1979
The tires rattle across the uneven dirt road. The vehicle's light French orange hue complements the leafless trees lining the sides. Mary squeezes the leather steering wheel, her fingers fitting in the grooves behind it. Tears stream down her flushed cheeks.
Children's joyous screams flood through her car, resonating in her ears though she ignores them. Her venomous eyes are trained to the end of the dirt road while little blonde and dark-haired kids sprint from one trailer to another. She knows some, but others she doesn't recognize. Not that she cares. Any other day, she'd yield to them beyond the fact that she loves kids, but at that moment, if she hit one, she wouldn't stop.
Her mind drifts to David and when they met. She'd gone through a breakup and couldn't bear to see him in class, so she hid in the student lounge within the comfort of her preferred sofa and her favorite book: Romance Goes Tenting. The man on the cover reminded her of Frank Sinatra. She adored the singer and the pearl-tinted smile he always bore. He reminded her of her dad in the way his gentle and warm demeanor would soothe her, though as she grew older, her father grew colder.
Though there were the occasional white women and men going in and out, studying or jiving, she felt alone. That was until she saw him, and he saw her. And when they talked, it was no longer that their eyes met, it was that he emotionally saw her.
She slams on the brakes when she reaches the end of her driveway and rushes out of her vehicle, leaving the door ajar. Mary finds her way across the cut lawn and onto the trailer's porch, passing gnomes, Nazi paraphernalia, and tattered beach chairs. She opens the storm door, and before it can collide with her back, she bangs her fists against the door.
After a moment, a dainty woman with long blonde hair and blue eyes opens the door. Her hair is silver, whereas Mary's is brown at the roots and honey-tinted down the rest, and their facial structures bear an uncanny resemblance. If it weren't for the faded scar under the woman's left eye and her hair color, they could pass as identical twins.
"Mary, what's wrong," she asks while looking her up and down. Mary's eyes are burning, and her throat clenches at her sister's question.
"Sandra," she begins, pausing to shut her eyes and take a deep breath. "I'm in a rush right now. Is Daddy home?"
"Uh, no, he went with Momma to the store. She wants to fry some fish, but the few Benjamin caught aren't even big enough to feed a baby." Mary pushes past her sister who veers her head to watch her enter the living room. She knits her brows when Mary stops in front of their father's double-barrel shotgun leaning next to the television. "What're you doing?"
"Tell them I'll be back in an hour or so." She lifts the firearm by the shaft, and with determination in her empty gaze, she carries it toward the front door. Sandra steps in her path, staring down at her. "Sandy, I don't have time for this!"
"Well, you best make time because I'm not moving until you tell me what the hell happened! What do you need with his gun?" Mary rolls her eyes onto the window beside the door, the olive-green drapes translucent enough for her to see that her driver's door is open. "Hello? Earth to Mary!"
"I don't gotta explain anything to you," she rushes the words out of her mouth as she takes a step past her sister. Before she can go any further, Sandra whips around and grabs the bend of her arm.
"Tell me what's goin' on," she demands over her sister's constant protests and groans. With each desperate tug of freedom, her hands tighten around her flesh. "I'm not letting you leave until you do!"
"Leave me alone!" She jerks Mary around to face her and bounces her narrowed eyes between the vengeful ones glaring up at her. Mary is well acquainted with the look she's being given. It's a glare Sandra would give not just her but their brother, Benjamin, whenever they stepped out of line. With her teeth clenched and her face closer, she says, "I'm gonna kill a nigger."
The living room falls silent, and Mary can almost hear her heart pounding in her ears. Sandra stares into her eyes like windows to her soul, waiting for her to smile so she can do the same. It's not unusual for Mary to use insolence, but wanting to act on her prejudice, Sandra finds jarring.
She releases her, slowly returning her arm to her side. Mary lowers hers as well and watches her sister's expression soften.
"Is that what you wanted to hear, that I wanna go out there and kill some dumb nigger?" She forces air out of her nose, suppressing a snicker, but Sandra doesn't find it humorous.
"Who're you tryna kill, Mary," she asks as she folds her arms, and Mary's eyes drift onto the confederate flag hanging on the wall. She slowly licks her lips, bearing an unquenchable thirst for his bloodshed. She then takes her bottom lip between her teeth and exhales a heavy breath.
"Someone I fucked." Sandra blinks her eyes wider, her mouth falling open as her younger sister meets her gaze. Mary cracks a smile with the intent to look menacing, but it's awkwardly formed.
***
Mary staggers through the front door, clutching the neck of a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and her father's gun in the other. She crashes to her knees in front of the television, groaning before a heap of shaky breaths overtakes her. She gathers what little strength she has left to return to her feet but only lifts her drink.
Without the moonlight pouring in from the windows, the trailer is otherwise unlit, so she shuffles forward with the memory of her home's layout guiding her to the hall.
"Fun night?" She flinches at her father's voice coming from the kitchen, and as her heart pounds in her chest, she searches through the thick void for him. He's sitting at the short square dining table with a Styrofoam cup between his forearms. She notices his silhouette and the smell of tobacco burning just before he lifts his hand to his face, propping his cigarette in his mouth.
"What're you — why're you sitting in the dark," she slurs, then forces an unsteady chuckle. The ashes turn a crimson-orange hue as John inhales to soothe his nerves and his eyes remain on her.
"I've been waiting up for you and didn't see any reason to cut the lights on," he answers after lowering the cigarette, and behind his words is a puff of grey smoke that spreads through the small kitchen. He motions toward the chair to his left without looking away and says, "Come sit."
Mary doesn't budge. She can barely hear her thoughts over her racing heart, and her mind reminding her of the times she witnessed him enraged.
