Into the Free (26 page)

I take a deep breath. I rub my hands back and forth on my new pants in a nervous attempt to dry the sweat pooling in my palms. My leg bounces in a frantic pulse. I tell myself, “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” but air won’t come. I am gasping.

I put my head down on the table and close my eyes. “Please, Mama,” I whisper, “help me through this.”

Maybe Mama is out there somewhere, watching, listening. Maybe she has found a strength that she could never build here with me. Maybe, just maybe, she is finally able to help me. That’s where I choose to place my faith.

I raise my head and try to fight the dizziness that pours in from the back of my eyes. I blink, turn my head from side to side, and exhale. I have no more time to waste. I have to do what I have come to do. I open the box. I see no letter. No records. No information. No answers. Only a miniature envelope labeled again with Mama’s name and patient number.

My hands tremble. I turn the envelope upside down. Out falls Mama’s wedding band. I slip the smooth, cold band on my ring finger. A perfect fit.

This isn’t enough. I want more. I want answers. Medical charts. Diagnoses. I want to know if they tried to save her. What happened to her while she was here?

I also want something from Mama, a message from her to me.

I spin the ring around my finger and stare at the empty box. I want to know why she did it. Why she chose to leave me like this. I want her to tell me she’s sorry. That she’d change it if she could.

I press my forehead into my arm on the table and imagine I’ve just found a letter from Mama. I hear her voice. It’s sweet and soft and gentle, as if she’s telling me stories again in her lap. In my mind, I unfold the letter and hear her say these words:

Dear Millie,

I’ve done something too horrible to erase. I’ve made a mistake and left you all alone. I don’t know what came over me the day of the rodeo. I wasn’t feeling well, remember? I took some medicine. Too much. And I’m sorry for that, Millie. I’m sorry.

Then Jack. The emergency room. You were talking to me, but I couldn’t answer. I wanted to hold you. But I couldn’t move. I was gone, Millie. And more than anything, I wanted to wake up. To tell you I didn’t mean to do it. To say I was sorry and that I’d never leave you again.

Please forgive me, Millie. I didn’t mean for life to end up this way. I thought I could pray it away. That it was all in God’s hands. But it was up to me, wasn’t it? I had choices. I just couldn’t see it.

Do better than me, Millie. Make the right choices. And be loved. The way you should have been all along.

Mama

With nothing to hold but an empty box and a small gold ring, I close my eyes. I cry.

After I’ve cried all I can cry, I leave the empty box on the table and close the door behind me. On the way out, I thank Irma for her help. “Didn’t have nothing better to do,” she quips.

For all I know, River’s not yet in town, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s at the gypsy camp. Maybe he’s come back for me, as he promised, and he’s waiting to take me away.

I go out into the tar-black night where Firefly waits for me. I don’t have to direct her. She takes me where I want to go.

CHAPTER 36

I don’t go to the gypsies. Instead, Firefly leads me back to the rodeo facilities where the sounds of Bump break through the dust-filled air. He clicks his tongue and whistles in the arena. I make my way through the stock pens and into the stands. Taking a seat behind the guardrails, I watch him work under outdoor lights. Bugs swarm the hazy beams.

Bump has a reputation for breaking even the wildest horses. As I watch, he is in the arena with Scout, a stallion others have termed unmanageable. This horse is angry, defensive, guarded.

Bump keeps his cool. Takes it slow. Waits until Scout is ready. He knows how to apply just enough gentle pressure to help the horse know what to do.

First, he walks back and forth, in long, even strides. The nervous palomino stares back at him, fear in his eyes, a natural instinct to bolt. Both the horse and I keep our eyes on Bump, as he paces back and forth, back and forth, slowly edging himself closer and closer to the horse. Two steps forward. One step back, reading the horse’s coal-colored eyes, never pushing too fast or too far.

The horse bucks once. Bump takes a step back. The horse calms, still staring at Bump. Still ready to run. Bump comes closer, still pacing back and forth, back and forth, keeping the calm and patient tone to his steps. I gasp as Bump moves within reach of the horse. The horse twitches and steps away.

I don’t trust any stallion, especially this one, but Bump trusts him completely. He leans over, eyes connected to Scout’s eyes. He touches Scout’s withers, the spot where another horse would rub to say “hello.” Then, he backs away, to prove he isn’t a threat.

