Hold Fast (19 page)

* * *

F
ive days
in the penance box should have broken me. I am starting to see cracks around the edges of my resolve, but my tiny flesh and blood guardian angel has been there for me. Jennie has slipped water bottles under the wall of my prison every chance she can, and has brought me every scrap of food her clever little hands can hide away.

No slice of bread ever tasted so good as the stale, dry piece she brought me last night, but I’m even hungrier now that it’s gone than I was before I started eating it. How much worse would I feel if Jennie
hadn’t
been here for me?

It’s hard to get comfortable, to find a position to relieve the stiffness and aching in my leg. Sitting on a hard dirt floor for five days would be unpleasant for anyone, but the inability to stretch out or just to walk around a little leaves me with a constant, throbbing pain. I sit back in my corner of the box and try to work the muscles as best I can, but nothing seems to help.

My daydreams still take me away from this miserable hellhole, but they’re no longer escapist fantasies about a life that will never happen. Now they’re fantasies of simply escaping, and finding some sort of life I can actually have, but I have to figure out a way to make the fantasy a reality.

The first step is getting out of the penance box. There’s no lock, but I haven’t figured out a way yet to pop the simple latch that holds the door closed. All I need is a flat piece of metal or wood. Even a stiff piece of wire should work. But I don’t have any!

There’s no foundation under the box, only the dirt floor. I could dig my way out, just like I dug the small hole to let Jennie pass me water and food, but with no tools it will take far too long, and never mind how obvious it would be to anyone watching. I can’t even flip the thing over-- the heavy square beams in each corner are set in concrete, like fence posts.

I’ve gone through every possible scenario, everything I could try. There’s only one thing left, and it’s the course of absolute last resort: I have to ask my little guardian angel for a different and more dangerous kind of help. If there were any other way, I’d have done it already.

Tonight. It has to be tonight. The longer the delay, the weaker I get. But strength and weakness hardly matter, because I’m out of time anyway. I’ve always hated their obsession with ritual purity, the constant reminders that women’s bodies are unclean things just filled with sin, but right now it’s the only thing that’s keeping me out of Jeremiah’s bed. My period has already run almost a full day longer than normal, but it’s almost over. Today will certainly be the last day.

The door opens and I’m blinded by the midday sun. Squinting and shading my eyes with a hand, I can barely make out my mother’s bony silhouette against a sky so bright, it washes out my vision. Another shape stands next to her, and as my eyes adjust I recognize Jeremiah. They exchange a conspiratorial glance and my mother shrugs. They’ve come to check on the goods. I’ve jinxed myself, thinking about how to get out of here.

“Get your lazy ass up,” Jeremiah says. There’s no anger in his voice, no specific intent to be more cruel than usual. This is simply his baseline of sadism. I move slowly, exaggerating my weakness, and manage to get to a kneeling position, then ‘try’ to stand, using the wall for support.

They smile as I drop back to my knees, panting with false effort. That’s right, that’s exactly right. You haven’t fed me for five days, and you’ve barely allowed me any water. I’ll be just as weak and helpless, just as pliable, as you want. Of course, I will be.

Jeremiah’s face twists in disgust. I can’t tell if it’s the smell of the bucket or the sight of the used rags, evidence of my sinful impurity. He reaches out to grab at me, drags me to my feet, but his hand stops when he takes in my filthy dress.

“You get her,” he tells my mother. Asshole. And my mother wonders why I’m not delighted at the prospect of being your wife?

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” my mother says taking one of my arms. Her voice is gentle, but even she grimaces at the smell. She and Jeremiah flank me as I stumble my way to the showers. “Thank you, Brother Jeremiah, I’ll take it from there,” she says once we’re next to a stall. When Jeremiah hesitates, she shoos him away with her best schoolteacher’s voice. “I can handle her. Look at her, she can hardly stand on her own.”

I lean against the wall and remain silent. Good. That’s what I want you to think.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’m going, but I’ll be right outside.”

“Just be patient. Your wait is almost over,” my mother tells him. She’s soothing a petulant child, not talking to a grown man.

