Mary Abbott was standing alone by the door, nervously tapping her scuffed black shoe on the floor, as if she couldn’t wait to make her escape. I felt sorry for her. It would cost me something, I knew, to cross the room and stand with her. Another test, to see what kind of girl I was. It didn’t matter if I crossed the room or not; I had already failed, at home, in a way that could not be forgiven.
I had been feeling hopeful, imagining my family coming to retrieve me, and now I felt miserable, the sight of Mary Abbott, my indecision over whether or not to help her—my daydreams of Father interrupting this dance were just that. A fantasy, concocted in my wrong brain.
I looked at the ground, at my nice shoes, worn only once before, at Easter dinner, when I had sat between Georgie and Sam. When I looked up again I had decided I would cross the room, skirt the dancers, and be a friend to Mary Abbott.
But I didn’t have to. Mr. Holmes was standing next to her, gesturing at the dance floor, smiling. Mary Abbott spoke, and Mr. Holmes listened attentively. He was so handsome, with his shock of dark hair, his thick eyebrows. His nose was crooked, veered a tiny bit to the left, and I wondered if he’d broken it playing sports.
Mary Abbott smiled now, and Mr. Holmes pointed to a set of chairs, and offered his arm to Mary Abbott; she took it, and followed him, and I watched Mr. Holmes wait for Mary Abbott to sit, then take a seat himself, and I realized he was kind, that he had also noted Mary Abbott’s unease, but that he had, unlike me, responded to it. Offered solace. I wondered what he would have done in Father’s position, if Mr. Holmes’s niceness would have shredded beneath the weight of a bad daughter.
His kindness made me homesick. It reminded me that I had once only known kindness. I watched Mr. Holmes murmur something to Mary Abbott, and I wondered what they were talking about—I knew firsthand that Mary Abbott was not good at small talk—and
I
wanted to be Mary Abbott, I wanted to be murmured to by Mr. Holmes.
“Don’t you think, Thea?”
I turned to Henny reluctantly. “Hmm?”
“Don’t you think the dress is too much for Sissy? She always does that, parades around in things too fine. She looks foolish.” Her voice had hardened.
We all look foolish, I thought. Less like girls at a camp dance and more like ladies at a ball. I think she looks beautiful, I began to say, but the words caught in my throat. Henny looked at me closely, like she was deciding about me, too. I had thought everyone liked Sissy; no, loved her. What could Henny possibly have against her? Just then Sissy twirled by, still with the redhead, as if summoned, and caught my eye and smiled enormously, as if she were the happiest girl in the world.
“Like a fool,” Henny muttered, and then the handsome black-haired boy appeared in front of me, and I remembered where I was. She was jealous of Sissy. And who wouldn’t be?
“Thea?” he asked, and offered his arm. He led me onto the dance floor, and my resolve not to dance vanished. He was very direct in how he held me and guided my body; I felt lucky that he had chosen me, but also surprised—he had broken the unspoken chair rule—was I the kind of girl that boys liked?
“I’m David.”
“And you already know who I am.”
He smiled. His shoulders were so broad they strained his jacket. His thick black hair was pomaded back from his broad forehead in the modern style, and his teeth were very big and white and straight. He was almost too handsome.
“How old are you?” I asked. It took him a second to answer, and blood rushed to my face—I had made a mistake, already. But then he spoke.
“Seventeen.”
“And an athlete?”
“Football. Track. I’m stronger than I am fast. Feel,” he said jokingly, and I touched the muscle that he offered.
The music turned slow, and David gathered me closer. He smelled faintly of cologne. In another world, this would have made me so happy, that David had chosen me out of all the other girls. I could feel the admiring, jealous glances of my campmates. And why had he chosen me? Because I’d looked like I hadn’t wanted to be chosen. The customs with boys were all wrong. And besides, I didn’t want David. I was done with that. I didn’t want to be gathered, ever again.
A tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw Mrs. Holmes, then the couples beyond her, who had stopped dancing and watched us.
“Too close, Thea.” But surely we were no closer than any of the other girls? Or maybe we had been closer than I thought, and I hadn’t noticed? That I hadn’t known how close was too close horrified me.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. I didn’t know what to do, what the etiquette was in these situations. Should I leave, or was I meant to stay and bear everyone’s disapproval? The music still played, but very few people were dancing. David turned his face to the floor and suddenly I thought of my father, how he had not defended me. He had wanted me to stay, I know he had. But he had let Mother win that battle. Yet the world had not ended, even though it had seemed like it might.
