed across Leona’s face and his eyes narrowed in response.
“What the fuck ya done to me, woman?” He pressed closer.
“I ain’t never bin sick like this in my life!”
“Nothin’, Titus. I ain’t done nothin’!” She felt her chin quiver and bit her lips as tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t think as that natural, mindless fear of him took charge of her.
“Yer a lyin’ bitch, I been like this since dinner Sunday. Ya put somethin’ in my food.”
It came quickly, that moment when his pupils slammed down into tiny black pinpoints of madness. Leona saw it happen and as he made a sudden grab for her, she eluded him, feinting to the left then running swiftly under his out-stretched right arm, making for the door . Senses honed from living years as his prey, she felt him right behind her, then a surge of hope as she heard him stumble and start to fall. Titus threw out
his arms in a final burst of strength, caught her ankles and brought her to the floor with a crashing thud that knocked the breath from her body.
He slowly drew her towards him. Leona dug her fingers into the floor, grabbed at the hooked rug, flailed at the legs of the horsehair sofa. He was relentless; her tiny frame was no match for his rage. A few agonizing moments and she ended face up, pinned beneath his weight. He reared above her, knees holding her arms down. Looking into her eyes he laughed unsteadily.
“Ya think I’d let ya live after doin’ this to me?”
“I ain’t done nothin’, I swear!”
“Shoulda done this years ago. Never trust a goddamned woman…”
He wrapped his beefy fingers at the base of her throat and squeezed. Leona writhed beneath him, squirming in desperation. Trapped and unable to strike back, she struggled for air, just one more lungful of life. Keziah’s sweet face floated in front of her and she was filled with sorrow that she would never hold her daughter again. Titus would be able to do anything he wanted to Keziah, without Leona there to take the blows. Her lungs burned and her sight grew dim. Leona could no longer struggle and she felt something warm flood her thighs. Her final feeling was the despair of knowing she had failed the new baby as well. She let herself slip into darkness…
A sharp pain ripped through Leona as long-denied air filled her chest. Dazed, she opened her eyes, finding it hard to focus. She struggled for more breath before realizing Titus’s enormous weight lay across her. It took several long minutes for her to wriggle free from the inert mass that pinned her down. Paralysis had taken him over and there no need to fear him now. She stood weakly then steeled herself to look down at her legs. Her eyes filled with tears.
There were no sign of blood. She had simply wet herself when her bladder had released at the end of the struggle. The new child was safe. Leona began to weep as relief and joy filled her heart. No longer in a hurry she cried as long and as hard as she needed.
When Leona had exhausted her weeping, she crept close to her husband and rolled him over. His eyes were half-closed and his breathing was ragged. He uttered a desperate groan as she leaned close, looking deep as she tried to reach something human within him.
“I’m pregnant agin, Titus.”
She saw a slow dawning of realization in his eyes. “This un’ll never know a day of pain at yer hands, you sorry bastard.”
Fear and panic filled his face but his muscles were long past obeying his will. Not even his desire to kill her could provide the needed motivation, and he knew it.
“Ya need to lie there a bit longer, then I’ll fetch the doctor. Won’t be a damned thing he’ll be able to do by then. Ya cain’t speak; yer muscles won’t move. Even if yer still alive when we git back, ya cain’t gonna tell him nothin’.”
A smile twisted her lips.
“Hell, ya always were a fool for a mess of green beans.”
Leona stood, back straight, shoulders square. She felt herself grow stronger before Titus’ eyes and saw terror for another human fill his face for the first time in his wasted life. Stripping the damp dress off, she walked to the basin and wiped the traces of urine from her thighs. She caught Titus watching as she ran a hand over her gently curving belly.
“I think this un’s a boy,” she said, serenely. “I’m namin’ him after my Daddy.”
Leona slipped a fresh cotton dress over her head. She left the room without another glance and took her Bible down from the mantle before settling in the rocker on the porch. A mourning dove called through the clearing as smoky columns of fog wound through the trees. A bright red dawn painted the Tennessee sky.
This morning, the first morning of her liberty, seemed to call out for the Old Testament. Leona opened the Book at random and she read the first passage to leap from the page.
LEV 26:6-
“…and I will give peace in the land and ye shall lie down and none shall make you afraid.”
A free and tremulous laugh pealed from her throat and echoed across the mountains.
D.A.Davenport is a writer living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Her husband of 35 years and her son share her passion for books and are her biggest fans and her greatest supporters. When she has time, she visits her roots in Maryland and is writing her first novel, set there in St. Micheal’s and around the Chesapeake Bay.
