House of Darkness House of Light (71 page)

Sunday mornings held the quiet promise of loud and raucous football in the afternoon, along with a well-deserved nap and a sumptuous dinner…when all the chores were done. Cindy had already been out to the barn, tending to the horses. Actually, all the animals had been attended to well before anyone else was up. She was diligent about it, always mindful of their needs, regardless of the weather. Her blood was already pumping, though the same could not be said for anyone else, yet.

In the deep midwinter, those woods were nearly impenetrable. Autumn was the perfect time to forge out into the forest, to identify then retrieve fallen, seasoned logs. Once the underbrush had died back, retreating to the surface of the Earth with a first frostbite, briars were the only hazard. There was no shortage of firewood. Nature provided an abundant supply. Getting to it was not always easy; a veritable obstacle course of fallen limbs and soft, swampy spots creating booby traps for guerilla fighters out braving the elements; any soldier had to watch every step and in so doing, saw wondrous sights. On an important mission, there to capture not an enemy but a friend, there was time enough for mild diversions; watching a raven peck its way through the ice on a puddle to secure a sip of nectar beneath: Nature. It was so lovely, the only splendid aspect of an otherwise grueling task. They all knew what to expect and they all knew it had to be done. After suffering through the first, none of them were willing to face another brutal winter without the benefit of a fire in the place; Inconceivable! Once open, it provided warmth to a home sorely lacking it. There was a certain comfort associated with returning to the house after chopping wood for hours to find the smoke trickling, seeping from the chimney. It put them in the end zone; must be time for football. No; not yet.

“It’s time to go!” If Roger was ready then everyone else had better be same as the general required his troops. Fall in…to the back of the truck. Carolyn cleared the dishes then headed for the only grocery store in the area open on Sundays. This too was a chore, KP duty…to stock the house with provisions; some bags as heavy as logs, but better than chopping wood. Her husband had arrived home the night before, flush with the profits from an exceptionally successful road trip. Hand it over. The kitchen pantry was virtually depleted of supplies. The woman on a mission of her own; Carolyn prepared to go out on patrol: shopping. Leaning over the table, passing back and forth between the food storage pantry and a pad and pen, she did a quick inventory; simple enough when the cupboard was bare…when there is nothing left to count up. Resentful of her husband in that moment, she hated living this way: feast or famine. Rather than the occasional hardship, it had become a lifestyle, one she did not savor in the least: Deprivation. Carolyn wrote her extensive list, beginning with the basics:
coffee milk bread butter cheese salt cereal oatmeal pasta potatoes onions carrots oranges grapes tomato sauce soups celery eggs bacon mayonnaise meats
Never one to cower from a challenge, she had about two hundred dollars at her disposal and the Scot in her could torture every dime of it, stretching money ‘til it screamed, begging for mercy. No problem. No mercy. Tough times called for tougher measures. One did what one must just to survive, including tromping through the dense thicket of a forest with a chainsaw or buying what was on sale. Winter crops were in; replenishing vitamins with good healthy foods, she felt no remorse filling her cart with every fruit in season to feed her kids: a wise investment.

Coercing every penny to purchase its full worth, Carolyn returned home with few of them left in her pocket. She made it back to the house before the rest of her family emerged from beneath the canopy deep within the woods. Typically, their mother heard them before she saw them. As she built a fire they pulled the heavy woodshed door open and began off-loading their stash; a seasoned load ready to split and burn. They were a loud, rowdy crowd; blood pumping (thankfully that day none had yet to be spilled) and hearts pounding. Exertion showed on their faces. Ruddy cheeks and runny noses all around, five children were ready to take the well-deserved break they longed for but a general would not dismiss them until the job was done: task master.

As ominous clouds rolled in over the horizon, they had made it just in time. Storm troopers announcing a mission accomplished; it was time for a snack. The crowd came in through the woodshed and went straight into the kitchen. Large paper bags covered the surface of the table; some rummaging ensued. Carolyn then diverted their attention with a red mesh package full of oranges, slightly chilled from the journey; homeward bound. The kids tried tearing it open like ravenous creatures, clawing at fabric which would not give an inch. Enlisting a pair of scissors from the sideboard drawer, it solved the problem. Ripping tender skin away from its fruit, they devoured sweet meat in chunks, juice dripping from frostbitten chins. The oranges were luscious; deliciously ripe. Carolyn bought two bags…along with bananas and berries and grapes. Gratified, a mother watched as her children consumed half a bag before they had even removed their hats and coats.