When she was a child in nineteen sixty-eight, she would overhear her father and mother arguing, and it would always end with him slapping her. The worst case was the night he beat her so harshly that she was placed in a coma and went blind in one eye shortly after. He's fought his wife and once made Sandra watch in horror as he stuck Benjamin in their deep freezer in nothing but a diaper. At the time, Mary wasn't born yet, and Marsha had left him and the children after he first hit her. In all his drunken states of rage, he never did more than spank Mary, but she still doesn't trust him.
"Where's Momma," she asks in a low voice, and he takes a deep breath.
"She's in bed. So is your brother and sisters," he continues to speak monotonously. John nods at the chair, indicating for her to approach and sit. She takes a shaky breath before forcing herself to step closer, and he watches her enter the stream of light shining forward. His eyes land on the bottle of whiskey tight in her grasp, the honey-brown drink sloshing around. As she sits beside him with her eyes downcast, he asks, "Where'd you get that from? I know damn well you couldn't have bought it; you're nineteen."
"I — took it," she pauses, licks her lips, then elaborates while setting the bottle on the table, "I found it in the glove box."
"So, you're drinking now?" He raises his eyebrows, and she takes her lower lip between her teeth. She'd begun after seeing her mother cowering in fear of his fists one night, her face and shirt collar drenched in blood. While they slept, she sipped from a jug of moonshine and nearly vomited. The more she drank, the stronger her tolerance for the mind-numbing substances became. "So, Sandy told me something earlier; something that's been making my blood boil since I heard it."
Mary shuts her eyes. She doesn't have to ask him what he means because she knows.
"Now, before I react, is it true?" She looks at the fridge and pouts her lips, preparing to speak, but nothing comes out. He watches her take several breaths, returning the cigarette to his mouth when he notices her demeanor. Her mouth twitches, and she hums through the gap between her puckered lips as she struggles to form a sentence. John stands up while taking a puff of his nearly finished cigarette. He retracts it and leans against the table with his weight supported by his hands. "Who's the yard ape you mentioned, Mary?"
"It doesn't matter," she blurts out, and he narrows his eyes at her. "He wasn't — I took your gun to handle it myself, Daddy. He won't be a problem."
"I don't recall asking." He knows she's lying. She took the shotgun to his house, but no one was there; he'd left with Michelle to visit Judith's parents a few houses down. She doesn't know if she'd have had the courage to pull the trigger, but when the adrenaline wore off, she was presented with a dark side of herself she didn't recognize. She was thankful for her father's stash to take her mind off the situation.
Mary looks at the burning ashes trickling onto the wood surface, then she glances into John's cold blue eyes and mutters, "You should put that out. You're making a mess."
"I should put it out? Hm, well, it's so nice of you to care about the upkeep of your mother's precious fucking kitchen." He pushes himself up and walks around her chair, stopping behind her. With him towering over her and his intentions vague, she feels her heart rate speed up and phantom sweat dig at the back of her neck. He places his hands on her shoulders, and she flinches. Her mouth drops a bit, goosebumps race up her limbs, and he takes a deep breath. "When I was growing up in the late nineteen twenties and earlier thirties, your grandpa Charlie was never around for me or my sibling or your grandmother Josie. By day, he would work at the coal mines looking for gold like every other fool in town, and by night, he would drink and bed whores from all edges of the streets."
Out of her peripheral, Mary watches the ashes hang from the cigarette between his fingers as he gently massages her shoulders.
"I had twelve siblings at the time, but because I was the oldest, I had to bring in money to keep us all fed. You know what I did?" She doesn't answer, so he continues, "I helped a few friends round up some nigger men, and we shot them dead. They stole from white families, molested white women, and felt no remorse."
She remembers him telling her similar stories, and before, it left her with the feeling of her heart dropping into her stomach, but the more he shared, the less she cared.
"We were paid fifty cents each for each buck we killed, but no money in the world would compare to the satisfaction of watching them beg." He chuckles with a closed-lip smile blossoming on his face. He squeezes her shoulders and sighs. "I tell you this so you can understand your history, Mary, but also to let you know what I'd do if one of those sons of bitches defiled you."
"And this is exactly why I didn't want you to know." He relaxes his hands and raises his eyebrows. She shakes her head and mumbles, "You're fucking psycho."
"I'm psycho?" He drops his arms and scoffs incredulously, glancing toward the living room with a smile.
"Yes, and no one defiled me; I gladly slept with him." He narrows his eyes at the back of her head as the silence grows deafening.
He puts the cigarette between his lips while nodding. He grabs a handful of her hair, inhaling a larger amount of tobacco than before. John tugs her head back, and she winces with her eyes clenched. She watches the ember glowing like an oversized firefly, and he pops it from his mouth, blowing smoke in her face.
"Dad, please don't!" They look at Sandra under the arch. Her large eyes are brimming with tears, knowing the punishment he would've inflicted on her had she not intervened. "I'll talk to her, and she'll promise never to see him again."
John locks eyes with Mary, thinking about whether or not he should burn her with his cigarette.
"Get to bed," he says without looking away. When he returns his attention to his eldest daughter, he releases his grip on Mary, then tells Sandra, "You too; both of you get to bed."
The rest of the night dragged on after they went to bed. While Sandra snored in her bed, Mary couldn't sleep. All she could think about was David and how much she needed him. He has a hold on her that none of her other beaus came close to. In fact, she never felt romantically attached to anyone before.
So, her thoughts drifted to the faceless woman named Judith. What does she look like? How old is she? What does he see in her? She desperately racked her brain for answers but all she got was a headache. That is until her clock reached five. By then, a smile began to cast at a risky idea: Find Judith on campus and split her from David. After all, in her mind, she's his match made in heaven.