Post by Jane on Sept 28, 2006 21:40:37 GMT -5
The air smelled of wisteria and heat. The sweetness of her breath made her dizzy for lack of pure oxygen and tinted her world pink and gold, sunlight on an old photograph. This might have been helped along by the fact that she was on the verge of fainting from starvation.
It had been a long time since she had felt hungry; what had replaced it was a lightness – not even an emptiness, just a lightness, as if she had no organs and was full of air. She took what she could from the soil on which she slept and the water and air of which she had her fill, but in the end, Jane was only so much plant, and there was only so long she could last.
How had it taken her less than a week to cross Missouri? Lit straight out of home in September and crossed it Southerly to Tennessee with a truck driver who didn’t care what she looked like, but who she’d had to escape after a few hours for just that reason, to a Greyhound bus with stolen makeup that made her look kind of jaundiced, but human…
A good place, Tennessee. Until it became a bad place.
Memories were running together and she could barely even think straight. Her skin had failed to adopt as much of its usual springy tint as it did in March; it was the lack of food that was doing it, she thought. A month outside the last house and she couldn’t do a damn thing for herself.
“My, oh my,” she sang hoarsely, more a whisper than a real tune. “Look how the time flies…”
Sixteen and a half. She felt immeasurably older. Probably because she was about to die.
Jane stumbled down the side of the highway, gripping the guardrail. It was cutting her hands up, but it was better than falling off over the side of the bridge.
Blearily, she gazed up into the sunset, which was fading behind a house… a big house, with a green roof and little… little brass peaks. She could see a huge wrought-iron gate in the distance, flanked by miles and miles of pure white picket fencing.
God, it was so beautiful. She felt tears begin in the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t go in, she knew that; but it was such a beautiful house, with the brass-capped towers gleaming in the dying evening light, the sun dipping down behind the green roves and making everything darker… darker…
Darker…
* * *
The face that woke her was one only a mother could love.
“How you doin,’ baby doll?” it asked Jane.
She mumbled incoherently and closed her eyes again against the harsh white light, very different from the soft sunset she last remembered. A glass bumped against her lips and Jane opened them, expecting water, but it wasn’t – it was milk.
They opened again in a split second and what little strength she had was rerouted towards clutching the glass away and draining it. The next split second, she was over the sink, and it was coming back up.
“Starvin’ for a while does that to ya,” the face said. Jane couldn’t determine whether the voice was male or female; it was gravelly and Southern and black, and that was it. “You gots to take it in slow.”
Jane gasped over the sink for a few moments, filling her palm with a cupful of water – where were her gloves? – and washing her mouth out. Then she sat down in front of the sink cabinets, pulling her knees to her chest and trying to ignore the taste of bile in the back of her mouth.
She felt a shape crouch down next to her. “You’re lookin’ a little green, missy,” it said more softly. Jane decided it must be male. It was too fat not to have shelflike breasts – while it did have breasts, they were flappy male ones, not the huge prowlike ones a woman would’ve had.
She nodded slowly.
“A little greener than one might expect, even,” the gigantic male continued, gravelly voice layered with meaning.
She nodded again.
There was brief silence and the man stood up, brushing his hands together and making all the little shifty noises of a very fat person maneuvering themselves through life, little sighs and groans and desperate creakings of joints.
“Well,” he said, “I imagine we’ll have to keep you out of the sight of the Missus, then, she wouldn’t take kindly. You can sleep here.”
Too tired for questions, too hungry for objections, Jane’s eyes slid closed again as she nodded a third time in tacit agreement, and the glass of milk was lifted to her lips once again. This time, she remembered to take it slowly.
* * *
The next month was either much more eventful or much less, depending on how you looked at it.
Jane learned that she was under the grace of the Fosters, the oldest and proudest Kentuckian family that had ever or would ever exist; or, more specifically, the grace of their cook, J. Edgar Hoover Jefferson, named firstly after the president and secondly after his mother, Beulah Marie Jefferson, since J. Edgar’s son of a bitch of a daddy had had no business in his life and could have no reason to linger in his name. His momma had respected the president; J. Edgar honored his momma.
Jane worshipped J. Edgar.
Even Cooter had not been so kind. Cooter had not taken her in without intentions; though Jane had managed to keep him off her, in the end she had had to leave, especially when, after two months of winter and a white face, it had become increasingly obvious that he was not going to take no for an answer.
You’d think, she often reflected, you could avoid unwanted attentions by turning green or yellow; but you’d be wrong. You just got into a weirder market.
But J. Edgar had no intentions. He had expectations, certainly; he expected her up every morning at 6 AM to help him get breakfast ready for the family and he expected her to work her ass off until they finished cleaning up from dessert, but he never expected her to sacrifice who she was or to apologize for being born different. What he always said was that he knew where she was coming from. He didn’t, of course; but it was close.
One month of hell, another of heaven, even if it was a heaven involving a lot of hard work and more cooking burns than she could count. She did learn to make killer filet mignon, though, and there was something to be said for that, even if it was just about the only thing she could prepare beautifully outside of Jell-O and coarse wheat bread and Campbell’s soup. Everything else was average. There were a lot of average cooks, though, J. Edgar said, she shouldn’t feel bad. She should feel bad about how exactly he was going to skin her alive and roll her in salt if she didn’t hurry her skinny bones on up and finish garnishing those steak plates.
She greened out again. She wasn’t happy about it, but J. Edgar said it made her look healthier. She didn’t see how it was possible to look healthy the approximate color of pea soup, but she was a special case, of course.
She even had her own room, after the kitchen undermaid had to leave because she’d been sleeping around again and had got herself in trouble. Sure it was pink, but it was a room.
