Awake Unto Me (6 page)

Kerry stopped short in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Time she went to work,” Sally said shortly, not looking at Kerry. Kerry had always treated Sally’s daughter like a little sister and protected her, and the thought of her starting in as a whore enraged her.

“She’s too young. She ain’t ready yet.”

“She’s not and you ain’t got nothing to say about it no how. Not all’s as lucky as you to be a crimper with Jack.”

“Sally, you can’t do this yet.”

“You can just shut up ’cause you ain’t her mother.
I
am, and I’ll take care of her.”

Kerry usually went up to bed early if she wasn’t working with Jack, but she stayed in the Grey Dog that night. She couldn’t believe Sally was going to do what she said, but sure enough she had Minny next to her, looking ridiculous in face paint like she was twenty and not thirteen.

They went upstairs with a man and Kerry followed. When she burst into the room, she saw Minny laying on the bed, Sally sitting there smoking a cigarette as calm as could be, and the man just unbuttoning his pants. Kerry flew at him and threw herself on him, pummeling him with her fists. It was like hitting a brick wall. He roared and threw her to the side. Sally grabbed her by the shirt, and as she heaved her out the door, Kerry heard Minny scream.

She stayed away from Sally for a few days because she was so mad, but Sally came into her room early one evening to talk. She was ready to go to work, but she sat down on the bed and spoke to Kerry quietly. “Kerry honey. I know you’re mad at me but there ain’t no other way. Minny’s got to earn her keep and there ain’t but one way for her to do that. Maybe it’s not the life I woulda chose for her, but I am looking out for her. She’ll be fine.”

Kerry kept her face turned away. “No, she won’t,” she growled. But Sally was right. Minny was born to a whore and born to
be
a whore, and that was that.

“Don’t let no one beat her up. She’s so small,” Kerry finally said.

“I told you, honey. I’m her ma, remember? I’ll look after her.” Sally patted Kerry’s shoulder and leaned over and whispered. “If you’re done being sore at me, how’s about coming up to my room about noon tomorrow?”

Sally whispering in her ear made her shiver. She nodded. She’d go because she wasn’t able to stay away.

George Hammond stood straighter when he saw the minister, the Reverend Egon Svenhard from their church, St. Francis Lutheran, enter the store. The reverend was a fat, sweaty man. He was unctuous and imperious, but he was known to ensure that his parishioners patronized businesses he favored. Those who crossed him could find themselves without customers. It was all done very subtly and George was anxious to keep on Reverend Svenhard’s good side. He needed the reverend to back him for a loan from the reverend’s brother Eric.

“Good afternoon, Reverend Svenhard.”

The reverend’s hard, glittering eyes roved over the interior of the store, George, the shelves of dry goods, and finally came to rest upon Beth, standing quietly at her father’s side.

“Ah, George, I stopped by to speak with you. Eric told me you have applied for a loan. As his brother and your pastoral counselor, I am duty bound to advise him as I see fit.”

“Yes, of course, Reverend.”

“How large is your debt?” Reverend Svenhard asked.

George rubbed his hands together nervously and blinked. “Five hundred, sir.”

The reverend questioned George on the details while Beth waited on other customers and listened covertly.

At supper that night, George told Frieda about his talk with the Reverend Svenhard.

Beth listened to her father but watched her mother’s face and noticed she said nothing. Beth sensed her mother didn’t like or trust the reverend but would never say so directly to George and start an argument.

“Theresa told me that Mr. Giannini at the Bank of Italy will lend you money. He’s lent money to her father for good interest,” Beth said without thinking.

George turned and frowned at her. “Quiet, child, this is none of your affair and—”

“George. She’s only trying to help.”

“I would not borrow money from an Italian,” George said with finality.

Frieda bowed her head and said no more.

A few days later, Frieda was minding the store, and George was meeting with Reverend Svenhard. “Beth?” her father called. “Please come here.” Beth put down the book she was reading and obeyed. George rested his hand paternally on her shoulder and said to the reverend, “She’s our only child, but she is a very good girl, obedient and does well in school.”

As her father spoke, Beth felt the reverend’s beady eyes staring at her and noticed that he seemed a bit nervous. He licked his lips and blinked. He was sweating though the day was mild.

George said to her, “The, ah, reverend wants you to come to him for private Bible study.”

Beth said nothing.

George cleared his throat. “Come, girl, speak up.”

“If that’s what you wish, Father.” Reverend Svenhard repelled her though she couldn’t say why. Beth usually fidgeted or daydreamed through the reverend’s sermons on sin and salvation because she found them both boring and frightening.

*

On the following Sunday, George spoke to Reverend Svenhard quietly after church.

“Very good, it’s settled,” Reverend Svenhard said. “I will inform Eric you are an excellent loan prospect.”

Two days later, Beth walked into the reverend’s study to begin her private Bible study with him, her stomach unsettled and her palms sweating, even though it seemed like it should be simple enough.

“Please have a seat here,” Reverend Svenhard told Beth, who tried to seat herself comfortably in the hard cane chair. She had been fetched with a very fine carriage that had exchanged its passenger, a Negro maid, with Beth. Svenhard had, for some reason, offered his maid’s services on the days that Beth would be at Bible study.

Beth waited silently for the reverend to turn around. He was fussing with something on his desk, but all she could see was a large expanse of black wool. Heat radiated from him; the room was warmish from afternoon sun coming in through the large bay window.

The reverend turned around and handed her a Bible. “Open it.”

She obeyed wordlessly. On the flyleaf, Reverend Svenhard had written an inscription:

To Miss Elizabeth Hammond:

May you find peace, knowledge, and comfort from this book now and for the remainder of your life. It is my privilege to teach you the lessons of our great Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and of his heavenly father, almighty God.