You’ll have to be patient another day, you bastard. I’m not done with being unclean. Not yet.

As soon as he’s out of sight, my mother shakes me by the shoulder and orders me to undress. After laying for so long in the combination of dirt and my own bloody filth, this shower is going to be
such
a treat. It won’t be as long or as hot as I want, nor as private as I could wish, but I’m past caring. I want it so badly, need the feeling of the water streaming over me, I want to strip my clothes off in an instant. I fight the impulse, forcing my hands to tremble as I undo the buttons one by one, and step under the lukewarm stream once my stinking, dirty clothes fall to the floor.

It’s glorious, even if it’s not particularly hot. My mother narrows her eyes as she notices me swallow water collected in my open mouth, but she doesn’t say anything. I start with my hair and work my way down, ignoring my observer kneeling on the lip of the shower floor, carefully scrutinizing the color of the water running down my legs and swirling toward the drain. It’s still undeniably sullied.

“Two more minutes,” she says and walks out of the room leaving the door open. I’d best make the most of it.

Once my time is up and I’m drying off with a thin towel, I hear voices outside the shower room. From inside the stall I can’t make out the voices, but there’s no mistaking the angry tones. I only catch the end of the conversation when my mother opens the door

“
No
,” she says adamantly. “I
told
you yesterday that it might not be over yet. You’re simply going to have to wait another day.”

“So, it’s settled then?” Satan is on the other side of the door as well. “Sister Heather was right. The decorations and preparations can stay up for another day. The wedding will happen tomorrow, instead of today.”

I lean against the wall again, allowing my head to wobble in pretend weakness. Have to stay in character. Don’t break the scene.
I stare blankly at the fresh clothes and rags my mother has laid out for me until she prods me into action.

“Come on! Hurry up, Courtney! I don’t have all day to waste taking care of you.”

“You never do,” I mumble, intentionally skipping a button and doing another up crooked.

“What’d you say?” She glares at me, then bats my hands away the dress and fixes them herself,
tsk
ing at me. “Oh,
you
. Can’t leave you alone for even a minute. C’mon, Courtney! There are things to do! We have to have your dress fitted, you have to see the flowers!” The angry zeal is gone from her eyes and voice, and she’s… happy? Is that what happiness looks like on her face? Is that the expression that another woman would wear when putting together her daughter’s wedding? “It’s going to be so beautiful. But we have to be quick, I have something else important to take care of this evening.”

“We, you want
me
to- what,
approve
things? For my wedding to
him?”

Mom, even for you, this is insane.

Her eyes widen in shock, and she covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh no! No, no, no, no,
no!
Not to
Him
, silly! To Brother Jeremiah!” She laughs at what she thinks is an obvious and silly misinterpretation by me. “You couldn’t marry
Him
,” she whispers.

Wait, who did you think I was talking about?

“Right. Of course not. How silly of me,” I say, as she ties my hair back into a ponytail. The wide, coarsely woven ribbon started life white, but age and repeated washing have made it a faded grayish-yellow. “What preparations do you need me to look at?”

“Well, first off, we have to go and witness the purification,” she says and continues rattling on about food and embroidery, but I’m not listening.

What the hell does she mean by ‘purification’?

My question is answered soon enough, when my mother escorts me out of the shower and over to the pathetic little garden shed that I shared with Daniel. It’s being torn to the ground by half a dozen men, under the supervision of Brother Lucas. All of my things are still inside, all of Daniel’s things. Jeremiah is part of the wrecking crew, and he’s going at it with a vengeance.

It wasn’t enough for you to get the obstacle out of the way, was it? You couldn’t be satisfied with having me, or even with killing your uncle. You need to destroy his home, erase his memory.

“All right, that should be enough,” Lucas says when he deems the destruction sufficient. They’ve piled everything up in the middle of the small plot of land, and everyone standing around holds a bucket of water. A rototiller and a bag of road salt stand a short distance off.

The final piece of the puzzle falls into place when he pours the contents of a small red plastic gas can over the heap. Everyone takes a respectful – and cautious – step back as Brother Lucas turns and scans the crowd.