Everyone disappeared into the parlor except Andrea, who remained behind to help her mother store an inordinately large order of groceries. Folding the paper bags, they too were then stored in the pantry. Carolyn recycled before it was fashionable. Popping a pork roast into the oven meant the chores were finished; mom was free to indulge in an orange of her own, poised in front of the fireplace, her vigilant spot. Andrea grabbed two of them, one for a weary father, along with several napkins, knowing what a juicy batch mom brought home. Carolyn pulled a serrated knife from the sideboard drawer. Arriving at the entrance of the parlor to quite a sight, the eldest counted her lazy sisters. All there; a bunch of frumpalumps, limp as rag dolls, scattered about in piles all over the furniture, spilling onto the floor. Roger was already half asleep, collapsed from exhaustion into his easy chair. Pretending to follow the game, he accepted the orange with thanks. It brought him back to life! Go Patriots! Down 14 points at the half: Ouch! That stinger: leaving a mark on their stats.

“Buncha bums.” Stifling a smile, mom shook her head in feigned disgust. “Football bums.” Carolyn did not bother to ask who was winning…she could not have cared less. Her interest was held in hand…her turn to sip the nectar. “Who wants to help me eat an orange?” A few takers in the crowd; settling in on the hearthstone, Carolyn assumed her
natural
position: (with legs folded beneath her torso
Indian style
, a trait of her Cherokee ancestors) their mother made herself comfy, so to begin the ancient ritual. Since childhood, Carolyn has eaten oranges in a specific way, preparing them with the same technique she learned from her mother. It requires a sharp knife, preferably serrated; a jagged cut is called for to release all of the juice. Christine, Cindy and April gravitated toward a fireplace, seating themselves in a semi-circle around her, each one anxious for a sip or a slice of the tasty morsel; a really sweet treat.

The trick is in the precision. Carolyn didn’t think she needed to watch what she was doing…she had done it countless times before: cut a hole in the top, squeeze out the juice, drink from the fruit then eat its remains; supposedly a Southern tradition: the means of getting fresh-squeezed orange juice from a makeshift cup. The girls waited patiently, having seen this process unfold on many occasions, knowing it was worth the wait for a sip: Nectar of the gods. Plunging a knifepoint into the core of the orange, about a fingernail’s length away from the stem, Carolyn impaled the piece of fruit on an angle, cutting it deeply inside. Sawing in a circular pattern, the width of more than an inch in radius, its juices began trickling then spurting up from the point of incision, gushing as projectile droplets from an open wound, one hell of a juicy orange indeed! Up, down and around she cut, carving out a flawless circle, creating a gaping hole. Practice makes perfect. She could’ve done it with eyes closed. Carolyn barely paid attention to this task-in-hand. Happily chatting with kids, discussing the deeds of their day, she impaled her fingernail beneath the skin, pulling the plug. Withdrawing it from the core, she sucked all the sweetness from the nub; the holy spot where a piece of fruit connects to the Creator, at the point of contact with its Mother Tree of Life. Playfully tossing the spent stem up and over her shoulder into the fire, she kept talking with the children while continuing a process which did not require her attention. She’d focused on her girls instead, gabbing about this or that, listening to them complaining about how cold it was in the woods, but also remarking about how beautiful it was, resplendent with colors of the season.

Squeezing the body of the fruit released its succulent nectar. She lifted it to her lips. The first few sips were marvelous; thoroughly refreshing. The ladies were right; true to initial reports from the field. It was a great batch of fruit! One more pinch should bring more to the surface for sharing. No one had yet to notice the blood.

Having pulled off her wet boots and equally moist socks minutes earlier, Carolyn appeared as a barefoot Indian princess squatting on her hearthstone. Christine cried out, shocked by the sight of it.

“Mom! You cut yourself!” Splotches of thick blood were splattered all over Carolyn’s toes. Chris leapt up from the floor, rousing a father from his chair.