Mrs. Holmes watched me. Not very much had changed since the days of white satin shoes that were not allowed to meet the earth. She did not tell me to go, or stay, so I nodded to David and left on my own, made my way through all the warm, glittering bodies. When I reached the edge of the floor, I saw that not everyone was watching. Couples had resumed dancing. Henny chatted with a group of girls. Perhaps about me, but perhaps not. I can save this, I thought. I have to; there was nowhere else to go, at least not right now.
My character was not what it should have been. Nobody had told me that, but I knew. And perhaps I had danced inappropriately; perhaps I was no longer the best judge of what was and was not appropriate.
What is wrong with you?
Mother had asked. And what was? I felt my forehead, flushed and hot. And then I turned to face whoever was watching me—I could feel eyes upon me like a touch.
Mr. Holmes. He offered a small smile, and I knew that he was trying to be kind, as he had been earlier to Mary Abbott. And at first I felt a sick feeling rise in my throat, because I did not want to be pitied; but then this feeling was replaced by a hopeful feeling: Mr. Holmes did not think I was bad. He watched me for a second more before politely averting his eyes. He did not see me the way all the other adults now saw me: my parents, Mrs. Holmes. But he was not a boy, either, like David. He was not drawn to me simply because I was pretty enough, available: a girl at a dance. He liked me, I realized. And I liked him.
I was still more child than adult. I was not a monster but a confused, wronged girl. It would be years, though, before I would understand. In those two weeks at home, Mother had been angry, Father mainly mute, as if there was nothing to be said. They blamed me. And so I came to Yonahlossee a person worthy of blame.
M
ost of the time, my home was very quiet, and my life was constant in the way of happy childhoods. Mother took Sam and me to Orlando once in the winter and once in the summer, where we shopped and dined in a restaurant, perhaps saw a picture, spent the night in a hotel. These excursions were exciting, though I hated to miss a ride, but they, too, were part of our custom.
Sam and I accompanied Mother to town once a month and trailed her from store to store while she ran errands. People knew us; she was the doctor’s wife, and we were the doctor’s children. Mother was charming in the stores as she told little stories, said funny things while she fingered plain fabrics we would never buy—we bought our clothes in Orlando or from catalogues—and placed orders.
Mother thought gossip was vile. So she did not ever say that the other people in Emathla were beneath us. But we knew anyway. Now I understand that my mother’s status was complicated; my father was a country doctor, there was no other woman who occupied the same position as she did. In Gainesville, where there were other physicians, and lawyers, like my uncle, perhaps Mother would have had friends. But what Mother wanted, truly wanted, was, and always would be, a mystery to me. It does not seem possible that a woman so charming and beautiful could find her life’s happiness with three people: me, Sam, my father. And once every few weeks, my aunt and uncle and cousin.
But back then I did not ponder my mother’s happiness. I was a child. I just wanted the drive to end, so I could get to Sasi.
I rode him once a day, sometimes twice. I never skipped a day. If I was sick, I rode; if it rained, I rode. I spent hours and hours in the barn each day, but only sat in the saddle for a small fraction of that time. The rest of the time was devoted to chores, but they weren’t chores to me, couldn’t possibly be placed in the same category as weeding Mother’s garden with Sam, or helping Idella polish our infinite collection of silver. I cleaned my bridle daily, my saddle weekly; curried Sasi’s coat until it shone. Carved the packed dirt from his hooves and squirted iodine onto his tender frog to prevent thrush. I picked manure and spread fresh hay in his stall, changed his water and fed him a mix of sweet feed and oats at eight in the morning, a lighter meal of grain at four in the afternoon. I did these things every day; I took pleasure in them. No one had to remind me.
Mother rode, in her youth. Sidesaddle, which she said she didn’t mind, which I’d tried once or twice and hated. Sasi would not take a single step without my asking first. And sidesaddle, one leg hooked over the saddle, rendered me powerless.
Sam could often be found with me at the barn, especially in the afternoons. He didn’t ride, but he liked Sasi, and he would arrange courses for us that included elaborate combinations, exact distances between jumps. The trick was turning Sam on to a task; after that he was fully engrossed, a dog with a bone. He would time us and record in his notebook our numbers and how many jumps we had knocked over. And beside that he would write a number, one through ten—his own ranking of how well we had done.
And sometimes, though we weren’t supposed to do this, because Mother didn’t think it was safe, I would bring Sasi out back and take his saddle off, and convince Sam to sit behind me. I loved riding bareback, though it was painful, less the padding of the saddle: but that was the beauty of it, too—nothing between me and Sasi, like the Indians rode. I could feel every twitch of his muscles, every slight hesitation or surge of interest. Sasi did not think—he simply acted. And in order to ride well, you had to stop yourself from thinking, had to act on instinct alone, and this was something I’d always done well.