Slowly, he moves back in to touch a front leg. Then the other, careful not to move below the knee, or else the horse will react in fear. Scout stands still, watching. Waiting, as Bump moves toward the rump and strokes one back leg at a time, down to each hock, no lower.

He moves back along the horse’s belly, rubbing his gentle hands along the side, sneaking pats to the neck while the other hand soothes Scout’s side. He has reached this point before with this horse, but he’s never gone any further. Every time he tries to put a blanket on the horse’s back, the stallion bolts. But this time, the blanket lands smoothly on the line of his spine and Scout stands still.

Bump places one hand above the blanket and cradles the other beneath the horse’s broad belly, adding even pressure to both the top and bottom of the thick, round middle. I assume this will be all for the night, a big accomplishment and a fine place to call it quits.

But Bump is no quitter.

He pushes a little harder, jumping up and down next to the stallion until Scout’s eyes narrow and he huffs in protest. His ears stand up straight and then back. Bump stops jumping and gives the horse a few gentle strokes, adding pressure once again to Scout’s warm belly and blanketed back, simulating the feel of a rider and a saddle.

The horse licks its lips and cocks its back leg, two signs he’s beginning to feel comfortable. I can’t believe it. The transformation is happening right before my eyes. Bump is teaching this stallion to trust, by agreeing to trust him first.

Then Bump catches me off guard. I have seen him do it before, but I never expected him to go so far, so fast. Not with this horse. He jumps from the ground up onto the horse’s back. He stands there, just like he is standing on the ground, boots balanced on the blanketed back, arms spread wide for balance. He and the horse both stand silent, surrounded by only the sound of my hardened heart melting in the background.

When he jumps down, the horse looks at him and sighs. Bump gives him a pat and whispers, “Good job, Scout. Good job.” When Bump turns to leave, Scout follows. Bump tests the horse’s loyalty by walking three full loops around the arena. Scout stays an arm’s length behind him, faithfully following behind his new friend.

“You’re amazing,” I say, edging myself down to the sawdust floor. “You’ll have a saddle on him by tomorrow.”

“Hoping to walk him, trot him by week’s end,” Bump answers, refusing to look at me. “I’ll have him swim the lake with me on his back. What you wanna bet?”

“This,” I say, holding Mama’s wedding ring in my outstretched hand. Bump stares at the ring, then at me, as if he doesn’t quite understand. “If you can get that horse to swim with you on his back, then I’ll marry you, Kenneth Anderson. And if not …”

He interrupts, smiling bigger than ever, “Oh, there’s not gonna be any
if nots
. Just wait, Miss Millie Reynolds. You’ll be the happiest bride the world’s ever seen.”

CHAPTER 37

All week I’ve seen the gypsies wandering the streets, singing, dancing, selling goats, but I haven’t seen River. I try not to think about him, and I haven’t gone looking for him. Instead, I stay focused on finishing school, working at the arena, and staying away from Diana and Bill Miller as much as possible. Living with their family has been a positive change for me in many ways, but the pressure is building. The way I dress. The way I walk. The way I eat. With Diana, everything needs to be done the proper way.

Today, it’s Sunday. And the proper thing to do is to get all dressed up and go to church. So here I sit, third pew to the right, again. Routine and predictable as ever.

I stare at the windows. Stained glass blocks everything real and beautiful behind those multicolored panes. Sorrowful images line the arches along each side of the sanctuary. Mary with her infant son, Christ with blue-eyed children at His feet, a lamb in the arms of a shepherd. On the other side, Jesus joins His twelve disciples in prayer. Next, the graphic crucifixion scene, with red shards of glass dripping like blood from Christ’s thorn-crowned head. In the last of the series, an angel pushes away a large boulder as bright yellow light pours out from Jesus’ empty tomb. The light makes a skyward path to show that Jesus has risen from the dead. I sit here, staring at that scene, imagining Mama rising from the dead. Diana nudges me. The pastor is calling for sinners to come to the front. The congregation sings “Just As I Am.” It’s soul-saving time.

