When Darkness Loves Us

Priscilla’s tiny little features looked calmly on this gross older woman. Cutting Martha’s hair was a chore, but one she’d promised to her mother. Every month she would come and do Martha’s hair. She tried to make it as pleasant as possible, but Martha was quite disgusting. She was overdue, and the poor woman’s hair hung almost to her eyes.

“Trade?”

Martha nodded hard, shaking her head of hair that was way too long. “I buy flour, take bread.”

“Oh.” Priscilla’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You’re trading with Mr. McRae. How nice. I’ve seen your bread, Martha. You make a lot of it.” She looked at the clean, bare countertop. Oh, God, I hope she isn’t taking him that moldy stuff.

“Good bread.”

“I’m sure it is. Let’s do your hair, okay? Then we can have some lemonade, okay?”

“Okay!”

Martha put her head into the tub, let her hair be shampooed, expert, practiced fingers massaging the scalp. It felt good; even in this awkward position, she tried to relax. Priscilla rubbed some sweet-smelling balm into her head afterward, then rinsed it with warm water. Martha sat still, out on the porch in the heavy wooden chair, watching the little curls fall into her lap as her hair was snipped short again, while Priscilla chatted on about nothing Martha could follow. Then she ran her fingers through Martha’s new short locks, fluffing it, and took the towel from her neck to dust her off.

“All finished!”

They went inside for lemonade. Martha smacked her reddened lips. “Pris. Teach me this?” She pointed at the glass.

Priscilla was taken aback. Martha had never asked her for anything before. Not in all the years she’d been coming to cut her hair. “Sure. Come, I’ll show you the lemon tree.”

They walked outside through the weeds, Martha moving more slowly, limping on her sore ankle, keeping her dress from catching all the burrs. Behind the littered concrete foundation that used to be the barn was a little green tree with plump yellow fruit.

“Pick the yellowest and the fattest, see?” Priscilla showed her. Martha lifted up her skirt and filled it, like a basket. She carried it with pride back to the house where Priscilla showed her how to cut and squeeze the lemons, mix the juice with sugar and water. “Easy, eh, Martha?”

“Easy. Yes.” They grinned at each other, freckles scampering over Priscilla’s pert and fresh nose. Martha felt her own numb, meaty outgrowth ringed by scars, and the laughter fled. She reached a finger out and touched Priscilla’s face, ran her touch lightly over the bridge of her nose, feeling her own face with her other hand.

“Like that, huh? Maybe I’ll will it to you.”

“Will?”

Priscilla was instantly sorry she’d been so flip. “You know, will. Like it’s yours when I die.” She let Martha’s fingers roam over her face.

“Pretty,” she said softly, and tears flooded Priscilla’s lower lids. This poor woman. This poor old, ugly, half-witted woman, so alone, so rejected, so talked about, so teased. When Priscilla was in grade school, the worst insult a child could give another was to call someone a “Martha.” And here she was, sensitive, human, just trying to do what she could with what she had.

“You’re pretty too, Martha,” Priscilla said, with surprising truth. “You have beautiful, sensitive eyes.” She put her arms around the large older woman and hugged her close. “I’ll come back next week, okay? And maybe we can learn to do some other things besides bake bread and make lemonade. Maybe we can sew you a new dress . . . or . . . or something.”

Martha pulled back from the embrace and pointed at the calendar on the wall. “Which square?”

Priscilla put her manicured forefinger on the next Sunday. “This square.”

“I be here,” Martha said with finality. She was so pleased. She had learned two new things today. She waved to Priscilla as she pulled out of the driveway in her little blue car, then sat down. She thought about the smooth feel of Priscilla’s little pink nose; she thought about Mr. McRae and trading; she thought that it was pretty good that she understood, at last, that the squares were days, and that Priscilla would come back on one special day. She smiled to herself and hummed a little, and rubbed her ankle and waited for the days to go by.

CHAPTER 4

Harry sat astride a kitchen chair, resting his chin on his arms. He watched his wife at work, bent over the young girl on the sofa. The girl’s hoarse breathing broke the silence in the room.

It was Christmas. They awoke early to see fresh snow atop the yard, the drift on the north side of the house now higher than the roof. The day was ringing clear, with a cloudless blue sky looking down proudly on all the whiteness it had left during the night. Fern made a big breakfast while Harry tended to the animals. After eating, within the ring of warmth from the iron kitchen stove, they opened their presents.