4

I can hear Ms. Carlyle's heavy footsteps before she enters the kitchen. She looks just as hurt as she does angry, which means The Beast gave out to her and now she's going to give out to me. I look over at Isaiah and we say goodbye with our eyes; it's always swell to see him, he's just a peach. He's just about the nicest person in the world to me since Mom died. He doesn't say much to me in front of the other two, but I know that's only because The Beast forbid him from talking to and visiting with me after mom died. If he disobeyed he'd quickly be kicked out and he needs the farm and this job, I understand that. Plus, if he got canned for being sweet on me he knows I'd be left alone with them; he's a right nice old brute.

'Maggot, I done told ya he wasn't gonna like this and now I'm in trouble. You ain't worth it so get your-'

'Ugly, stupid a*s back to the house.' I finish her sentence with a pretty good impersonation of her wretched and deep voice. 'Yeah, yeah, I'm going.'

'Why you disrespectful rat!' She reaches out to grab a hold of my arm and give me a slap but I scurry out the back door and up the path home before she even took two steps. It was bold and I'm going to pay for it later, but I must admit it was worth it to be in mom's cafe kitchen again. While I was in there I wasted no time in finding her spare apron, which is now tucked into my dress. She used to let me wear it while I sat on a stool and watched her cook. Well worth the beating that's coming; I'm so happy I could just dance. It was an exciting day, one that presented me with lots of opportunities and started my mind to hatching new ideas. It was all too grand an afternoon, but I know the night shall bring the balance to my wonderful day. That's alright, I tell myself, because while I'm paying for my fun those newly hatched ideas will continue to grow.

When I get back to the house I decide to soften what blow I know is coming by making the house shine. Not only will that put him in a as better mood as possible, it'll also keep me busy while I think and plot and plan. My minds currently going about a mile a minute and I need something to keep my hands busy. First things first, I go upstairs and hide my mother's spare apron under my mattress. I'm planning on sleeping with it under my pillow from now on; my day's souvenir. Then I quickly go downstairs to finish the mending and laundry and start a fantastic dinner while I scrub the rest of the house.

He gets back later than usual, the meeting and celebrating afterward must have gone on a good while... I wonder what that means, for the farm and for me.

'I'm angry with you,' he wastes no time in saying as he walks through the kitchen door. Like I didn't already know that.

'Very angry, you'll be punished... later. For now let's eat dinner.'

I bought some time. Now I’ll try to buy some more. Without asking I grab a glass and pour him a large quantity of whiskey. This idea can be dangerous, for there's a line in his drunkenness between when he's the most violent and when he just passes out. An extremely fine line at that. I risk it because it's the best chance I got. I hand him the glass after he sits at the table, where I've already made him a plate of boiled ham, cabbage and potatoes. I know it's his favorite meal, he says it reminds him of the old country. I can tell he's already a bit lit up because he stumbles as he sits, then decides to down the glass in one gulp. I pour him another and sit across from him.

We eat in silence. Well, I eat. He more gorges himself; shoveling over-sized portions into his mouth, with the grease around his mouth and his black eyes fixed on me. I count in my head while I eat, to try and avoid making eye contact. I started doing this when I was little, it distracts me from the burning sensation his eyes create and keeps me from the reflex of looking up.

16...17...18...19...

'I would ask what in Christ's name you were doing in the cafe, but I've already been informed that it wasn't your fault. Ain't that special, never is is it? Just doing what you were told, wasn't ya?' He drops his fork on the plate and his voice starts to get higher over the cattering sound it makes. I notice he didn't drop the knife when he did the fork, I stay looking down at my plate.

21...22...23...24...

'Seems to me like you follow them big cheeses' orders better than you do mine. And you just met. Even more, seems you only follow orders when it suits you. Well I'm the boss round here, and I'm your blood. Seems to me you ought to be listening to me doesn't it?!'

He practically shouts the last two words. He's drunk and angry; I have to play this right. I'll let him breath a few moments and when I get to 30 I'll respond without looking into those eyes, sometimes he takes that as a challenge.

28...29...30.

'Uncle, I'm sorry. Ms. Carlyle said they were really important, going to be partners and such.'

'Oh she did, did she?' he growls.

