SWEET ESTHER

It’s the height of summer and I can still get a chill when I think of the first—and only—time I laid eyes on Esther. The dead of winter. I was doing the midnight shift by myself when I looked up and she was over by the door, hiding in the shadows. Scared me out of a year’s growth. A little thing like her. That corner of the room was turned into a block of ice. It was hard to believe that someone’s hate could change the air that way. The shadow spoke one word: Eve. But there was no way to give her the directions she needed; I knew that once I opened my mouth—to say anything—she was going to leap out at me like some poisonous spider. You see, I was a man. And I was a man who dared to stand in the full light. Nadine had told me she had a feeling she should take the midnight shift to give me a rest. And one day, Lord, one day, I’ll listen to my wife.

A flimsy latch and a cold draft saved me from having to fight off Esther. A blast of winter air banged the door open and it brought the scent of the Christmas roses growing in Eve’s backyard. She slipped out of the door and followed the fragrance home.

This time of year it’s impossible to find Christmas roses, except at Eve’s. She forces them to bloom in any season for Esther’s gentleman callers. And there is a certain breed of man who does go there to see her. Who looks forward to what’s waiting for him down in that dark basement. Like they say, it takes all types to make the world. But sometimes you wish it didn’t.

I like the white roses because they show up in the dark.

I don’t.

The black gal. Monkey face. Tar. Coal. Ugly. Soot. Unspeakable. Pitch.

Coal. Ugly. Soot. Unspeakable.

We won’t speak about this, Esther.

I don’t. I am twelve years old and glad that it is dark. He cannot see my face when he calls me to come down into the cellar. I always come when he calls. This is your husband, my brother said. Do whatever he tells you, and you won’t be sent away like the others. Can you be married without a gown? Without the beautiful white flowers and the veil that sweeps the floor of the church? Without love? Even at twelve years old I doubt, but I believe in my older brother. He is kind to me and calls me only little sister. And there is much more food here than at home. My brother has the fat wife and eight children to feed. My new husband has four hundred acres and six men, along with my brother, to help him plow. There are jars and jars of pickled beets, string beans, cabbage, molasses, and whole plums in the cellar. Thick burlap bags of flour, potatoes, and cornmeal that tower high over my head where I kneel after he calls me. All prepared by the bitch, he whispers.

I do not want to be like her. I do not want to be sent away. So I will not tell anyone what happens in the cellar. The whispers: spiders scratch and spin in the dark. The bitch lies about him all over the county. To the minister. To the sheriff. To his own field hands. The bitch wasn’t woman enough to have his children and so she lies about him out of spite. For revenge. Lies that he is not a man. Lies that he wanted more than was his due when he called her. I do not want to be sent away. So I come down when he calls. And rejoice that it is dark.

We won’t speak about this, Esther.

My new house is very pretty. And so big. A room just to eat in, with nothing but a long table and a cabinet filled with shiny glasses and plates. And a whole bedroom just to myself. The first night I am afraid of being in such a room alone. But the mattress is so deep and soft. Goose feathers. I can pretend I am a princess. Only princesses would have a bed like this. Deep pink and trimmed with lace. The black gals. The monkey faces. They can only sleep on the old smelly mattress the fat wife throws away. Too smelly for her babies, she says. I am so glad he does not look at me, or he would not give me a bed like this. The pitcher and basin would not be china with tiny pink roses; the mirror would not be that big. The mirror would not show my face. I lie there the first night and pray to God very hard that he will never look at me.

God answers my prayers.

It is the hag who comes to wake me the next morning. She pours warm water into the china basin and washes me with soap. It is a pink soap and it smells like flowers. I ask her why she is rubbing me with lard. Backwoods trash, she mumbles. This cream costs more to buy than your brother’s miserable shack. I am frightened by the way her chin tightens and the long gray hairs on it quiver. I have never seen a woman with a beard. It is the hag who wakes me each morning to bathe and rub me with the cream. It is she who cooks the meals, cleans the house, and washes our clothes.

