Kate Fox & The Three Kings (2 page)

Moreover, George and Jamie-Lynn learned the sex of their first child several months prior. They were having a daughter. Jamie-Lynn had settled on the name “Kate” on her second day of bed rest. George’s stomach fluttered at the news, but he was soon grounded by the weight of Mr. Hemming’s meaning behind the meeting.

“If what you say is true about my…my daughter, then I must refuse your request. I can’t let her kill you and your sister. What if she comes into power when she’s only ten? You want a ten-year-old murdering you? I can’t make that decision for her. No, not right now…I can’t. I can’t do it,” George muttered in a huff, rising and throwing a wad of bills on the table.

Mr. Hemming reached out and jerked George by the elbow, knocking him off-balance and back into the booth. “I am not making a request,” Mr. Hemming warned. “The thing is, I take what I want, what I need to survive, or in this case, what I need for my end. I will show you no courtesy if you refuse me.”

“There has to be another way,” George breathed. “You cannot use my daughter,” his voice was low.

Mr. Hemming stood to leave, straightening his tie. Before turning to go, he faced George, speaking only loud enough for his ears, “I will rip your daughter’s throat out with my teeth if you keep her from us. Do you understand?” Mr. Hemming paused for an answer, but George had none. “Congratulations on fatherhood, Mr. Fox. We’ll be seeing each other soon.”

“
W
hich wine pairs
best with greasy tacos and self-loathin’?” Essie asked as we wandered past the meager selection of boxed wines.

Brushy Fork, the Bible-thumping, sleepy town on the outskirts of Lexington, wasn’t where you wanted to live if you didn’t support the prohibition. The pharmacy, located in the next town over, carried only four varieties of cheap wine, and several bottles of Boone’s Farm, which, I guess, falls under the ‘extremely cheap’ variety of wine now that I think about it. Luckily for us, the pharmacy was running a sale, featuring Boone’s Farm’s succulent blueberry flavor. This week, the eerily neon libation could get you buzzed for a cool $1.75. For a brief moment, I considered washing down my five-layer burrito with Boone’s Farm’s alien elixir, but tonight was a Pinot Grigio kind of night. After all, we were celebrating my high school graduation.

At the register, Essie batted her eyelashes at Noah, the dorky-but-cute cashier, who, if I was not mistaken, enjoyed a scandalous fling with Essie at vacation Bible school a few summers ago.

“I.D. please,” Noah murmured, avoiding eye contact by brushing his untidy bangs away from his forehead. The flush in his cheeks gave his disinterested act away, but Essie was too preoccupied to notice. She rummaged through her bag and retrieved her I.D. like she found a winning lottery ticket.
Esther Ruth Sprite
was boldly printed across the front of her license. Sometimes, I forgot Essie belonged to
them
, too.

We both belonged to
them.
Brushy Fork, Kentucky, housed the notorious Blood of Christ Baptist Church, which wasn’t really even a church in the traditional sense—some folks might call it a cult. Essie and I referred to the congregation as W.H.O.R.E.: “We Hate Outsiders, (Your) Religion, and Everyone.” The entire world hates W.H.O.R.E., and W.H.O.R.E. relishes in the entire world’s hatred.

“You’ll bust outta ‘ere soon, Katie.” Essie briefly took her eyes off the road to shoot me a worried glance as we sped out of the parking lot. The lies we told ourselves to make moments pass by less painfully were alluring, but I knew the truth. The women of Blood of Christ Baptist Church were just that; they belonged to the church. As soon as girls graduated from high school, they got married off, as though they were cattle at an auction. W.H.O.R.E. implemented a form of betrothal arranged from the first sign of puberty. Women tended to the home, served their husband, raised children, and followed every ridiculous rule cast upon them without question.

The women of W.H.O.R.E. weren’t suppose know what desire felt like, but I never claimed to be a woman of W.H.O.R.E. I desired, more than anything, to attend college, but with the Brushy Fork High curriculum of rewriting Old Testament chapters and practicing pleasant facial expressions, I had no chance at admission.

With a defeated sigh, I peered out the window and lost myself in the sight of evening closing in on the rolling countryside and Kentucky bluegrass: an illuminated blood orange landscape colliding with the dark night sky. “I have no chance of living beyond these invisible walls,” I motioned to nowhere in particular. “No money, no car, no job experience, no real education, no family. I wouldn’t even make it to Lexington.”

“And no matter where ya end up, you’ll never be far enough. I sure know that from experience,” Essie let out a humorless laugh as her fingers gripped the steering wheel harder, creating a low groan from the friction. She managed a reassuring smile before reverting to her original strained expression. Essie was an expert on the topic of running away from Brushy Fork. She could probably write an entire thesis on what not to do.

