Jumping by Jane Peranteau Page A

feeling who valued his hunting dogs more than he did his wife, and I begged my family to take me back, even running away a time or two. But they wouldn't do it because they were afraid of him, too, and they made me go back each time. ‘We made a deal,’ my father said. He'd gained a parcel of land and some cattle and horses, and didn't want to give them back, so he gave me back instead.
    “I lived with the man a while, gritting my teeth and bearing it, giving him three children he completely disregarded, growing vegetables to feed us all, and working as a field hand for him whenever he required it. This worked, with me as slave labor, until he became abusive of the children. Then I stood against him, and we battled fiercely, until he decided I was more trouble than I was worth, and he was going to kill me.
    “He never doubted he had the right to do so. I was his property, purchased just as his other farm animals had been, and most of their lives ended in slaughter. He determined to drag me down to the pond, to drown me. He hadn't so many options open to him—rifles were single shot then, a knife would have been tricky and terribly messy—you get the point.
    “I saw what he had in mind, and I fought him. He battered me badly and with his greater strength, finally succeeded in drowning me. I hardly remember the details of it, I was so frantically concerned for the children.
    “He rested a moment, after I was dead and he'd pulled my body up on the bank, catching his breath, and contemplated what to do with me. He knew the pond wouldn't keep his secret, and he knew enough to want to keep it secret, if only because mistrust or disdain from his neighbors might affect his standing in the community and hence, his income.
    “He decided he'd do what he did with the animals—quarter and piecemeal me, and then he would feed me to the fire. Think of the man it would take to accomplish such a task—to the mother of his children! He couldn't do this outside, because it didn't afford good hiding, so he used the fireplace in the small sitting room, taking his time, being thorough about it, distributing the ashes in the garden.
    “It took most of the day and night, but his rage had made the children scatter, and I'm glad they weren't there to witness any of it. When it was over, it left me lost. I was lost in it all—his rage, my helplessness, the loss of my children, my shame and demoralization at believing I was the cause of it all, feeling as in pieces as my body was. I didn't know where to turn, how to get back to anywhere, wherever anywhere was. Time passed, and I just hovered at the house, reliving it all, blinded by it, coming to believe this was my deserved fate.
    “Then one day many years later you came, and I felt our bond. I was amazed at how much better I felt having you there. You changed the feeling in the house, introducing air and light, and your presence focused me, brought me to my senses. I knew myself again, and I began to see my side in the story, to believe I had a side to anchor in. But to really believe it, I desperately needed someone who could see it, too. I needed a witness. Someone who could know that I hadn't meant to abandon my children, that I hadn't caused my husband to kill me, and that he was seriously deranged.
    “That night I determined to come down the stairs. There was such a peace and quiet in the house as I hadn't ever felt there. I was drawn to that peace as surely as a moth to a flame. It was the only way I could see to get home to myself. It felt safe enough to try. I couldn't have imagined the power of your listening. I would have been afraid to hope for that. My words, as I spoke them, showed me that it had all been real; your listening showed me that the telling could be borne, and that by telling them, the events could be understood, through compassion, and forgiven.
    “You didn't judge, you had compassion—I could feel it. Not pity, but woman-to-woman compassion. You knew that you