Amity & Sorrow Read online

  ‘She ain’t fine,’ the man says, head bent to look down the bloodied front of Sorrow and the wrist strap, dangling. ‘Why’s that thing on her?’

  ‘It hasn’t hurt her,’ Mother says.

  ‘I see you bleedin’. I see this strap on your daughter and I see all this blood. You can’t tell me she ain’t been hurt.’

  Mother shakes her head. ‘I haven’t hurt her. She hasn’t been hurt. It isn’t the strap. There was – a … there was a child. And she’s lost it.’

  The man takes a step toward her, hands out. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No,’ Mother says. ‘Praise the Lord.’ A small cry escapes Sorrow.

  ‘Jesus!’ the man spits out and he goes into his house with the squeal of the screen and the hard door slamming. Mother stands, holding his blankets and shaking, until Amity takes them and makes a nest of them, there on the porch for her sister. Then Mother slumps down onto the steps.

  Amity settles Sorrow down and lies beside her, to pray. She whispers, ‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.’ She waits for her sister to say the next line of it, but her sister only turns away from her, to hold herself in her own arms, as if she knows what Amity has done to her.

  2

  Marriage Bed

  Where are you, woman?

  On the porch step, Amaranth sits upright. She blinks into the darkness, then whips around to check that her daughters are safe in their blankets, all flung limbs and linens.

  She shakes herself. She must not sleep.

  Four days and nights she has driven and every mile, every hour, made them safer. She did not dare to stop. Every town they passed took them farther from home, but she cannot let her guard down now. He is right behind them. She knows it. Every car, every headlight behind them, was him.

  I will find you. She hears him and her hands fly up to her cap, to cover her ears. She looks up, expecting to see him thundering over her, but finds there is only a leaf-bare tree and a thick spread of stars between its branches.

  The voice is in your head, she tells herself. He is not here. The voice comes because she has stopped, because her eyes keep closing, sliding shut so that the world tilts her toward sleep. He is not here. He has not found them.

  And yet, she must stand, pace the dirt yard before the house, and scan the dark for him, again and again, searching for the small red flash of brake lights, the sweep of his headlights, come to take them home. She has been watching for him so long she can’t stop herself.

  Even on her feet, sleep tries to take her. The ground rises up as if he has taken hold of a corner of it, pulling it toward him, hand over hand, like a rope or a bedsheet. I won’t ever let you go. Once, it was all she wanted to hear. Once, she wanted to be so kept. His voice growls, hushed and soothing, so close she can almost feel his breath in her ear. She has to crawl back to the porch steps to keep from falling. And then she cannot help it; she falls.

  She lies back on the hard porch steps. She feels herself rolling backward, curling into a ball, and her arms rising, as if reaching for branches. Her hands open, as if to catch its buds. She feels herself sinking, folding and falling, into the porch that sleep makes her marriage bed, where five hundred fingers coax her and claim her, pulling her flat onto clean, white cloth. She reaches for him and finds the brittle-boned arm of a woman. The plump hand of a young woman holds her own. She feels hair unspooled across her face: a blond braid, a gray curl, a chestnut hank that smells of wood smoke and of home. Long, slender arms wind about her to hold her. There are tears in her eyes and lips in her palms and she is cradled between them, snug and molded, rocked among women in their wagon of a bed. Safe. Silent.

  And then he is there. Axis to their circle, pole to their spin. Center of the bed.

  Husband.

  He comes for her and wives part like waves. He feels down the length of her and holds her down. He rips her open before a hundred eyes. He breathes his heat on her skin and she unfolds for him, unbraids for him. Seen in the eyes of fifty wives, she unravels before him, coming undone in a tangle of thread.

  Mine, he calls. And Amaranth is home again.

  3

  The Bluebottles

  The room where Sorrow bled hums with bluebottle flies, eating. They cover every pool and shield every smear, turning Sorrow’s red to an iridescent blue and black. Every stain of hers is transformed, vibrating and shimmering with a million wings and eyes.

  Amity watches from the threshold of the bathroom door.