“I just wanna start over. I wanna leave this town and never look back,” I whispered and kept my gaze on the dark horizon, realizing the impossibility of my statement as we surrendered to silence for the rest of the drive.

Finally reaching the edge of the Daniel Boone National Forest, Essie and I unloaded our tattered sleeping bags, boxed wine, and mammoth Mexican feast from the trunk of her rusty red Honda Civic. The two of us trekked down the well-worn path leading to the cherished
secret spot
. With the Kentucky summer humidity hitting me instantly, I peered down. I should have rethought my outfit: my long and unremarkable, black graduation dress and clunky nun heels were not exactly ideal hiking garb. Of course, the W.H.O.R.E. congregation didn’t advocate dressing fashionably, and flattering clothing wasn’t a priority amongst the clan. As an outsider and certainly not related to anyone within the church, the typical, boyish figure common amongst the majority of W.H.O.R.E. ladies was lost on me. Because of my curvy figure, the church forced me to wear handpicked clothing, courtesy of W.H.O.R.E.’s hand-me-downs, since hitting puberty. Anything with a strangling neckline was given the seal of approval. Most days, I’d prefer a burlap sack, especially during the sweltering summers, when temperatures climbed into the eighties and nineties. Instead, W.H.O.R.E. insisted I wear ankle length-skirts and long sleeve button-ups.
Leave no button unbuttoned
was the fashion mantra of Brushy Fork.

On this particular night, my fists clenched and my jaw was tight with envy when I surveyed Essie’s wardrobe: her lacey, white cotton dress brushed the tops of her sparkly gold flats. Her unruly blonde curls restrained by a golden ribbon, in combination with her slight frame, made Essie seem much younger than twenty-one. Essie appeared almost exactly the same as when I unfortunately stumbled into Brushy Fork six years ago. She lacked feminine curvature, resulting in a perpetually youthful aura about her.  

Surrounded by thick woods and the twinkling night sky above, I contemplated the ominous squirrely path to our destination. Perhaps I should’ve been weary of wandering around in darkness, but instead, I focused on the soft thud of my heart pulsating in my ear and hastened my stride. My body knowingly followed the path ahead, one that I helped etch into the wilderness on many a summer night.

The little slice of wilderness served as our escape, away from W.H.O.R.E.—away from everything. Essie and I always snuck away with her younger brother to meet out in the secluded, dark woods. During the day, Brushy Fork provided its own horrible memories I never wished to relive, but the woods functioned as a refuge. A couple of yards ahead, into the clearing, was where I took a puff of my first cigarette. Well, my first and last cigarette. Actors in films showcased smoking as elegant and effortless, like inhaling a long drag was the most relaxing and fashionable action ever committed. My short-lived life as a smoker proved anything but enjoyable—I attempted to inhale fumes and then suffered a long, drawn-out coughing fit, followed by smelling like a sixty-year-old ashtray for the rest of the evening and the feeling of soot settling in my chest. Occasionally, I caught glimpses of casual smokers outside, behind restaurants and shops—I imagined probably on their break. I envied their ability to take a time-out from life, just to gather a few indulgent moments of nicotine bliss.

I briefly slowed my pace, transfixed on the sight beyond the old, massive pine to my left. Something flickered in my peripheral; something darker than the night. I halted to let Essie catch up. “Did you see that?” I half-whispered to her, pointing into the woods, where I spotted the shadow.

“See wha—Oh, hey Gideon.”

“Ladies,” a tall, slender man with a boyish semblance greeted us without a trace of enthusiasm. “I see y’all made it.” Gideon’s peach fuzz of a beard was thick along his jaw. Admittedly, I, beneath my seething hatred, found him conventionally attractive, but on this night, Gideon’s eyes gave away more than he would ever admit. Sleep had obviously not been a priority as of late. His piercing stare settled on my face, and I squirmed under his acknowledgement and casted a sideways glance at Essie, wishing I could communicate without words or obvious facial expressions. Who invited
him
?

Essie shrugged back at me, and without missing a beat, flashed a toothy grin toward Gideon, “Y’all bring any beer?”

Gideon nodded, and resentment stirred inside me as Essie and I followed him into the clearing. Absentmindedly, I traced the fresh burns on my wrists with my fingertips, recalling the unfortunate happenings of the past few weeks. I had been avoiding Gideon, Essie’s younger brother, for almost a month. Being the pastor’s son, Gideon’s father held him as a moral exemplar of the W.H.O.R.E. congregation. Essie never endured the same amount of responsibility, because she was, well, a girl. Women weren’t seen as equals by W.H.O.R.E., only as objects to their husbands and servants to their families.

When I arrived in Brushy Fork, Gideon and Essie were the only kids who would speak to me, even though I was instructed to keep our friendship a secret. Typical Brushy Fork behavior involved parents forbidding their offspring from socializing with outsiders. Parents feared that their kids might discover a whole other world outside of the same three hymns, sermons about self-loathing, and random fasting at any given opportunity.