I work with her. She teaches me. An angry, silent old woman. But she does look at me. If only to tell me I am clumsy and stupid. To warn me that she will take the price of a broken dish out of my ugly black hide. At night when my husband is home from the fields, his eyes avoid mine. He looks into his plate or he looks at the hag. He talks to her about his day. He asks the hag how quickly I am learning. When I will be ready. Soon, she says. And soon she leaves. That is when he begins to call me into the cellar.

We won’t speak about this, Esther.

He says they are toys. I have never had toys. At my brother’s, I made my dolls from pieces of rags and loose straw from the floor of the chicken coop. But I have seen toys in the Christmas book they send from Montgomery Ward and they are also in a big wooden chest like this. Your toys, he whispers. No doll clothes. No roller skates. No pogo sticks. No rocking horses. Play with your toys, he whispers as the spiders scratch and spin, scratch and spin their webs in the dark. My hands reach into the wooden chest and feel the shapes of the leather-and-metal things. No jumping ropes. No rubber balls. The edges of the metal things are small and sharp. The leather things coil around my fingers like snakes. They are greasy and smell funny. No, they are not toys. I do not know what they are, but I will soon learn what they are for. And I will learn that in the dark, words have a different meaning. Having fun. Playing games. Being a good girl.

I try and try to find a word for what happens between us in the cellar. The fat wife used to say, Every time he puts his hands on me I come up with a big belly. But my husband touches me and there are no babies. Is there another kind of touch? Should he touch me when I am in bed and not kneeling in the cellar? Would that bring me the babies? I have no one to ask. I am ashamed of my ignorance. I am allowed no friends. And the only woman to visit is the hag. She comes every month or so, and these are the times they will sit up all night and get drunk together. I know by now to stay out of their way. The radio is my only company. He has a beautiful radio: it is large and made of mahogany with shiny brass dials. The songs speak of kisses. For hours I imagine what it is to have a man kiss me. The songs speak of making love. I cannot imagine what that is and I grow irritated by the songs. The music causes me to ache in a way I cannot understand.

I turn the dials until I reach The Shadow. It becomes my favorite program. It becomes more. It becomes my friend because it finally gives me the words I have been seeking. What we do in the cellar is to make evil. I still come when he calls. But now I know that his touching will not bring babies. And as I kneel before him, I dream that the Shadow will come to stop this evil. I listen closely behind the whispers and the spiders as they scratch and spin. I listen for the Shadow’s footsteps. For his laugh. I dream that the Shadow will take the toys and do to my husband what he does to me. I dream this for many years. And then I grow up. I still believe there is a Shadow. But I also come to believe that he enjoys to stand there and watch.

We won’t speak about this, Esther.

I stay with this man for twelve years because I am a good sister. My older brother gets higher wages with each passing year. I stay even though I come to understand that I am not married. This is not what married people do. My older brother gets peace at home when he buys the fat wife a Bendix washing machine. I stay one year for each year my older brother took care of me against the shrill protests of the fat wife. And each time I am called into the cellar to kneel among the sacks of potatoes and flour, I count the days left to repay my debt. I count the many ways in which you can hate a man. My brother knew. My brother knew.

I thought about killing this man when I was within hours of becoming the next lying bitch to leave. I thought about sparing the other young girls waiting in line to sleep alone in his pink-and-lace bed. The other twelve-year-olds with brothers. But my guess turned out to be right. There are too many of them to kill. And there are just too many twelve-year-olds.

We won’t speak about this, Esther.

To this day, I don’t. The only person I ever told is Eve. And that is because she already knew. The first thing she offered me was this basement room. And she removed the light bulbs herself. What they’ll need from you, they’ll need in the dark if they know it or not, she said. Even that type could not bring themselves to return if they saw your eyes. You have the most honest face of any woman I know, sweet Esther.

So they don’t see my face. And I never see theirs. But I do like the way the white roses show up in the dark. I can see them clearly, very clearly, as they wither and die. I rarely leave this basement. And I only open the shutters when it is time to clean. I won’t let Miss Maple down here. He insists he needs bright light to do the job properly, but he’s still a man after all. No, men must only visit in the dark. And they must bring me the white roses. And they must call me little sister. Or I no longer come.