  Is this a sign, she wonders – the end of the world, revealed to her at last? She knows you may not ask for a sign, for even the King of Judah was told that he might ask and he did not, and Father said it was for God to test man and not the other way around. She can only watch and wait for whatever she is given and even then it will be Sorrow who will pronounce it sign or no.

  The fourth plague of Egypt was the plague of flies, but there are no flies in Revelation. She knows the world will end with the scroll that is opened and the seals that are broken. She knows her father will open them, every one, the white horse and red horse, the black horse and pale horse, the martyrs and saints and the stars dropping down. She has seen the martyrs and the saints, wrapped and spinning in the temple. She knows the timeline for the end of the world, but she doesn’t know if they missed the signs that would come with the seals being broken, because Mother drove them so far and so fast. The flies and the blood might be a sign, but Sorrow is too sick and too sad to interpret and Mother has told her to wash them away.

  The boy comes loping to the gas station with a hose and a plastic bucket. ‘What you doing?’ he asks her.

  Amity can only point at the bathroom and the hum of the flies in the blood.

  ‘I got told to clean it, too,’ he says, nose crinkling. ‘Guess we’re the ones who work ’round here.’ He drops the hose and takes an end to the side of the gas station to hook it to a spigot. She watches him working, how his over-big blue jeans hang off his skinny hip bones, how they pool over-long onto greasy-toed boots. When he hands her the spout end, she watches his dark brown hands and arms, how his sleeves have gone see-through from overwashing and his arm hairs are gold in the sun.

  ‘Watch out,’ he calls, and he turns the hose on.

  Amity takes aim at the bathroom door. She points the water at the walls and the floor, the corner sink and the metal toilet. She washes away the flies. She washes away the blood until the water goes pink then runs clear down the tiles, out the doorway, and into cracks in cement where the dry dirt drinks it down.

  When the boy turns the hose off, it hangs limp as the wrist strap in her hands. ‘She okay now? Your sister?’

  Amity can only shrug. She cannot speak to him.

  ‘I was standing there,’ he reminds her. ‘I saw it.’

  ‘But you don’t know,’ Amity says. Then she clamps her hands over her lips, aghast. Another rule, broken already. She had talked to the man because she was told to, but Mother didn’t say she could speak to the boy.

  ‘What’s your name, anyways?’ he asks her.

  Amity stares at the boy, deciding if she might answer. He crosses his eyes at her. He sticks out his tongue. He pulls off his cap to waggle his ears at her while she wonders if every word spoken was like breaking a rule, over and over, or if a rule, once broken, was broken eternally. ‘Amity,’ she finally says.

  ‘Amity? Like that horror town? What’s it called?’

  ‘I don’t know about towns.’

  ‘You don’t know much.’

  ‘I know plenty.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Like what?’

  ‘I know my sister’s not having a baby now.’

  ‘Jeez Louise,’ he says. ‘You don’t tell people stuff like that.’ He whips the hose out of her hands.

  ‘You said you saw.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s private, that stuff. Family stuff – girl stuff. You don’t talk about it after.’

  ‘Okay.’ Amity nods, absorbing the new rule. ‘What’s your name?’


  ‘Dust.’

  ‘Dust? Dust. Dust.’

  ‘Don’t wear it out.’

  ‘What kind of a name is Dust?’

  ‘What kind of a name is Amity?’

  ‘It’s an attribute,’ she tells him. ‘We’re all attributes. What’s dust? You can’t be dust. I’d call you Honor, Honesty. Grace.’

  ‘Grace? Jeez. I’m Dust,’ he says. ‘It’s a joke.’

  ‘What’s a joke?’

  ‘Polvo. I’m Pablo, but they called me Polvo. Means “dust.”’

  ‘What language is that?’

  Dust squints at her. ‘Are you serious?’

  Amity shrugs. She is always serious. ‘I don’t think it’s funny.’

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Neither do I.’ He starts winding the hose back onto his shoulder, the water rolling out to write onto the cement. ‘Where do you all come from?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Well, you’re learning something, anyways.’