I relayed the details of my life before Brushy Fork, being raised by my grandparents in Georgia. The siblings were thirsty for a sip of life beyond the dank tap water of rural, Bible-belt Kentucky. We devised plans of escape, but Gideon continually chickened out at the last minute. Though, I never blamed him. I understood the religious mindset in which he was raised. I lived it. Around here, disobedience automatically meant banishment of our souls to the fiery pits of Hell.

Two weeks ago, I considered Gideon my friend. Until he told me he loved me — that’s when everything changed.

Charms class served as the most dreaded fifty minutes of my school day, and unfortunately, was a required course for senior girls. Our previous lectures surrounded the key idea that women should be attractive to the opposite sex, whilst remaining virginal and conservative.

January’s classes centered on appearance. Mrs. Miller, our squirrely teacher, recited the best techniques on personal grooming; she peered over her huge, rimmed spectacles while she read aloud from the handwritten textbook. She instructed us to pair up and run hairbrushes through each other’s hair. Before the bell rang, a constructive critique our partner’s appearance was to be presented in front of the class. No one ever wanted to be my partner. I convinced myself that my classmates’ parents encouraged their children to actively avoid me. My assigned partner was Candace Cross, whom I had never spoken to prior to this encounter. Candace was mousy and slight but seemed kind enough. She wasn’t initially rude to me like most were.

“I sit in front of the mirror every night, tryin’ to untangle this mess,” Candace motioned to her wavy, chocolate and honey streaked hair, which, from where I sat, appeared perfectly tame, with the exception of several fly-away strands and baby hairs. She ran a couple of fingers through her mane self-consciously, but continued to unload her nightly maintenance routine: “Momma told me that my nose is too wide. She said, ‘No man’s gonna wanna have babies with a smashed bell pepper nose.’ So, you know, I sleep with a clothespin ‘cross the bridge of my snout now. Kinda hard to breathe at first—but totally worth it. I definitely see a difference.” Candace dove into her purse, searching its contents until she found a compact, and popped it open to study her reflection.

“Must be working... I can tell that it’s narrower,” I lied, and she beamed back at me, snapping the compact shut and continuing on with her routine.

“The other day, I was readin’ the Oprah magazine while I was in line at Piggly Wiggly,” Candace whispered across her desk. “Ya wanna know how Oprah lost all that weight? She don’t eat after four! Not water. Not pork rinds. Not nothin’. So, basically, ya eat whatever ya want from the time the rooster crows until ya get home from school. I been tryin’ it out. I feel hungry, so I think it’s definitely working!”

“Why can’t you drink water after four?” I asked, a little dumbfounded. Water had no calories, so why would anyone restrict their water intake? I was no stranger to odd diets. Joy, whom I referred to as my “host mother” with aggressive affection, had put me on more diets than I could count: grapefruit for every meal, lemon and cayenne pepper water for breakfast, lunch and dinner, a caloric restriction of a thousand calories a day, and recently, scolding me whenever I cast a glance at anything other than apple or piece of broccoli. I, without a doubt, had more shapeliness than the other girls with whom I went to school, and I was constantly reminded of our differences with all of Joy’s critiques. Even though I’d grown accustom to Joy’s body shaming, I couldn’t help the embarrassment that followed after she and her husband, Bob, shoveled pizza into their gobs for dinner, while I stabbed green leaves with my fork.

“Water weight, obviously. Ain’t ya heard that ya carry around like ten pounds of water weight at any given time? The less ya drink, the less water weight ya have,” Candace replied, shaking her head at my ignorance. “Go ‘head, tell me what your routine is. How do ya get your hair so shiny? Do ya dye it?” She leaned in close, keeping her voice low. “I thought that all redheads had freckles and invisible eyebrows, so I’m guessin’ your color ain’t natural.”

“Well, I, uh...” Candace was right. I had won the genetic lottery of redheadedness.

“I read that rinsing your hair with cranberry juice makes it shinier,” I spat out. Not a total lie. I once read about the multiple uses of cranberry juice in the magazine section of Barnes & Noble. Apparently, cranberry juice was not only beneficial to the urinary tract, but also served as an excellent conditioner for both the hair and skin. You could also ward off your enemies with cranberry juice, by smacking them upside the head with a hefty gallon of the tart libation. The article instructed cranberry juice users to bring a carton of their favorite brand into the shower and douse themselves liberally, which caused me to giggle upon reading as I pictured the amusing spectacle. Candace jotted down “CRANBURRY HAIR” in her notebook with such haste that I thought the friction between pen and paper might create a pillar of smoke. She tapped her pen, awaiting the rest of my routine.