that night, over supper in Annie’s kitchen, she pensively mined the conversation for further details.
She hadn’t heard what she was hoping to hear, but she had a standing invitation from a respectable young deacon to investigate for herself.
***
In Eileen’s room there was a mirror—an elongated thing in the shape of a gravy dish, clouded and brown around the edges. Eileen stared into it not at her face, but at the small gold crucifix that hung below her throat.
It might serve her well to remove it.
In a plain dress and without the jewelry, she could pass easily enough so long as she didn’t speak. She reached for the clasp, lifting her hair and feeling underneath.
No.
No, she’d rather leave it on. Let the citizens of Holiness, Texas, interpret it as they liked—she wasn’t afraid of them. The hell-hot plains hid stranger and more frightening things than Catholics, after all.
II.
Night fell, and Eileen’s hands were shaking because of the moon.
She could feel it crawling up the sky, not too full and fat quite yet but swelling still and growing. Something else was growing too—something else was swelling still and itching under her skin, just below the surface, straining to be let out.
She was grateful for the room in the house of ill repute. She appreciated the privacy the women there offered her, and the freedom to peel her heavy, hot clothes away and kneel in her nightdress.
The light cotton shift reached from shoulder almost to floor, but indecent or not, it was more tolerable than proper clothing. And when the doors were closed and locked, and when the shades and curtains had been pulled down low, Eileen had bigger secrets to keep than the color of her nightgown.
She knelt beside the bed and closed her eyes, breathing slowly, breathing with forced but measured calm that counted the seconds between breaths.
From time to time, her lungs would catch—but she held the cough down, fighting back the growl. “It’s not time yet,” she said to herself, keeping her voice low. “It’s not time yet. Not tonight. And not tomorrow night, either. It’s not time yet.”
But time was looming close.
As the pulse of insistent pain began to ebb, she relaxed and unfolded her hands. She left them flat on the thin blanket that covered the bed. “Not time yet,” she repeated again, and this time there was less of a plea buried in the words. This time, she was certain. “No. Not tonight.”
When she climbed to her feet again, her face was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and she was steady. But the calm could be deceiving—she’d learned that much the hard way. Better by far to be safe and certain.
There was a man in Louisiana with a dog. There was a splash of pain and blood, and the night sky above was bright without clouds. Behind the church there was a woman, her back bent with age. There was a moment of clarity and a minute of mayhem. In the woods there was a creek that ran between the trees. I awoke naked and filthy beside it, and I tried to focus my eyes. I tried to bring the colors back, there in the black and white of night outside, and I was confused because I couldn’t tell without color for reference— are these the wolf’s eyes, or mine?
I looked for the north star but the time of night was wrong or the forest was too tall, and I couldn’t find it.
She checked again to make sure the door was locked, and yes, the bolt was drawn. It would hold most unwanted visitors at bay, or at least delay them. Keep them out, keep her in. Keep them apart, in case of the worst.
A large tapestry bag sat open atop the chest of drawers.
From within it, Eileen retrieved a green glass bottle and set it on the nightstand; then from the bag she pulled a set of metal shackles. One cuff was raw, unfinished iron and the other had its rough edges softened by a winding silk ribbon. She clapped the softer cuff around her wrist, and slipped a chain with its key around her neck.
The bed’s headboard was shiny
She hadn’t heard what she was hoping to hear, but she had a standing invitation from a respectable young deacon to investigate for herself.
***
In Eileen’s room there was a mirror—an elongated thing in the shape of a gravy dish, clouded and brown around the edges. Eileen stared into it not at her face, but at the small gold crucifix that hung below her throat.
It might serve her well to remove it.
In a plain dress and without the jewelry, she could pass easily enough so long as she didn’t speak. She reached for the clasp, lifting her hair and feeling underneath.
No.
No, she’d rather leave it on. Let the citizens of Holiness, Texas, interpret it as they liked—she wasn’t afraid of them. The hell-hot plains hid stranger and more frightening things than Catholics, after all.
II.
Night fell, and Eileen’s hands were shaking because of the moon.
She could feel it crawling up the sky, not too full and fat quite yet but swelling still and growing. Something else was growing too—something else was swelling still and itching under her skin, just below the surface, straining to be let out.
She was grateful for the room in the house of ill repute. She appreciated the privacy the women there offered her, and the freedom to peel her heavy, hot clothes away and kneel in her nightdress.
The light cotton shift reached from shoulder almost to floor, but indecent or not, it was more tolerable than proper clothing. And when the doors were closed and locked, and when the shades and curtains had been pulled down low, Eileen had bigger secrets to keep than the color of her nightgown.
She knelt beside the bed and closed her eyes, breathing slowly, breathing with forced but measured calm that counted the seconds between breaths.
From time to time, her lungs would catch—but she held the cough down, fighting back the growl. “It’s not time yet,” she said to herself, keeping her voice low. “It’s not time yet. Not tonight. And not tomorrow night, either. It’s not time yet.”
But time was looming close.
As the pulse of insistent pain began to ebb, she relaxed and unfolded her hands. She left them flat on the thin blanket that covered the bed. “Not time yet,” she repeated again, and this time there was less of a plea buried in the words. This time, she was certain. “No. Not tonight.”
When she climbed to her feet again, her face was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and she was steady. But the calm could be deceiving—she’d learned that much the hard way. Better by far to be safe and certain.
There was a man in Louisiana with a dog. There was a splash of pain and blood, and the night sky above was bright without clouds. Behind the church there was a woman, her back bent with age. There was a moment of clarity and a minute of mayhem. In the woods there was a creek that ran between the trees. I awoke naked and filthy beside it, and I tried to focus my eyes. I tried to bring the colors back, there in the black and white of night outside, and I was confused because I couldn’t tell without color for reference— are these the wolf’s eyes, or mine?
I looked for the north star but the time of night was wrong or the forest was too tall, and I couldn’t find it.
She checked again to make sure the door was locked, and yes, the bolt was drawn. It would hold most unwanted visitors at bay, or at least delay them. Keep them out, keep her in. Keep them apart, in case of the worst.
A large tapestry bag sat open atop the chest of drawers.
From within it, Eileen retrieved a green glass bottle and set it on the nightstand; then from the bag she pulled a set of metal shackles. One cuff was raw, unfinished iron and the other had its rough edges softened by a winding silk ribbon. She clapped the softer cuff around her wrist, and slipped a chain with its key around her neck.
The bed’s headboard was shiny
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