  She nods. It isn’t only that she isn’t entirely sure herself where they’ve come from, but because she is certain it is a secret. ‘Where do you come from?’

  He looks out at the fields then. ‘Dust,’ he says. Then he goes back to them, boots clomping, jeans flapping. When he turns back to look at her he can see she is watching and only then does she turn away from him, to look at the bathroom. Any signs that might have been here are well and truly gone.

  Amity walks the looping path back, around the piles of scaffolding, the broken-toothed saws and wagon wheels, until she can see the house and the porch, where Mother waits on the steps for her, swinging the wrist strap. Sorrow sits bunched in her blankets.

  Amity sets a bucket of water on the dirt.

  ‘You took your time, daughter.’ Mother hands Amity the strap.

  ‘I had to wait for the boy,’ she says.

  ‘You don’t talk to boys.’

  Amity hangs her head. Too late.

  Mother turns to Sorrow, all smiles. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘For what?’ Sorrow scowls.

  ‘To get in the car. It’s time to go.’

  ‘The car?’ Amity gasps.

  ‘Where else?’ Mother says. ‘There’s no magic carpet. There’s no chariot of fire and horses to take us away.’

  ‘But the car, Mother,’ Amity starts.

  ‘I’m too sick,’ Sorrow complains.

  ‘No, you were sick. You’re fine now,’ Mother says.

  ‘I’m sick, I tell you. Sick!’ Sorrow burrows into a blanket.

  ‘Mother?’ Amity says. ‘The car—’

  ‘We can’t stay here. We can’t stop.’ Mother grabs Sorrow’s blanket and tries to wrest it from her, but Sorrow clings to it. She dives for Sorrow’s arm, to wrench her up, but Sorrow curls herself in, like a turtle tormented.

  ‘Can’t we stay?’ Amity says.

  Mother snaps around to her. ‘Of course we can’t stay. What makes you say such a thing?’

  ‘She says she’s sick … and the car, Mother—’

  ‘Didn’t you see me?’ Sorrow yells. ‘Didn’t you see I was sick?’

  Mother lets go of Sorrow. She puts her hands to her face and winces. She sinks onto the porch steps and takes her cap off, fingering the cut at her hairline and pulling on her pile of chestnut braids as if she wants to open her head. ‘I saw you, Sorrow.’

  Sorrow pokes her head out. ‘I’m still sick.’

  ‘Mother,’ Amity whispers. ‘Don’t you remember the car?’

  ‘Would you stop going on about the car?’ Mother says.

  Sorrow sits up. ‘You don’t even know where we’re going. What would Father say, dragging me halfway around the world when I’m so sick?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sorrow.’

  ‘I do.’

  Mother ties her cap back down, good and hard. ‘It isn’t safe here, girls. We cannot stop.’

  ‘But how will we go?’ Amity asks her. ‘You crashed the car and Sorrow ran. Don’t you remember?’

  Her mother tilts her head at her.

  ‘It’s a wonder you didn’t kill us all,’ Sorrow says.

  Mother looks from daughter to daughter, then she steps off the porch, wavering a moment, shaking her head as if to dislodge something, then she runs away. Runs away.

  Sorrow watches her go, then she kicks off her blanket. She takes hold of her bloody skirts to flap them in the air, like a sheet on the line, until Amity can smell the meat and metal of her. ‘Did you clean that room out?’

  Amity nods, sadly.

  ‘I didn’t tell you to.’

  ‘Mother told me.’

  ‘What about what I tell you? You should listen to me.’

  And that is her life, Amity thinks, suspended between the two of them. She wonders what would happen if Mother kept running. What would happen if she just left them here? And what would Amity do? Would she run after Mother or run away in the opposite direction? Would she run away from them both, or would she stay and wait with Sorrow until Father came, as he will, as he must?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she tells her sister.

  ‘It isn’t your fault,’ Sorrow says. ‘You’re too stupid to know what’s what.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a sign,’ Amity says, thinking of the sea-red floor.

  ‘You don’t know what signs are. I tell you what signs are there.’ Sorrow lies down and Amity hears her say, ‘I was the sign. Me.’