“Sister Heather, would you do the honor of cleansing the abomination from our community?” he asks.

“Oh, absolutely!” My mother lets go of my arm and beams like a giddy schoolgirl as she joins Lucas, who entrusts her with a large box of wooden matches. Handling the box like a sacred relic, she strikes the match and throws it on the splintered rubble. It sputters for a moment before a large drop of gasoline falls on it, and with a
whoooosh
the pile is engulfed in an instant.

“And he broke down the houses of the Sodomites that were by the house of The Lord!” Brother Lucas screams out at the gathered community. “His Word tells us this! The Second Book of Kings!” Lucas preaches to the crowd, ranting about sin and abomination, and how some High Priest named Hilk-something-or-other purged the wickedness from the Children of Israel.

He seems as crazed as my mother, but he doesn’t lose himself in his zeal. Lucas keeps a shrewd spark of awareness in his eyes, adjusting his tone and direction to bring the crowd to a frenzy.

I don’t pay any attention to his words. I’m watching the people instead. All around me, every rapt eye is focused on him, standing in front of the flaming mass of my former home, and nobody is paying attention to me. Even as I edge away from my mother, jostling through the crowd, nobody looks at me twice. Well, this is as good a time as any, and someone was careless enough to leave a truck in front of the main house.

I continue to move away, slowly, pausing between each step, until I reach the corner of the main house. As soon as I’m in its shadow, I turn and head for the truck, going just as close to a run as my leg will allow. Just a few more steps and I’ll be there. Just… a little… I’ve made it!

My heart sinks as I find an empty ignition. Where are the keys? There’s nothing in the center console, nothing over the visor. Nobody ever takes the keys out of the trucks! Why now?

I keep searching, frantically, for the literal keys to my freedom, silently pleading and begging the heavens for some help when I see him.

Nathan. He’s standing in front of the truck, leaning against the wall. Holding up a set of keys in his hand, dangling them by the ring.

The little boy stares at me, expressionless for a moment before a smile forms on his lips, impenetrable, inscrutable, betraying no hint of what he thinks. He walks around to the side of the truck and I roll down the window.

“Please, Nathan,” I beg. “Please. Give me the keys. Let me be free.”

Nathan’s smile fades, his eyebrows scrunching together, and he raises the keys toward me. Please God, please God. Please dear God in Heaven! But God’s not listening to me, not today. At the last second, with the keys less than a half inch from my outstretched hand, he yanks them back.

“Courtney’s running away,” he screams at the top of his lungs.

There’s no point to fleeing on foot, not now. If you can’t run, then you can’t run away.

I lean my head against the padded rest, and await the inevitable with my eyes closed.

Jeremiah and Lucas are the first to reach me, of course, and I’m clean enough that the men don’t have any purity-based concerns about dragging me out of the truck by force.

“Disrespect. Utter and
complete
disrespect,” Lucas says, as the two of them drag me back to the penance box. “You’re going to have to learn, Sister Courtney. You
will
learn submission to your husband and to The Lord.”

“And the lessons will start tomorrow afternoon,” Jeremiah says as he opens the door to the box and pushes me inside. I bounce off the wall, and wind up on my knees in the filth again.

“Aren’t you going to do something
now
to teach her some respect?” Lucas asks, a look of surprise on his face.

“Like what?” Jeremiah answers, looking down at me. “She already has a black eye and a split lip. Lenience today is a gift. My wedding present, let’s call it.” He turns to Lucas as he continues. “But don’t worry about
her
. Once I am her husband, she
will
know her place. Besides, I’ve got something I have to take care of today. I don’t have time to deal with her. Starting tomorrow, I’ll have all the time in the world.”

I don’t flip him off as they close the door. I
so
badly want to, but I wait until the door is fully closed and I’ve heard the latch click. A show of bravado could make him change his mind and for once he’s being
generous,
so I don’t want to tempt fate.

I don’t want despair to get to me, either, but somehow I feel it creeping up my spine.

I’m right back where I started. Well, almost. I’m somewhat cleaner, at least. It would have been stupid not to try to take advantage of that opportunity. If not for the little shithead, it would have worked!