Wings of Glass (2 page)

TRENT TAYLOR
sauntered into my life wearing faded blue jeans, dusty work boots, and an attitude I couldn’t take my eyes off.

We had a bumper crop that summer of ’99, so Daddy was able to hire a farmhand to help for a change. We were all so happy to have a little money in our pockets and another set of harvesting hands, we didn’t look a gift horse in his mouth. It was just like that story from the Trojan War. We all let him right in without looking first to see what was inside him.

It’s surreal to think that if the rains hadn’t fallen just right and the price of tobacco hadn’t been up due to a blight that seemed to be hitting every farm but ours, we wouldn’t have been able to afford to hire Trent. How much pain I could have been spared . . . but then I wouldn’t have you, Manny. I’d go through it all a million times just to have you.

Being late August, the air outside was steam and the smell of the roast Daddy insisted Mama cook every Thursday
carried past me on what little breeze there was. As usual, our cat, Seymour, kept busy chasing the chickens around the yard. He loved to terrorize those poor birds. I yelled at him like I always did, but he never paid me—or anyone besides Daddy—any mind.

Until that afternoon, I’d never seen those chickens do anything but run from mean old Seymour, but that day the smallest one turned around and pecked him right between the eyes. I still laugh when I think of that cat howling in surprise and jumping back ten feet in the air, tail first, as if God himself had snatched him, only to drop him.

After Seymour tore off and the chickens returned to scratching dirt, I bent over my laundry basket and got back to work, humming something or other through the splintered clothespins tucked between my lips.

Even though we owned a dryer, your grandpappy hardly ever let Mama or me use it. He couldn’t see the sense in wasting money on electricity when the sun and wind would do the job for free. I would have offered to pay the measly expense myself, but in my father’s household, women were meant to be seen working, not heard complaining.

I bent down to pin up my daddy’s undershorts, doing my best not to touch anything but the outermost corner of the waistband, when I felt hot breath on the back of my ear and a rough hand cover my own. Paralyzed, I just stood there staring straight ahead at the dirt road leading from our driveway. I could feel my pulse pounding my temples as I held my breath.

Trent must have taken my lack of protest as encouragement because his other hand wrapped tight around my waist and he yanked me back against him. He whispered in my ear with a voice somehow both rough as sandpaper and smooth as whipped cream, “This better be the last time I ever see my woman touching another man’s underwear.”

I could barely breathe. At seventeen, I’d never been touched by a man except to have my tail whipped for disobeying. I’d never even held a boy’s hand, and here was a man, a grown man, staking claim to me. Just then, the screen door squealed open and your grandpappy’s heavy footsteps pounded across the porch.

When Trent stepped back, I finally got the courage to turn around and look him in the eye. He’d been around for a couple of weeks by then and I’d seen him dozens of times, but until that moment, I hadn’t noticed the crinkles around his eyes that made him look like he was always squinting against the sun, or the small scar cutting into the fullness of his bottom lip. His longish hair was a shade darker than my dirty blonde, and there was something about the way his nose flared just so that brought to mind a fighter plane. People might have said a lot of things about your father back then, but no one could suggest he wasn’t beautiful.

“What are you doing over there?” My father stood on the porch, leaning his hip against the column and holding a glass of water that was sweating as much as he was.

I yanked up my laundry basket, still half full, intending
to bound inside, but didn’t make it a step before I felt that rough hand of Trent’s wrap tight around my wrist again.

“Just taking a break,” he said to my father, though he never took his eyes off me. He stared right through me, wearing a smirk. I would get to know that Cheshire grin real well in the years that followed. It was the look he wore when he knew he had won, or was about to. I wonder just what it was he had seen that gave me away.

“You best get on back to work.” Daddy’s voice was loud as thunder, and it shook me.

Trent’s grin only widened. “Now, don’t be that way to your future son-in-law.” His eyes wandered over the front of me like he was eyeing a ham steak he was getting ready to cut into.

Those roving eyes of his sent unfamiliar jolts through me.