Every Sunday, Diana gives me her weary look, nudges me in the side with her elbow, and tilts her head toward the minister standing at the pulpit with his head bowed and his arms open wide. “Take Jesus into your hearts,” he says. “Be washed in the blood of the Lamb.” Diana wants me to walk the aisle and pray with Brother Johnson, repeat his words. I am having none of it.

After the ceremony, I shake hands and smile and say pleasant
good-bye
s and
yes, ma’am
s and
maybe next week
, all the while wishing everyone would stop trying to save my soul. When Diana migrates toward the door, I don’t follow. I don’t want to go home with Diana. Instead, I want to sit alone in the sanctuary. I want to be still with God and ask Him if He really exists. Apart from the pearly-toothed preacher and the dutiful deacons and the opinionated organist and the overstuffed offering plates. The shushed secrets and practiced prayers. I want to sit in this sacred space and let God speak to me, like he did at Bump’s family’s home, before I forget completely who He is.

“I’ll catch up with y’all later,” I tell Diana.

She shrugs and says, “Be home for supper.”

The preacher gives me some time in the church, saying, “Turn off the lights when you leave.”

Everyone trails through the sanctuary doors, leaving me alone in the spiritual silence.

Turns out, I don’t really want to sit and wait for God to speak to me. I want to yell at Him. Stand up and make Him notice me. I explore the church, searching the dusty corners and slick baptismal. I flip through silky choir robes and tattered hymnals. I plink the ivory keys and stand behind the pulpit. I clink the Lord’s Supper glasses together, a toast to myself. I pace the dark, empty vestibule and roll my hands across the smooth painted walls of my Sunday school class. I open the kitchen cabinets, pluck an apple from the fruit basket. I think of Eve and forbidden fruit. I think of River.

I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by agreeing to marry Bump. I still want to see River. I miss him. I imagine Mama. Engaged to Bill Miller, but wanting nothing more than to be with Jack.

I climb the stairs, one wooden step at a time, up the spiral ascension to the steeple. The white spire that can be seen from anywhere in town. The highest structure in Iti Taloa, even taller than the two-story red brick library on Main and Miller where I’ve spent so much of my time. The street that is named after Bill Miller’s grandfather, the prestigious banker who left Bill a fortune to pass on to Camille. The man who cut down the song trees, built railroads and factories, and sent my Choctaw ancestors straight to the Trail of Tears.

I imagine how different my life could have been if Mama had chosen Bill Miller instead of Jack. All this time, I could be living Camille’s life. Pampered and plush. I try to picture Mama with manicured nails and fancy dresses.

I am lost in my memories when a familiar voice interrupts my thoughts. “I was getting worried about you.” Bill Miller comes in from behind me in the steeple room. He walks closer, smiling his banker’s smile.

The space is small, but suddenly it feels increasingly so. The air turns sparse, as if we are floating high into the clouds. Oxygen deprived.

“Took me forever to find you,” he says. “What are you doing up here?”

“Just thinking,” I say, easing my way toward the door. “Guess we better head home for lunch.”

He moves to block the exit. A loud click tells me he has fastened the lock.

“How’d you manage to get away from Camille?” he laughs. “She doesn’t seem to give you an inch of space.”

“She went home with Mary Emma.” My voice quivers, and I immediately regret telling him Camille is not here.

“Oh, that’s right. You’re a bad influence,” he laughs. I don’t.

“What’s the matter? You’ve hardly said two words to me since you moved in. Why’re you so afraid of me?” He holds that tight banker’s smile. It’s the first time I have ever really taken a good look at Bill Miller. I think, suddenly, he isn’t a good fit for Diana at all. She’s much too pretty.

I take two steps backward. The protruding sill clips my hip. I try not to look afraid.

“You know, Millie. Your mother was almost as beautiful as you.” His right hand grabs me below the waist of my pale-yellow church dress. He presses against the back of my neck.

I feel nauseated, so I hold my breath.

I try to deny what’s happening. This man has opened his home to me when I had nowhere to go. He served me meals and allowed me to become a part of his family. All this time I have been thinking that Mama must have been crazy for not choosing him over Jack. Now, I’m not so sure.

“Mr. Miller, I don’t think this is—”

He interrupts. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Millie. I’m not a bad man. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I don’t know anymore what it means to be good or bad. Just when I thought the lines were clear, when it became so easy to define someone like Jack as bad and a man like Bill Miller as good, everything has become blurry.

