August Ansel - The Attic

“Does she think it’s a crystal ball?” Lulu said one night, when she and Arie and Mercy were whispering together in bed, the younger children finally asleep. This had caused a great deal of snickering. “Look into my crystal ball,” crooned Lulu, always determined to act out her role as chief instigator among the three of them. “I will tell your future. You will…you will…” She moved her hands mystically over the surface of her own flat stomach. “You will marry a dark stranger—”

“Picked out by Daddy Mack,” Mercy interrupted.

“Oh no,” said Lulu. “This stranger lives in town. He drives a car. He will make you the mother of millions. Oh dark stranger,” she whispered, and now she cupped her little breasts in both hands. “Give me a baby.”

Arie and Mercy put their faces down in the pillows to stifle the laughter, but even laughing Arie felt sick at her stomach when Lulu said things like this. The fact was, Lulu’s little charade was not awfully far from the truth that was passed to them from their parents—except for that part about a car, and Daddy Mack not picking out the husband. Every night at bedtime the girls received the laying on of hands.

After their teeth were brushed and they were lying in bed—Arie, Lulu, and Mercy in one bed, the three younger girls in another—Daddy Mack and Mammy Delonda would climb into the loft. The quilts were folded down to the foot of the bed. Daddy Mack would bless them one at a time, because he needed both hands. One big, rough hand would rest on her forehead, and one would rest on her pubic bone. When nightly blessing had first started, back when Arie was much younger, the second hand would be on her tummy, but over time it went lower and lower. It couldn’t get any lower now without getting up to mischief.

“Bless this vessel,” Daddy would intone. He would look at the ceiling during the blessing, and it always seemed to Arie that he was trying to convince someone of the rightness of the blessing by speaking in a deep, commanding voice. “See this, your daughter, feeble in her ways. Make her womb strong and worthy of bearing your seed. As you did with your vessel Mary of old, redeem, dear Savior. Make her the mother of millions.” The last part was a kiss on the forehead. Mammy Delonda would crouch by the loft stairs throughout, silent. After all the blessings were given (even to Creigha, who was four and asleep), Daddy would go down to the boys, and Mammy would follow, giving the girls a little wave as she turned out the overhead light.

Downstairs, where the boys bedded in sleeping bags on the floor, Daddy Mack said a single prayer for all. The boys were exhorted to look forward with joy to the day God provided them a woman, the weaker vessel made worthy by receiving his seed. They were told to be mighty in exploits and multiply God’s children upon the earth, that the faithful might once more subdue creation as Second Adams. There were five boys then, aged twelve to nineteen.

Arie had crept from bed once and peeped over the railed edge of the loft. The boys received their blessing standing up, arms crossed over their chests, feet planted wide apart. Daddy Mack stood the same way while he prayed over them, and often he sat and chatted awhile afterward. Mammy Delonda was nowhere to be seen. Sometimes they’d beg him to arm-wrestle, and Daddy would laugh and say no, no, no, until they finally pleaded long enough. They’d all wrestle, starting with Morgan, the youngest. With Morgan, Daddy would pretend to struggle for a long time before pinning his arm over. It took a little longer with Beckman and Harold; with the two oldest boys, Thomas and Zachary, it really was a contest. Zach was about to turn nineteen around this time, and the wrestle was hard, both he and Daddy with red faces, bulging muscles and tendons. But Daddy beat Zach. That night and every night.

She took up a bar of soap and several rags from a box under the table. One by one she dunked the rags, wrung them out, and laid them over Renna’s wounds. Once those places were covered, she washed her from waist to knees. The smell of her was noxious. The rope ladder rattled against the side of the house, and Handy crossed the roof. The burlap tow sack bulged under his arm.

“Wash a double handful of that,” she told him. She lifted one of the wet rags and pulled gingerly at a shred of bloody cloth. It peeled up a bit. Renna whimpered but didn’t wake. Arie counted silently to three and yanked the ersatz bandage off. It went with a slight tearing sensation, and Renna’s eyes flew open. “Don’t!” she shouted.

Handy knelt next to Arie with the mass of pulpy plantain in the yellow bucket. Renna was naked from the waist down, but he didn’t avert his eyes, which gave Arie hope that he’d be of use to her during the unpleasant task ahead. “Girl,” she said to Renna, “I know you’re in pain, but if I don’t do this right the first time, you may just as well be dead.” She leaned close to Handy. “Talk to her a minute while I get something to help take the edge off.” When he turned a blank face, she shook her head. “Quiet and kind. It doesn’t matter what the words are.”

Handy took one of Renna’s hands. He leaned close to her face and began to murmur. Arie couldn’t quite hear the words, but it was the sound of a man soothing a white-eyed horse. Her protests fell a notch into intermittent quiet crying.

On the east wall of the attic under a gable, a set of shelves ran nearly floor to roof joists, filled with canned food, bottles of whiskey, vodka, and moonshine, boxes and baskets of candle ends, chunks of soap, matches, salt. Herbs hung upside down in bunches. Arie retrieved a brown bottle capped with a dropper.

“What is it?” Handy asked.

“Tincture,” Arie said. “The herb. Indica, mostly.” She removed the stopper and lifted Renna’s head. “Drink this,” she said. “You’ll feel a little better.” Feverish as Renna was, Arie wasn’t certain this was true, but she wanted her to believe it. Handy continued to stroke her hair away from her face and speak low words of encouragement. When she pursed her lips, Arie tipped at least half the bottle into her mouth, a great deal more than she would ever take herself. It was a bitter dose and made the girl grimace, but the effect was almost immediate. Her head lolled back over Arie’s arm, and her eyes glazed again.

“Let’s do this quick,” she told Handy. “We need the plantain bruised hard, but don’t mash it all the way. Just break down the fibers some.” The three biggest wounds were soaking under wet cloths. “I’m going to pull away these pieces of her pants,” she said. “I’ll rinse the hole with tea and then slap the plantain on it. Ready?”

“Yes,” he said in his quiet way, almost as though speaking to himself. His was nothing like the voice of Mammy Delonda—kittenish and fluttery—or the voice of Daddy Mack—everything a proclamation. His pale eyes looked dark in the low light of the attic.

She started with the smaller wounds, reckoning that the larger one would hurt more and make Renna fight harder. Without hesitating, she took hold of one corner of the soaking fabric and ripped it free. Renna grunted and her head jerked to one side, but she didn’t try to pull away. There was a row of punctures, fat and raised at the edges like a set of tiny red atolls. They immediately began to seep blood in the center, and Arie let them bleed a little before pouring the tea over the spot. Before she could ask, Handy held out a limp leaf of plantain. It gave off a bland smell and was slightly slippery between her fingers, fibrous and cool. She evened the plantain over the bite, pulling the edges out like a thin green bandage. Renna breathed evenly and laid still, eyes closed. Arie tended two more bites similar to the first, neither of them exceptionally problematic. She moved squarely in front of the largest wound.