Miss Charlotte's Jump Rope

A jump rope is put to a horrible use

 

 

 

Miss Charlotte’s Jump Rope

 

by

 

Jon McDonald

 

 

            Miss Charlotte was one hundred and three years old and in no mood to be fussed over �" ever.  Lino was flustering around her once again, like a startled canary in a cage, prodding Charlotte to take her nasty vitamins.  And Charlotte had no mind to oblige. 

            That Charlotte was considered difficult by the staff would be an understatement.  She would demand to go faster in her wheel chair, thrusting her cane forward like a saber as she led the cavalry charge into the dining hall or rec room. 

She reigned at the head of the best dining table by the window and commented, in no uncertain terms, on the manners (or lack thereof) of each timid soul unfortunate enough to have no place else to sit for luncheon except her table.  Their lunch was always brief, avoiding eye contact, and inviting certain indigestion as they scarffed down their chicken tetrazzini and mystery berry cobbler, scurrying away as quickly as possible after.

Miss Charlotte came from a very distinguished south Alabama family whose wealth came from timber.  They resided in a small town supported mostly by timber harvesting and her family’s sawmill.  They lived in a classic antebellum country house; wide two-story front porch supported by sturdy Doric columns.  Some of the domestic help lived in what had once been slave quarters, far enough away from the main house so the stench of the unwashed would not impinge upon the delicate nostrils of the fine ladies.

Charlotte was an only child and especially beloved of her Father, Graydon Shelby Jackson, who delighted in giving piggy back rides and showering frilly frocks on his rather spoiled baby girl.  She was particularly delighted with the bracelet of glass beads Grandmother Jackson had given her, and she would dance around the azaleas holding her wrist up to the sun to watch the sparkles shoot off in jeweled rainbows.  To her they were crown jewels.  And she never quite recovered from being that princess.

Lino struggled.  From a family of six boys and two girls, and the next to the youngest he was the runt of the family.  He was described as delicate �" thin, with fine features.  He was from an Hispanic family and his five brothers were either crack athletes or tending towards the rough and tumble.  His sisters thought he was a wimp.  His father barely spoke to him.  His mother was so frazzled most of the time, with such a rambunctious family, that she rarely had time to give him much thought either.  With little education and deep inner torments he found a job as a personal attendant at Winston Manor, “a secluded but active community of gentle men and women in their golden years” (so said the brochure) in Reseda, California.  While not an institution from a Dickens novel, it could hardly be described as a premiere pleasure palace either.

Charlotte could not abide most of the personal attendants.  She became testy when they tried to dress her, and she absolutely forbid to let anyone tend to her hair except Lino.  For some reason he seemed to sooth her.  His gentle hands fluttered around her head like a cloud of butterflies, and before she knew it she was once again presentable.  She would turn to him with her sweet princess smile and pat his hand like a dried spotted leaf falling from an autumn branch. 

He would wheel her to the window where she could look out over the back of the property to the line of trees by the Ventura freeway.  There was always a little sun there in the mornings, even in winter.  She particularly liked the way the sun dazzled her glass bead bracelet as she drifted in and out of remembrance of her lost Alabama home.  She would doze off till Lino revived her by reading from Jane Austen.  Emma was her favorite and she never seemed to tire of hearing it over and over.

The other guests resented that Charlotte could command so much of Lino’s time, when there were so few personal attendants to go around, but they would be firmly reminded that she was a hundred and three, and by far the senior resident.  Allowances, after all, must be made.

Lino always dressed in white scrubs, looking like the center pole in a collapsed circus tent as the scrubs always seemed far too loose on him.  Perhaps they did not have his size or maybe even the smallest size was too roomy for his slight frame.   He had his long hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, accentuating, even more, his delicate features.

He took great pride in his meticulous attentions to Miss Charlotte.   He felt he could be himself with her, unlike with the other staff and guests who tended to instinctively shun him, or even worse, taunt him.  He would move like a ghost through the hallways as he tried to blend into the surroundings and disappear during his duties of the day.  But in Charlotte’s room he felt safe.  Her world of southern gentility soothed him and let him feel fleeting moments of peace. 

She had resided at Winston Manor almost twenty years now, and her room was full of southern charm.  She had the oak dresser that had graced her bedroom as a child; and over it the faded photo portrait of her parents, stiff and glassy eyed.  Her mother had died shortly after the photo was taken during the Spanish influenza epidemic of 1918, leaving Charlotte grief stricken at eleven.  The metal institutional bed was covered with a family chenille bedspread, worn but still quite respectable.

This morning it was finally warm enough for Lino to have the window open slightly, which let the early spring breeze billow the languid, sheer white curtains. 

But there was something different about Lino today, Charlotte noted.  Not that she paid that much attention to his appearance generally.  However, today she did notice something.  What was it?  Oh yes, Lino’s hair was not constrained.  No ponytail today.  It fell loosely around his face as he leaned forward, almost obscuring it. 