Sam would have to cling to me, fiercely, in order to stay on; Sasi, excited by the new weight upon his back, would sidestep and arch his neck, trot elaborately. He knew what was coming, how I would let him go, give him his head and let him gallop until he tired; could he hear Sam as he whispered, frightened, into my hair, begging me to stop? Could he feel me shake my head and turn a deaf ear to my brother? And finally, could he feel Sam relax against me, and, as we swerved to the right to avoid a branch, feel him gasp with fear but also with pleasure?
Fear makes a horse go faster, so I liked having Sam’s fear up there with me, goading Sasi on. And this was good for Sam, I thought, I knew—he needed to let himself be scared sometimes, in order to experience the pleasure that risk brought.
Father was usually gone until nighttime, and Mother gardened and tended to the house for most of the day.
Sam and I eagerly anticipated our cousin’s family’s visits, when Mother and Father would act lighthearted, when Sam and I would spend countless hours with Georgie. But I liked it when they left, too, at the end of the weekend; I liked having my family back to myself again, I liked spending uninterrupted hours in the barn, where I went less when Georgie was here, because he was afraid of horses.
Father saw his patients every day, but even so, he never seemed to particularly care about people. Besides, of course, keeping them in good health, which he cared about deeply. The Atwells on their thousand acres were
almost an island
, my joke with Sam. But it wasn’t entirely a joke, for an ocean might as well have surrounded us.
—
T
hea?”
I opened my eyes, slowly. Georgie stood over me. He had arrived yesterday with his parents.
“Wake up, Thea,” he whispered.
Sam was snoring softly. My stomach ached, fiercely, and I wanted to sleep. We slept in my room, Georgie in my other twin bed and Sam on the floor, though I noticed how Mother had hesitated over the sleeping arrangements this time.
“Thea,” he said again, “it’s almost morning.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “now go back to sleep.”
“If I’m not tired?”
I closed my eyes against Georgie’s voice.
“Come downstairs with me,” he whispered, tugging my hand. “Please.”
“I’m tired.”
“Come anyway.” His features were softer in the dim light. He looked at me hopefully, and put his hand on my cheek. It felt strangely tender, but good; I could feel my heart quicken. I threw off the covers. I wanted to wake Sam, but Georgie shook his head. Sam and I did what Georgie wanted, mainly. He was older and stronger than either of us.
“Follow me,” he said, and we made our way through the sleeping house that felt dead it was so quiet.
“I should have put on more clothes,” I said, once we were outside in the chilly air. It was fall, almost Thanksgiving, though the leaves didn’t change here, instead died suddenly and quickly. Fall was a mixed blessing: I could ride during the day, because of the cool temperature, but I couldn’t stay out as late because dark came earlier.
“Aren’t you tired?”
Georgie shook his head. “I can’t sleep. Here,” he said, and patted the damp ground. “Sit.”
I lingered. “I might go say hi to Sasi.”
“Don’t. He’s probably sleeping.”
I laughed and sat down next to him, folded my nightgown over my legs. “Horses only sleep an hour a day.”
“Maybe I’m like a horse.”
“They sleep standing up,” I continued. “So that they’re ready to run, at a moment’s notice.”
“Do horses say things like that? A moment’s notice?”
“To me. Sasi says all sorts of things to me.”
Georgie nodded, but he didn’t smile. I could tell his mind was elsewhere. He seemed pensive, which I took note of because it was so unusual. Usually he moved through the world so easily, was himself such easy company, always in good humor.
“Do you think you’ll live here forever?” he asked. We were sitting at the back of my house, the view that was most familiar to me; the porch where we would all sit later, while the adults sipped their drinks. The glass French doors that opened to the less formal sitting room, where we sat in the evenings when we didn’t have company.
“I hadn’t thought about it.” I lay back in the grass, still sleepy. “I suppose I’ll live wherever my husband does.” The words were strange in my mouth. But it was true; I knew I would live where he did.
“What if he takes you to the moon?” He winked at me, and I thought, there he is.
I laughed. “Then I’ll bring you and Sam along so you can see it, too. But first I’m going to sleep awhile.”
“Then so am I.” He lay down next to me. “Sweet dreams,” he said, which was what Aunt Carrie always said. He took my hand, and though I expected him to let it go after a second, like he usually did, he did not.
“Thank you,” I murmured. I closed my eyes. I was nearly asleep when I felt Georgie’s fingers on my arm, so lightly, running down the length of it. I looked up and he was watching me, smiling; I closed my eyes and tried not to fall asleep, tried to remain in this trancelike state between sleep and waking. The pleasure of my cousin’s touch was almost too much, but I did not want it to stop.
Then the sun was bright overhead, and my thighs were sticky with sweat. Even when the air was crisp, like now, the sun was always overhead, following.