Yours very sincerely,

Egon Leif Svenhard

28 April 1891

“Treasure this with all your heart, Miss Elizabeth. Keep it by you and read it every day. It’s a well that never runs dry.”

She swallowed and remembered her manners. “Thank you, sir.”

“You are welcome, child. Now open to Romans 1, verse 20, and let me hear you read aloud.”

She complied and though the reverend appeared to be merely attentive to her voice, she felt his eyes on her, as though he was studying her, probing her. He had an air of expectation that she didn’t understand.

They would repeat this pattern for many weeks. She would read while he listened. He would talk to her about the passage, then tell her to write out her thoughts to bring with her the next week. He would read them aloud and mostly he would murmur approvingly; rarely did he have any criticism. In spite of her discomfort in the reverend’s presence, Beth glowed with pride at his praise. For the first time she felt like she was good at something.

*

The major harvest in the year occurred in October, and the Rocco family spent several weeks at the farm. They harvested grapes, apples, hay, pumpkins, and many other things. The family’s children, it was understood, would be absent from school to help, and Theresa invited Beth to come for a few days. It took some persuasion, but Frieda managed to induce George to let Beth go with them. He had successfully gotten the loan from Eric Svenhard, and Reverend Svenhard would always speak to them after church in a friendly fashion and praise Beth’s reading and attentiveness. George would beam and thank the reverend warmly, but Frieda was more reserved.

Beth was wildly excited at the opportunity to join the Rocco family for the harvest. Her shyness was long gone; she felt at home with the family. Theresa’s brothers teased her as they did Theresa, but more gently. They extravagantly admired her long blond hair and light greenish-hazel eyes. She was exotic to them, which was an interesting, and not unwelcome, feeling for Beth.

It was a warm day and Beth and Theresa joined the farm workers and two of Theresa’s brothers in the apple orchard. Theresa competed with her exuberant brothers for how many apples they could grab in the least amount of time. Theresa, determined and nimble, made Beth drag the tallest ladder over to one of the big apple trees and told Beth to steady it.

“We will win. Pietro is afraid of heights so he does not like to pick up high.”

She called to him, a few trees down the road. “Pietro, look at me! Pietro,
spavento
!” she taunted him. For Beth’s benefit, she said, “Scared.” She laughed merrily.

Beth grabbed the apples Theresa threw down as fast as she could, tossed them in her basket, and soon had all within reach. Theresa climbed to the very top step of the ladder.

“Theresa, it’s too high!”

“Just hold steady, Beth. It will only take a moment.” She stretched to reach two big apples and lost her balance. She tumbled to the ground with a cry, the apples flying every which way.

Beth ran to her and saw with terror that Theresa had struck her head on a rock and was bleeding profusely.

“Pietro,” Beth screamed. “Help.”

Pietro came running over, followed by two of the farm hands. They all started to jabber in Italian.

Pietro’s eyes were huge. “I will get Papa,” he gasped, and raced off, running toward the other end of the orchard.

Beth clamped her hand on Theresa’s head wound, not knowing what else to do. She wept and pleaded with Theresa to wake up. Theresa lay still; she was pale but she seemed to be breathing. The blood trickled from under Beth’s hand and into Theresa’s hair, but the flow had slowed down.

It was an eternity, but finally Pietro came back with Papa Rocco puffing at his heels.

Papa threw himself on the ground and picked up Theresa in his arms. She moaned and her eyes opened, although they were unfocused. Papa bellowed, “Get some water and a cloth!”

Beth sat back on her heels and watched as Papa cleaned Theresa’s head of blood and whispered to her in Italian. Theresa slowly returned to consciousness and started crying while her father rocked her in his arms.

As he cradled Theresa, Papa looked over at Beth. “Lizbetta,” he said, using their nickname for her. “You did well. My foolish son did not know what to do but scream for his Papa. These farm boys are dumb. Don’t worry. The blood is a lot but not so bad. From the scalp it bleeds much but it’s not dangerous. She got a crack on her head but she’s fine. You did well to put pressure on it. Thank you.”

Along with her relief, Beth felt something else—a kind of pride.
I knew what to do.

*

Beth opened her Bible and read the passage the reverend indicated. Reverend Svenhard stared out the window, hands clasped behind his back. Beth glanced at him every so often; he was usually attentive to her reading. When she reached the end, he turned to her. He seemed, if possible, even more sweaty. He tugged at his collar and cleared his throat.

“Was it not a good reading, sir?” Beth asked.

“No. No. Ahem. Of course not, it was fine. You did very well.” Reverend Svenhard closed his mouth. Beth waited for him to say more, puzzled that he seemed distracted and hesitant.

“Beth, ah, from time to time, it’s often the case that a man such as myself finds himself in a quandary.”

“Sir?”

“Beth, I have become very fond of you as a teacher is apt to become fond of a pupil.”

“Yes sir.”

“I have become so fond of you, I fear I may lose my mind if you do not feel the same.”

“I don’t know what I feel, Rev—”

“Ohhh.” He exhaled and clasped her close to him. She tried to back away but he held her tight and his breath rasped in her ear. His hand fumbled between their bodies as he struggled to open his trouser buttons. Beth realized what he was doing and closed her eyes. He fumbled in his pocket, murmuring, “Mustn’t leave evidence—they’ll know.

“Hold this, please!” he said in a hoarse, gasping whisper.

She opened her eyes enough to see it was his handkerchief. She was shaking as though she was in a cold wind, the handkerchief trembling from her fingertips. He took care of himself in several quick, hard jerks between their bodies. Beth stood still, afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Reverend Svenhard let her go and sat down in his desk chair with his back to her. He stayed silent, and she realized that she was expected to leave. She picked up her Bible and walked out the door, sick to her stomach and terribly confused.