Daddy slammed down his glass on the porch ledge. “Are you listening, boy? I ain’t going to tell you again.”

Trent put his hands up like he was under arrest. “Take it easy, man. I’m just talking to her.”

My heart felt like a butterfly caught in a mason jar. No one spoke to my father that way.

What an idiot I was to think Trent’s bravado was because he was so taken with me. In my mind I was the princess, Daddy was the dragon, and Trent, of course, was the knight who’d come to rescue me from the tower.

With my father’s eyes on us, Trent whispered I was the prettiest thing he ever laid eyes on. I twisted my mouth like he was crazy, but inside, I was done for. I’d never had a man tell me I was pretty.

I took the bait. With one pathetic cast of his line, I was snagged, swallowing his words happily as that hook dug deep into my flesh.

When Daddy’s face took on a shade of sunburn and he started down the stairs, Trent pretended to tip the hat he wasn’t wearing and leaned over to whisper that he would be waiting for me at the well at midnight and his woman had best be there.
Woman,
I repeated in my mind, liking the sound of it. He reeled me in that night, and before week’s end I’d agreed to elope.

At Trent’s direction, I left a note for my parents telling them they shouldn’t come looking for me.

Despite my fears, though—and eventually, my hopes—my parents never did come knocking to reclaim me. No one did.

I NEVER WANTED
anything as badly as I wanted you, Manny. Of course, I didn’t know you’d be you. You could have been a little girl, a set of twins, or an elf with two heads for all I cared. I just wanted someone who would love me whether or not I burned the biscuits or made the bed. I just wanted to be enough.

I used to think your father couldn’t give me the unconditional love I craved because I was flawed somehow, but now I know the problem was him. Love keeps no record of wrongs, but Trent was a master scorekeeper. If I was late getting supper on the table, he made sure I suffered for it. I was convinced he hated me for not giving him a child, and if only I could, our lives would be so much better. You don’t need to tell me how faulty my thinking was.

One day it dawned on me we’d been trying to have a baby for more than a decade. That realization hit me so hard, I doubled over, crying until I couldn’t cry anymore.
After I ran out of tears, I curled up right there on the floor, begging God to put me out of my misery.

“Get up off the ground, Penny. The neighbors are going to think I’m murdering you in here with you carrying on like that.”

The ceramic tiles were cold against my cheek, and a crack in one of them pressed into my skin. I sat and gazed up at him. He wasn’t that much bigger than me when we stood nose to nose, but every year, he seemed a little taller. I felt like Thumbelina right then.

He grunted. “If you would put half the time you worry about having a crying poop maker into being a good wife, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bring my friends into this dump.”

His words cut deep. Maybe because they were true. Our little tar-papered house
had
gotten to be a bit of a mess lately. I didn’t know it back then, but it’s clear as crystal now that I was dealing with serious depression. I kept the shades down and the fresh air out. I stopped cutting flowers and bringing them inside. I stopped doing most anything except the bare minimum of cooking dinner and washing clothes and dishes.

“I’m sorry, Trent.” My voice crackled.

He scrunched his face.
“I-I-I’m sorry, Trent,”
he repeated, mocking me.
“I just want a baby so bad. That way I can spend even more time neglecting you
.
”
He flicked the cigarette he had been smoking at me. The orange tip bit my forearm, and I jumped.

I looked down at my arm. A small half moon of red formed right below a yellowing bruise. I licked my middle
finger and ran the spit over the sting to cool it. “You used to want a son too.” His father had neglected him to the point of pitifulness, and in our younger, better days, Trent shared his overwhelming desire to get a do-over and show his father what it meant to be a real dad.

“If wishes were pennies, I’d have more lazy women than I could feed.”

I hated him using my name as a pun, which is, I’m sure, why he did it. “If I’m so awful, why’d you marry me?”

He sucked his teeth and I half expected him to spit on me, but instead, he reached down and held out his hand to help me up. I had no reason to trust him, so I balanced myself in such a way that if he let go, I wouldn’t fall. But he didn’t. He pulled me to my feet and held me against himself.