“Georgie,” I said, and shook his inert shoulder. “We fell asleep.”
My uncle and father sat on the porch, a sheaf of papers in front of them; usually my father was making his rounds right now, visiting his patients. We saw them before they saw us; my slender father, his delicate doctor’s hands, and my rotund uncle. They’d both had sons who resembled them.
Uncle George looked at me blankly as I approached; I kissed him on the cheek anyway.
“What are you doing out here?” my father asked. He took out his father’s pocket watch, which he always kept with him. Uncle George teased him about it, called him nostalgic. And it was true that almost every other man I had seen—not that I had seen many—wore wristwatches. “It’s too early.”
“We fell asleep,” Georgie said.
I was going to elaborate but I could see my father didn’t care. When I’d asked my father what Uncle George got from their father that was like the pocket watch, he’d only smiled.
“Why don’t you go on inside,” he said. “It’s still early. Don’t wake Mother.”
My father, forty years old this June, had started to gray, his dark brown hair turned peppery. Uncle George was balding. They’d both aged, Father more handsomely.
When we were upstairs, I found the blood on my underclothes. I sat down on the edge of the tub and felt; my fingers were covered with a sheen of red-brown, but this blood was different; it clumped, formed clots.
I heard the floor creak outside the door. Sam, getting up. There was only a door between my cousin, who had fallen back into bed, my brother, and me. And there was no lock, either, and I wanted one so badly right now. Sam would knock first, but still—the thin fact of a door was inadequate. I pressed an old towel to my underclothes. I would burn it, later. I would tell Mother, later. My family was progressive in certain ways, and I’d known to expect this. But still, the thought of either Georgie or Sam finding out made me want to die.
—
L
ater that day, Georgie, Sam, and I went hunting for a snake for one of Sam’s terrariums. I’d fitted one of Mother’s belts to myself. Ordinarily I’d be riding, but I’d announced at breakfast that Sasi was lame. Mother had looked at me curiously—Sasi was a sound pony—and I had turned my head. The thought of pulling on breeches over the contraption between my legs seemed impossible. Aunt Carrie was back at the house, with Mother, and they’d told us to be careful, which was advice they gave regardless of activity, and so meant nothing.
“What were you doing last night?” Sam asked, and I knew immediately he was a little hurt we hadn’t asked him.
“What do you mean?” Georgie’s tone was playful.
“I woke up and you weren’t there. Neither was Thea.”
“Georgie couldn’t sleep,” I said, “and so he woke me up! I wouldn’t let him wake you up.”
“What are we looking for, exactly?” Georgie asked, oblivious to Sam’s hurt feelings. But Sam seemed to accept my explanation.
“Snakes,” Sam said.
“I bet I’ll find one,” Georgie said, and grinned. “I know where they hide.”
“Remember,” Sam said, “don’t kill it.”
Georgie crossed his heart. “Promise!”
Sam laughed. Georgie had accidentally squashed one of Sam’s tree frogs last month, and he was always picking up lizards the wrong way and severing their bodies from their tails. Sam was gentler: he knew how to entice a lizard into his cupped hands, how to pinch a snake by its neck and wind its body around his wrist.
“Poor snake,” I murmured. “Do you think it really wants to come live with you?”
Sam grinned. “Better than getting eaten by a bigger snake, or a bird.”
Georgie stopped and unscrewed the cap of his canteen, then tilted it to his mouth. We each had one strapped across our backs. I took a sip from mine, too; I liked how the water tasted cool, slightly metallic. Aunt Carrie let Georgie grow his hair longer than my mother let Sam grow his, so my cousin had a wild look about him now, his brown hair unkempt, bleached in streaks by the sun. My brother knelt and examined a palmful of dirt. Georgie was changing, next to Sam; there was hair when he lifted his arms, and his sweat smelled ripe and musky. From this vantage point, Georgie looked almost like a man, muscle-bound and thick. Sam was still impossibly skinny, in the way of boys, his spine stretched taut against his skin.
“If we’re lucky,” Sam said, standing, “we’ll see a coral snake. They’re so beautiful. I see some snake tracks, but I don’t know which kind. But we’re near water.”
Coral snakes lived near water; I knew that from Sam. Or maybe I had always known it.
“Hopefully we won’t be lucky,” Georgie said, “since they’re deadly.”
Sam and I gazed at him. Coral snakes
were
deadly, but they were shy. And they had to chew on you for a long time before any venom was transmitted. We knew what to be afraid of in the Florida wilderness, but we were taught to be unafraid of the natural world. The smaller the animal, the more afraid it was of us. And when I was on my pony, my father told me, I was a terrifying creature—snakes could feel our footsteps from miles away, and bears and panthers could smell us before they saw us.