  Amity wonders if her sister can remember what she did in the car, how she rubbed her hands together and put them onto Sorrow’s belly, to boil up the pain within her, to still whatever was hurting her, to try to heal her if she could. She would do anything in the wide world for Sorrow. She slips her hand into one loop of the wrist strap and puts the other over Sorrow’s, to tie them together, making her choice again.

  4

  Plum Chickasaw

  Amaranth runs from the house on the hard red earth, around the pile of bedsprings and car parts, washing lines and aluminum siding, and along the fields where a farmer works a chemical sprayer, insecticide hanging in the dry air like a cloud. She doesn’t stop for him.

  She runs for the gas station, though their clothes are not made for running. Skirts twist and tangle, jam between legs. The bindings they wear beneath blouses are too tight to allow for deep breaths. Clogs rock over stones. She passes the gas station and the canopy’s shade, the wet front of the bathroom, and turns onto a long dirt road that she can’t remember driving down. She can only remember being followed, pursued by her husband and speeding to break free from him, his car bearing down on them, faster and faster. It is all she can remember.

  Strips of wild scrub sit on either side of the road; beyond them, fallow fields grow grasses, tall and thistle-headed – spikerush, prairie threeawn, devil’s grass – baking brown beneath the vicious sun. She pulls her collars open as a bead of sweat rolls down from beneath her cap.

  The car, she thinks. It is all they have – until she sees it.

  The car, caught up on a black-bark tree, upside down and lying hoodfirst in its red-cherried branches. The trunk and back bumper have slammed into the ground. The four tires are upright and the undercarriage splayed, so the car is like a dog on its back, wanting rubbing. A branch has pierced the windshield and her hand goes to her head again. Glass sparkles from the road.

  My God, she thinks. Sorrow was right. She is lucky. And she can remember it, all of it, swinging off the highway onto the thin road below it, sun in her face, and the road turning and churning into dirt and hedge and speeding to get away from him. Her daughters were screaming. She must have lost control somehow. She remembers the feeling of flying.

  When she took his car, she hadn’t known if she could drive it, remember the dance of pedal and clutch, of stick and steering wheel. She hadn’t driven in so, so long. And now she could have killed them.

  She crouches on her haunches in the road. She plants her hands on the dirt and feels certain she will be sick, from fear, from relief. She pants u
ntil she retches, shutting her eyes and hearing him, laughing.

  She looks over at the trunk, upside down. She can’t see how she’ll open it, but she must. There are things inside that she must salvage, all she hoarded and packed. The full weight of the car rests on the trunk, but she tugs at the frame, uselessly. Beneath the car, flour dusts the dirt. Honey oozes, pooling onto dirty oats, and she thinks of the jars inside it, shattered and spilling now, soiling their bedding and clothing. She sifts the dirt for anything she can salvage: wooden matches, small bits of paper. She remembers that her wedding ring is in there, knotted into a handkerchief, the last thing she would have to pawn or sell when it came to it. She has to get inside.

  The roof of the car, now the floor, is covered with metallic candy wrappers, bargain gas station treats on the road, for sweet mouths are silent ones. She jabs her hands between the seats to see if she can reach through to the trunk, but she only finds more paper, small white squares stuffed into every crack. She pulls them out of her way. And then she sees them for what they are.

  Small white envelopes. Tithing envelopes.

  The backseat is full of them. On each one you could read her husband’s name and their address. You could see the sketch of a small, plain, barn-shaped temple, as it was before the fire.

  Her throat tightens. Had her daughters found them? Had her daughters thrown them? Did tithing envelopes litter roadsides everywhere they’d been for the last four days and nights? Had they been tossed at borders and crossroads like crumbs for birds, for fathers, to follow?

  Amaranth builds a fire beside the car from plaits of dry grass and a precious match. Into it, she feeds the envelopes, watching their church burn again and again. When the smoke is high and all the paper churches become ash, she sees a truck coming, heading straight for her. She stands and waves her arms to flag it down, to get help, to escape. And then she stops waving. Her hands drop. The truck is pink, a faded red.