“Bad!” April yelled as well, panicked by the ghastly view; an ugly scene.

“The damn knife must have slipped!” Roger, awestruck by the spectacle.

“Oh, my God! Mom!” Cindy could not believe her eyes. Blood was oozing, literally dripping between her mother’s toes, as if she had punctured a vein. Seeping down her arm to the elbow, it saturated the rolled cuff of her flannel shirt, spilling onto her blue jeans, staining them as well; what part of it was not absorbed into the fabric obeyed the law of gravity and dropped, forming puddles on the hearthstone. Evidence of carnage…everywhere around her!

“Jesus Christ!” Roger hovered over his wife, equally alarmed. “Where is it
all
coming from?” A wonder to behold.

Carolyn felt her heart pounding but could not feel the cut; that sharp sting of citric acid in an open wound. Holding her blood-drenched hand high into the air for further inspection first required juggling the orange into her other hand. In so doing, she identified the source of the blood. It was coming from inside the orange. “Roger. Look!” Carolyn squeezed the fruit. The prodigious amount of crimson liquid was gushed from within its gaping hole; more fluid than could come from a common orange, but this was an uncommon orange. The blood began to coagulate as soon as it hit open air, its hue turning from a rich, deep red tone to a rusty brown with auburn at the center of each droplet. It bubbled and seethed as she squeezed it, a constant stream trickling like teardrops along the surface of the pale skin on her arms. Thick and pasty to the touch, Carolyn became mesmerized. She sniffed at it, stuck between her fingertips. No doubt about it: blood. Perturbed by what was obviously some kind of supernatural interference, Carolyn grasped the orange, pressing into the skin so hard it left indentations. One final bubble of blood sprung to the surface, spilling onto her thoroughly soiled clothing then onto her feet. In an act of defiance; the woman refused to relinquish her orange. She squeezed it until the juice ran clear again…then sucked it dry. Pulling it apart, she tore it to shreds, eating every fiber of the fruit. Enraged, Carolyn heaved the hollow skin into an equally raging fireplace: It is finished.

The family was gathered all around her, but no one said a word. Every eye of each beholder was gazing in amazement, silently professing disbelief. She did
not
just do that! She did. Polka dot clots speckled all over her body, head to toes webbed with smooth gooey ooze, Carolyn’s morbid fascination with the evidence was unsettling; a disturbing element of their mutual experience. She did not seem to be herself; appearing to be lost; elsewhere in mind. Her attention could not be diverted. Focused solely on the event, observing what was happening from within, transfixed by its aftermath, she was studying the Nature of the incident. There was a subtle, simmering fury present in her; the vicious way she’d attacked the orange, ripping it wide open with a vengeance then decimating it, flailing it into the fire. This behavior was out-of-character for a woman who suddenly appeared possessed by a savage mean streak. It was brutal. It was frightening. It was Bloody Hell…Wrath of God.

Once Carolyn had finished it off, so to speak, she stood then went into the bathroom to clean up and change her clothing. Peroxide saved the fabrics but what would save her soul from such an intrusive presence? Spots boiling up as white bubbles on the surface of stains, she’d meticulously removed them, blotting the blood with a cotton washrag; its coloring becoming diluted with each new application, dispersing any proof of her assertion with a treatment. Scrubbing off the streaks and droplets, Carolyn hovered over the bathroom sink for what must have been half an hour or more, cleansing her skin, speck by rusty speck; staring into a white porcelain basin as the residual evidence, squeezed from the washcloth, swirled away; out of sight but not out of mind. Sitting on the edge of their bathtub, she stared below at those ruddy red toes. According to her recollection, she’d been so struck by how much blood had been spilled, by the sheer volume accumulated on her feet, she studied these dried globules. Disoriented by this incident, the woman decided to leave both feet stained and soiled, covering them with a pair of white socks, for contrast. Later that night she would privately gaze at them again, touching the blood, tampering with evidence, marveling with the wonder of a child peering at the spots and blotches, drips and stains an uncommon orange left behind on her figure. Not until the following morning did she attempt to scrub them away; and scrub them she did, rubbing her tender skin raw with a hair brush; by that time, what was then required to remove remnants of an event she wished she could wash away from memory: a mortal wound which will never fully heal.