I press myself against the stained-glass window. Bill Miller’s entire physical presentation mutates in front of me. He no longer appears to be an upper-class, smooth-talking, respectable deacon who deserves my respect. Up close, he is a bulging-faced creature, forcing short, heavy breaths between his cracked mouth. Sweat shines on his forehead. His smell overtakes me as a stench not so different from the Reggios’ fat Christmas pig. Every filthy image I’ve ever seen comes to mind as Bill Miller rubs the back of his hand across my cheek. He pulls me toward him and says, “Don’t try to pretend you don’t want this.”

I pull away and he laughs. A dirty, stale laugh. “That’s not true,” I barely whisper. I push him away and scramble for the door. But he predicts my move and trips me. I fall hard to the floor.

“Come on now, Millie. Don’t get all worked up about this.” He drops down and wraps himself around me. “I’ve never done anything to hurt you now, have I?”

I push against his heavy body, trying to break his hold. He bangs me back against the wall. I cry out. Surely someone will hear me. Someone will come to help. But no one appears. The stained-glass window is thick and dark and no one knows I am trapped behind these beautiful panes.

Amused by my failed attempts, Bill Miller laughs.
“Who do you think is going to hear you, Millie? You know as well as I do there’s nobody here but you and me.” Like
you and me
was the name of a delicious dessert.

He grabs my wrists and pulls me up to him. Forceful and fierce. I pull away, but this only makes him laugh more. He presses his mouth into mine. “Let go! Please let me go!” I try to shout, but it comes out weak, like a little yellow girl who hasn’t yet realized her own strength.

He holds me tighter, forces one hand between my legs.

I imagine myself kicking his shin, biting his slimy tongue until I taste blood. But I am frozen like I am a little girl again, hiding like a rodent under the house, trying to be still, trying not to make Jack mad. Disappear. Just disappear.

He pushes me against the bare wooden floor, his heaving mass on top of me.

“Stop! Please, please, Mr. Miller.” I sound pathetic. Like Mama, before she quit bothering to beg.

And then I hear Jack’s voice shouting in my head,
Some people jus’ ain’t worth nothin’
. A phrase he muttered time and time again about the farmhands and others.

But Mama always insisted that wasn’t true. That everyone had a little bit of good in them, if you bothered to look for it. I don’t know what to believe anymore. Was there nothing at all good in people like Bill Miller?

My only hope is to try to reach the good in him. What Mama would call the core. Surely he loves Camille. Surely he would want to protect her from something like this.

“Please, Mr. Miller. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. Please. You’re right. You are a good man, Mr. Miller. Think of Camille. Diana. You’ll hurt us all.”

Tears well in his eyes. I have reached his core. He is melting fast, I think. He’ll stop this. He’ll let me go.

But I am wrong. He doesn’t let me go. In fact, he doesn’t move at all. And neither do I. My world has flipped, and everything is all out of balance again.

“I won’t hurt you, Millie,” he says. Then he starts unbuttoning my dress.

I know it is no use, but I beg. “No, no. Please, Mr. Miller. Please. Please let me go!” I am crying harder now, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. He is determined to take what he wants. What Mama denied him all those years ago.

“Men like him,” Mabel once told me, “nobody ever tells them no.”

He pulls up my yellow skirt. The room spins, and I’m all outside of myself, like when I fell from my tree, as if everything is happening to someone else. And then I hear a scream, but I barely recognize it as my own. It is raw. Primal. It rushes from my center past the steeple bells and the stained-glass windows and the heavy locked door. It’s a scream that should stir the angels into flying full-speed to save me.

Instead, God has once again abandoned me. My guardian angel is nowhere to be found. Sloth is but a memory. I am trapped in this so-called house of God with this madman who forces his way into me. He cries out my mother’s name, not once, but three times. “
Marie, Marie, Marie.”

When Bill Miller is done, he stands and fixes himself.

Instead of offering an apology, instead of showing remorse or regret, he turns his back and unlocks the door. “Don’t be late for supper.”

I hear his polished shoes step lightly down the stairs. I am alone under the vast steeple, as if nothing at all has happened. As if under the guise of the cross all things are forgiven.