“Lino,” she commented, as he dusted the figurines on her dresser, positioning the silver hair brush and comb in their proper place, “your hair.”

“Yes.  Do you like it?”  He smiled shyly.

“Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen it like that.  What prompted the change today?”

Lino hesitated, briefly suspending his dusting.  He thought for a moment then came over and sat next to her at the window.  She imagined for a moment he might start reading to her again.

“Not sure if I should tell you.” He confided. 

“As you like.” She smiled.  “I’m not trying to pry.”

He nodded then said. “Okay.  I’ll tell you, but no one else here in this s**t hole must know yet.” He paused and bowed his head.  “I’m transitioning.  My hair this way is the first step.”

“I don’t understand.” Charlotte was flustered by his graphic reference to the Manor.  “First step to what?”        

“To becoming a woman.”

Charlotte became profoundly silent. 

“You may call me Lina from now on, if you please.”

Still Charlotte did not respond.  Lina was disappointed.  “I thought you might understand.  Sorry if I offended you.” She said with a modicum of bitterness.

“No.  No.  I’m not offended.” Charlotte responded ever so softly.

Lina bent down and took Charlotte’s hand.  Charlotte looked up at Lina and seemed to see her for the first time. “Oh yes, I remember.”   

 

*      *      *

 

Eight year old Charlotte knew there was going to be a problem with the jump rope her father had given her for her birthday.  Here she was dressed for Sunday church and her crisp light-blue dress with the starched and layered petticoat was just too stiff and cumbersome to jump rope in.  Why had Martha dressed her so-o-o early?  It was still two hours before they would get in the buggy for the dreary ride to the Presbyterian Church, and she was just itching to try out that fun looking new present.  Why did her birthday have to fall on a Sunday anyway, for heavens sake?  And even though it was only nine o’clock in the morning she was already feeling the swamp heat and knew that by noon, when they returned, it would be a veritable bath tub of swelter.

Well then, there was nothing to do but try and find Otis and see if he had any brilliant ideas as to how to pass this miserable time till they left for church.  She scampered back in the house with the new, still too stiff, jump rope, crinkled from being folded up in the dry goods store, and dumped it on the kitchen table where Martha was fussing with the noon dinner. Charlotte could spy her birthday cake, hiding on the top shelf of the pantry.

“Not on this here table you don’t.” Martha scolded.  Charlotte deposited the jump rope on the big sideboard with the set of white ironstone pitchers just waiting for the next batch of ice cold lemonade.

“You seen Otis, Miss Martha?” Charlotte asked politely hoping for an answer rather than a grunt and a “Shoo.”

“He be off in dem woods, I do believe.  Skee-daddled off outta here bout half hour go.”

Charlotte danced to the swing door and looked out through the screen into the deep breathing blackness of the pine woods that came up almost to the back of the house.  She never liked going in there.  She much preferred the sunny garden with the swing set her father had constructed for her on her last birthday, backed by mountains of red and pink rhododendron.

Otis was a few years older than she was - bragging that he was a full fledged teenager at thirteen.  Martha was his mama and kept him close by doing kitchen chores stead of sending him out with the loggers.  Mind you, that certainly suited him for sure.  He was slight - small for his age, but handsome as a new pair of shoes.  His hands were delicate and adept at fixin’ things round the house.  He would much rather play house with Charlotte in her playroom, or help with the taters, than go out with the workers to the forest or shoot cans off the fallen oak by the creek.  But his favorite thing, though, was to weave strings of ribbons and little flowers in Charlotte’s hair on a day when it was raining and they would sit up in the playroom by a toasty fire on a winter afternoon after lunch.

Otis was very light skinned compared to his mama.  He used to say his daddy was probably some traveling Carney, catching his momma by surprise behind the Ferris wheel, but Martha kept very private bout Otis’ paternity.  And it was very clear nothing more was to be said on that subject.

Charlotte gazed into the depths of the dark woods calculating how much time before church and, swallowing her distaste for the forest, leapt off the back porch and scampered into the woods even before the screen door snapped shut.  Martha looked up from kneading her bread with a “humf” and gave it a quarter turn before punching at it again.

Charlotte raced through the edge of the woods where the light still filtered in near the back of the house, but she slowed and proceeded cautiously as the light dimmed further along.  She almost felt her way, weaving through the trees hand over hand till she saw a little clearing up ahead.  She heard noises and thought it must be Otis.  She slowed and proceeded forward quietly, thinking to jump out and give him a fright.  But as she got closer she could see two figures.  One was Otis but she was not sure who the other one was.  All she could see was that is was a large solid man.  Perhaps one of Papa’s sawmill workers.