“Penny, I don’t want you getting yourself so upset about whether or not we get young’uns. I wouldn’t mind a son, sure, but the only thing in this world I need is you.” He stroked my back.

Then, just when it seemed like he actually cared, he started in with the insults again. I made a comment he found disrespectful, and before I knew it, his fist cracked against my temple.

Flashes of light blinked around the room, and I dropped to my knees. My ears rang so loudly I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Slowly, he and his words came back into focus.

His top lip curled up over his teeth. “Next time I try and offer you a little constructive criticism, don’t you dare give me lip. You thank me, understand? I’m your husband and
it’s my job to look after you. If I don’t tell you the truth, who will?”

Truth.
I had no idea what that word even meant anymore.

I held my aching head, feeling a trickle of blood snaking its way into my mouth. I knelt on the floor for the longest time listening to him yelling at me to get up. He kicked me once, halfheartedly, but I refused to budge. I was in another time and place. I was the Princess Penny of my childhood, crying out for someone to save me.

God heard, Manny. He always does.

The next morning I woke up early, like I did every day, and fixed your father eggs. One bite was too runny, the next overdone. I apologized for not being a better cook, a better homemaker, a better . . . you name it.

He shoved the tail of his shirt into the back of his work pants and snatched the lunch I’d fixed him off the counter. I handed him his thermos of coffee, wondering what would happen if one day I just forgot to screw the top on. How badly would it scald him?

What a terrible thing to wonder.
Take each thought captive,
I told myself as he walked toward me. I flinched, not knowing if he was about to kiss me or hit me. That morning, I was lucky.

His work boots gave him a couple inches of height, so I had to push up on my toes to reach him. When my mouth
met his unpuckered lips, he grunted as though I’d said something he disagreed with.

When he left, I walked to the window, feeling exhausted. The kind of tired that seeps into your marrow and makes your bones feel like lead. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open as I watched our rusty mopar tear out of the driveway and screech around the bend.

When it did, I noticed smudges of ketchup, and who knew what else, streaking down the once-white paint, now stained tobacco-yellow. I ran my fingertips slowly across the coarse living room wall, remembering Trent’s promise to paint it whatever color I wanted. Over the years, his dead promises had begun to line up like cars in a funeral procession.

I stood there for the longest time, my palm flat against the chipped paint, knowing I should grab a sponge and clean off at least the worst of the filth. Ought to clean a lot of things. But if the house was spic and span, he would just find something else to complain about, something a bottle of Windex couldn’t wipe away.

I was ready to head back to the bedroom when someone pounded on the back door. I had no friends, and my family was almost two hundred miles away. We lived a little out of the way with only two sets of neighbors on our street, both of whom steered clear of Trent, so I had no idea who it could be.

I looked through the open kitchen window, past the torn screen, at a woman who was somehow familiar. It took a few seconds to remember this church lady who’d brought me
a cake the first and last time I had visited Sheckle Baptist, nearly six months before.

Trent and his buddies had eaten that cake in one stoned sitting. As he licked the orange icing from his fingertips, he told me church folk were a bunch of hypocritical killjoys that lived one way and expected everyone else to live another. I never went back, but the Bible she gave me to replace the one I’d lost to one of your father’s drunken tirades still lay hidden under the bed.

“Long time no see,” the church lady said. In the sunlight, her hair shone the color of corn silk and looked just as fine. Tiny wrinkles feathered out from around the corners of her eyes, but the rest of her skin was smooth, making it hard to guess her age.

“Long time,” I agreed. There was no way I could invite her in with the house such a mess—not that I wanted to.

As if she could read my mind, she laid the back of her hand over her forehead like she was Scarlett O’Hara. “Isn’t it hot as molasses out here?”

“Hot as what?” I wondered if maybe I’d heard her wrong.