'Yes sir. When I dropped off the flour, he told me to stay. I thought if I declined I would've insulted him. I was conflicted uncle, didn't know what to do. I thought ruining an opportunity would be worse than disobeying one rule-'

'THE RULE!' he shouts over me and finally slams the knife down too. I let out an inaudible sigh of relief at that knife now being out of his hand.

'It's the most important rule girl.'

Silence reigns for what seems like an eternity, but according to my counting it's only 20 seconds. His breathing finally begins to regulate and he empties his glass of whiskey before he speaks again.

'Lucky for you girl, the meeting went very well. So well in fact, I'm now a supplier to some of the most important and well-connected people in the country. As angry as I still am with you, I'd like us to finish dinner in silence. Afterward, we'll go upstairs for your punishment and you'll know never to disobey me again. I'm an important man, always have been but now even more so. You'll treat me with respect d****t and you'll start tonight in that room up there.'

He slurs a bit of this last sentence as he points to the stairs. I see he's getting more fried to the hat by the second and I think there's hope yet.

'Yes sir, I'll show you respect sir.' I get up and empty the bottle into his glass. Before his second plate is gone, the glass is drained and he demands we go to bed. Again, I try to postpone the inevitable by saying I need to clean up dinner. This time it doesn't work. He grabs my by the hair and throws me on the kitchen floor.

'No girl! Respect me, now!'

I try to get up but he pushes me down again; he wants me to crawl. I start to crawl towards the stairs. When I get there I grab the banister to stand, but he kicks me in the ribs and my face hits the bottom stair. I crawl about halfway up the staircase and he lifts me by the waist and carries me the rest of the way. When we get to his room he tosses me on the bed and slams the door behind him. I start my counting over...

1...2...3...4...5....

* * *

I awake in my own bed. Last night wasn't too bad. After he slammed the door, he laid on the bed next to me and shoved himself down my throat. He was passed out before I even reached 40; I've definitely counted higher during our sessions. Once his snores were echoing off the walls, I pulled his pants all the way off and unbuttoned his shirt. Then, I took his knife and reopened one of the marks on the inside of my upper arm, which are dedicated to these occasions exactly. I proceeded to smear a bit of the oozing crimson on his so-called manhood. I do this sometimes to convince him when he wakes that he indeed did gain access inside me, a rough access to satisfy his preference. When he falls asleep prematurely and I don't follow this ritual of mine, he becomes furious with me after he wakes that I got away without being punished. This way, he'll wake up half-naked, with blood on himself and assume he had his usual rough way with me before he fell asleep. If he wakes and realizes no act of punishment occurred, he comes to my room to make-up for it before he leaves for the field work. Those episodes are so much worse and more violent. The little tricks I’ve come up with to convince him that we indeed had sex, when indeed we didn't, are a thousand times better than those mornings of hell. A few scars on my arm are well worth it. This way we're both happy... sort of.

About a week goes by, the usual. Nothing much seemed to change since that big meeting, but that doesn't stop my brain from working. Plotting. Planning. Conniving. So many ideas and yet, so far, no way to execute them. I'm going mad! I need those men to return, I need to talk to Sam again. They're my way out; I know it, I just don't know how yet. About the only thing that has changed since then is The Beast coming in later and drunker; which makes our sessions either rougher or shorter, or sometimes both. He's pumping out about twice as much hooch- it's the only explanation. Producing more supply for his big buyers, so when will they return?!

I get my answer 10 days after the first meeting, finally! The hornet automobile returns with about 4 trucks behind. Must be a huge buy indeed, biggest by far we've ever done; no wonder he's been working so late. I mean, The Beast has some men working for him, but not too many for he doesn't trust people. He employs about half a dozen down there, besides old Isaiah and Ms. Carlyle, and does the work of another half dozen himself.

As I see them pull up I sneak out as far as I dare down the path, if he sees me I’m surely dead. He seems pretty preoccupied though, I'm not too worried. I see the mob of guys who drove the trucks standing around smoking, but I don't see Sam anywhere. There are two men speaking with The Beast, I recognize one as the driver of the hornet. The other I recognize too, Sam introduced him... what was his name? Bailey I think, yes Bill Bailey. I guess he'll have to suffice instead of Silver Dolla Sam. I know by now to be weary of men; but I know even truer that a woman can use a man as much, if not more often and more easily, as a man can a women.