Something tensed inside her and she froze.  She knew from some deep recess that she must not go forward.  She peered from behind the scaly bark of a dark tree �" hidden and silent.  Otis was bent over, his arms stretched out before him supporting himself against a sentinel pine.  His pants were down around his ankles.  The other man was grasping Otis’ shoulders and throwing his body up against Otis’ backside.  He was breathing heavy and squeaking strange muffled sounds.  Otis turned his head towards her.  His eyes were closed and a pained grin distorted his face.  Suddenly he opened his eyes and saw her.  He let out a deep sigh, and startled Charlotte, who turned and fled back towards the house.

Martha looked up as the screen door slammed.  She only saw a blue blur as Charlotte raced through the kitchen.  She heard Charlotte bound up the massive main staircase and into her Daddy’s library.

“Daddy, Daddy.”

“What is it Charlotte?  You’re not getting all fussed up before church now, are you?”

“Daddy, you have to come quick.  Some man’s hurting our Otis.  Out back in the woods.”

            “What now?  Otis in trouble?”

            “Please Daddy, come.”

            Graydon rose from his desk, followed Charlotte out of the library, down the staircase and back through the kitchen.  His eye caught Charlotte’s new jump rope on the sideboard.  He grabbed it up as he passed, thinking it might prove useful for giving a whipping if need be.

            “Be there trouble, Mista Jackson?” Martha gleaned, with a sharp pang of dread, from the look on Graydon’s face.

            “Otis.” He barked as he charged through the swing door and catapulted off the back stoop.  Martha sprang after, wiping her hands on her apron and grabbing a knife from the kitchen table.

            Garydon, Charlotte and Martha slashed through the dark and damp of the forest; bracken and briars snagging at their legs. 

            “Where?” Graydon called out to Charlotte.

            “The clearing.  The light.” She breathed heavily.

            Two figures could now be seen up ahead.  Graydon slowed his pace.  He gripped the jump rope. 

Martha called out, “Otis, baby!” 

            The two figures turned.  Otis looked towards his mama as he pulled up his pants.  The man turned away, pulling up his trousers, and starting to lope away to the other side of the clearing. 

            “That you, Bo?  What the…?”

            Bo turned towards Graydon, his face flushed.  Scrambling with his belt Bo backed up slowly towards the edge of the clearing.  Bo was Graydon’s overseer at the mill.  Graydon advanced towards him, slapping the jump rope against his leg.

            “Twern’t my fault, Mr. Jackson.  That…that…boy, he seduced me.  He be a witch boy for certain.  I was just passing through.  He come on to me.  Not my fault.  You can see that, can’t you?  Look at them eyes.  That mouth.  Trouble.  Anyways trouble.”

            Graydon stopped and turned towards Otis. 

Otis ran towards his mom.  “Mama.”  He fell in her arms and she held him tight, dropping the knife that fell with a rustle to the forest floor.

Grayden turned to Bo, then to Otis, then back to Bo.

“I’m not the first.  Just ask round.  This boy bad trouble.  He need be taught a good lesson.” Pointing to the rope in Graydon’s hand, “That rope there.  That a lesson witch boy like him understand.  Lesson to all temptation.  Give it me.”

Bo raced over to Graydon with surprising speed, snatched the rope from his hand, pushing Graydon to the ground, and quickly whipping together a noose.  He ran to Otis, snatched him from Martha and dragged him to a tree with a low hanging but sturdy branch.  He quickly swung the rope over the branch, fitted the noose over Otis’ head, as Otis struggled with a look of terror in his eyes. 

Charlotte cried out, “Daddy!” as she rushed to Graydon, who was rising to stand again.  She grabbed his hand and looked up at him, searching for his eyes.  He refused to look at her.  She started forward towards Bo and Otis.  Graydon reached out and grabbed her by her church dress.

Martha fell to the ground, searching for the dropped knife.  Bo gave a terrific yank on the rope lifting Otis up in a sudden whoosh.  Otis squirmed, legs flailing, his hands grasping at the rope around his neck, his eyes bulging, his face purple.  Bo tied his end of the rope around the trunk of another tree and gave it another sharp tug. 

Martha stood, and screaming, rushed at Bo, coming up quickly and driving the knife deeply into the soft fleshy mound of Bo’s neck, spurting a sudden gush of scarlet.  He collapsed spitting and gurgling.  Otis hung still as washing on a cloudless morning - ticking gently back and forth like the pendulum in the grandfather clock on the stairway landing.

           

*      *      *

 

            The sun fell through the window onto Charlotte’s hands.  She fingered the sparkling glass beads on her, now, well-worn bracelet.  She looked up at Lina who smiled sweetly at her, unaware of Charlotte’s tumultuous memories.  She raised her hand and brushed back the hair falling forward on Lina’s face.  She looked deeply into Lina’s eyes, rimmed ever so lightly with liner.  Charlotte slipped off the glass bead bracelet, clutching it in her hand.  She reached out and took Lina’s hand, pulling it towards her.  She placed the bracelet in Lina’s open palm and closed it around the beads. 

            “This is yours, my dear, in memory of a boy just like you.  His name was Otis.”