“Molasses,” she repeated, then blushed as if just realizing what she said. “That’s what my mama always said. She didn’t make a whole lot of sense sometimes, bless her heart.”

I didn’t want to lie to her, so I just said, “Ma’am, I’m a little busy. Is there something I can do for you?”

She gave me a look like she didn’t much believe me. I didn’t care if she did or didn’t, so long as she carried herself back to her car.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you. I just was wondering if you had ever thought about visiting our church again?”

What did she care? It wasn’t like they were hurting to fill their pews or collection baskets. Besides, even if Trent was the tithing sort, 10 percent of nothing would still be nothing. Back then I didn’t understand concern for someone else’s soul. Your mama didn’t understand much of anything except survival, baby.

Inside my socks, my toes curled up tight. “I’m worshiping at home now.”

She squinted at me for an uncomfortably long time. “The Bible says you should belong to a church.”

I looked past her and the overgrown grass to the tractor tire leaning against a gutted Yugo Trent had brought home two years before, but hadn’t touched since. “No, it don’t, neither.”

She laughed. “Know your Scripture, do you?”

“My daddy made sure of it.” What I didn’t tell her was how he shoved it down my throat every time I didn’t do things his way. I hated the deity my father presented as a giant principal in the sky, throwing down bolts of lightning and striking women dead for not obeying their husbands, or children their fathers. My mother’s version was far kinder. He was the sort that wiped away tears and picked you up when you fell. That’s the God I clung to, though I knew precious little about him then.

The lady brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Hebrews 10:25 says, ‘Let us not neglect our meeting together, as some
people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.’”

A mosquito must have bitten my chin because it started itching like mad. I scratched at the small bump and pondered that verse. After a few seconds I said, “It also says, when two or more are gathered in Jesus’ name, he’s there with them.” I was proud of myself for not only speaking up, but also sounding halfway intelligent for a change.

The strap of her purse slipped down her arm and she pushed it up over her shoulder. I don’t know if her blouse was silk or satin, but the shimmery fabric looked so beautiful and cool. I couldn’t help but wonder what something like that would cost. Probably more than our house payment.

“Very good. Penny, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.” How much nicer my name sounded when it wasn’t being sputtered like a cussword. I figured I should quit while I was ahead. Besides, my back was getting sore from stooping there at the window to look at her. “Well, thanks for coming.”

She turned to go, but then paused and turned around. “I just have one question.
Whom
are you gathering with?”

The question caught me off guard, so I just gaped at her, feeling like the moron I thought I was. After a moment, I finally found my voice. “I
am
married, Miss—” I remembered too late I didn’t recall her name.

There was something about her smile that took away my embarrassment. “Mrs. Callie Mae Johnson. You can call me Callie. Your husband—he’s a Christian man?”

My face flushed. If Trent knew I was speaking to her, he would have me looking like a raccoon for sure. “I really have to go.”

Her smile faded. “Well, I don’t want to keep you, but we sure would love you to come sit with us again. This time bring your husband.”

I cleared my throat and studied my dingy socks. “He isn’t much on church.”

She let out a breath of air like she’d been holding it all her life. “Oh, I see. Well, you tell your husband he may be head over you, but God’s head over him. You tell him that.”

Although I said nothing, I thought maybe I would tell him. Maybe it would get him to think about a few things; though, of course, I knew better.

“You take care, Penny. Sorry to have bothered you.” She turned around and started down the back stairs.

“No bother,” I mumbled, wishing my house had been clean. A female to talk to might have been nice. Trent wouldn’t have to know.

She slid into a blue sedan that looked like it had just been run through a car wash and drove away. I looked around the kitchen, trying to see how my house might have looked through her eyes if I had let her in. The morning dishes sat on the table and counter, but that was understandable. I’d just fed my husband, after all. Besides the lining of dust along the baseboards, it wasn’t so bad if she didn’t look too closely. As long as I kept her in the kitchen it would have been fine, but if she had to use the bathroom, and a guest
always seemed to have to, she would see what a pigsty I let my husband live in.