Logically, she should’ve known it was too good to last. But it had been such a nice day and no one ever came back behind the rose bushes – there were thorns. But Jane could make them part for her like the Red Sea, and it was the only place she could read in peace. He must’ve seen the flashlight. It wasn’t like she had time even for Lizzie Bennett during the daylight hours.
“Hello,” the boy said, peering through a gap in the roses, his big dark eyes glowing luminously in the yellowed light of the little halogen bulb and his warm, slurred voice doing nothing to take the shock out of his words. Jane yelped and thwacked her head on the high stone wall.
Even then, neither of them really saw it coming.
It had been a long time since she had felt hungry; what had replaced it was a lightness – not even an emptiness, just a lightness, as if she had no organs and was full of air. She took what she could from the soil on which she slept and the water and air of which she had her fill, but in the end, Jane was only so much plant, and there was only so long she could last.
How had it taken her less than a week to cross Missouri? Lit straight out of home in September and crossed it Southerly to Tennessee with a truck driver who didn’t care what she looked like, but who she’d had to escape after a few hours for just that reason, to a Greyhound bus with stolen makeup that made her look kind of jaundiced, but human…
A good place, Tennessee. Until it became a bad place.
Memories were running together and she could barely even think straight. Her skin had failed to adopt as much of its usual springy tint as it did in March; it was the lack of food that was doing it, she thought. A month outside the last house and she couldn’t do a damn thing for herself.
“My, oh my,” she sang hoarsely, more a whisper than a real tune. “Look how the time flies…”
Sixteen and a half. She felt immeasurably older. Probably because she was about to die.
Jane stumbled down the side of the highway, gripping the guardrail. It was cutting her hands up, but it was better than falling off over the side of the bridge.
Blearily, she gazed up into the sunset, which was fading behind a house… a big house, with a green roof and little… little brass peaks. She could see a huge wrought-iron gate in the distance, flanked by miles and miles of pure white picket fencing.
God, it was so beautiful. She felt tears begin in the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t go in, she knew that; but it was such a beautiful house, with the brass-capped towers gleaming in the dying evening light, the sun dipping down behind the green roves and making everything darker… darker…
Darker…
* * *
The face that woke her was one only a mother could love.
“How you doin,’ baby doll?” it asked Jane.
She mumbled incoherently and closed her eyes again against the harsh white light, very different from the soft sunset she last remembered. A glass bumped against her lips and Jane opened them, expecting water, but it wasn’t – it was milk.
They opened again in a split second and what little strength she had was rerouted towards clutching the glass away and draining it. The next split second, she was over the sink, and it was coming back up.
“Starvin’ for a while does that to ya,” the face said. Jane couldn’t determine whether the voice was male or female; it was gravelly and Southern and black, and that was it. “You gots to take it in slow.”
Jane gasped over the sink for a few moments, filling her palm with a cupful of water – where were her gloves? – and washing her mouth out. Then she sat down in front of the sink cabinets, pulling her knees to her chest and trying to ignore the taste of bile in the back of her mouth.
She felt a shape crouch down next to her. “You’re lookin’ a little green, missy,” it said more softly. Jane decided it must be male. It was too fat not to have shelflike breasts – while it did have breasts, they were flappy male ones, not the huge prowlike ones a woman would’ve had.
She nodded slowly.
“A little greener than one might expect, even,” the gigantic male continued, gravelly voice layered with meaning.
She nodded again.
There was brief silence and the man stood up, brushing his hands together and making all the little shifty noises of a very fat person maneuvering themselves through life, little sighs and groans and desperate creakings of joints.
“Well,” he said, “I imagine we’ll have to keep you out of the sight of the Missus, then, she wouldn’t take kindly. You can sleep here.”
Too tired for questions, too hungry for objections, Jane’s eyes slid closed again as she nodded a third time in tacit agreement, and the glass of milk was lifted to her lips once again. This time, she remembered to take it slowly.
* * *
The next month was either much more eventful or much less, depending on how you looked at it.
Jane learned that she was under the grace of the Fosters, the oldest and proudest Kentuckian family that had ever or would ever exist; or, more specifically, the grace of their cook, J. Edgar Hoover Jefferson, named firstly after the president and secondly after his mother, Beulah Marie Jefferson, since J. Edgar’s son of a bitch of a daddy had had no business in his life and could have no reason to linger in his name. His momma had respected the president; J. Edgar honored his momma.
Jane worshipped J. Edgar.
Even Cooter had not been so kind. Cooter had not taken her in without intentions; though Jane had managed to keep him off her, in the end she had had to leave, especially when, after two months of winter and a white face, it had become increasingly obvious that he was not going to take no for an answer.
You’d think, she often reflected, you could avoid unwanted attentions by turning green or yellow; but you’d be wrong. You just got into a weirder market.
But J. Edgar had no intentions. He had expectations, certainly; he expected her up every morning at 6 AM to help him get breakfast ready for the family and he expected her to work her ass off until they finished cleaning up from dessert, but he never expected her to sacrifice who she was or to apologize for being born different. What he always said was that he knew where she was coming from. He didn’t, of course; but it was close.
One month of hell, another of heaven, even if it was a heaven involving a lot of hard work and more cooking burns than she could count. She did learn to make killer filet mignon, though, and there was something to be said for that, even if it was just about the only thing she could prepare beautifully outside of Jell-O and coarse wheat bread and Campbell’s soup. Everything else was average. There were a lot of average cooks, though, J. Edgar said, she shouldn’t feel bad. She should feel bad about how exactly he was going to skin her alive and roll her in salt if she didn’t hurry her skinny bones on up and finish garnishing those steak plates.
She greened out again. She wasn’t happy about it, but J. Edgar said it made her look healthier. She didn’t see how it was possible to look healthy the approximate color of pea soup, but she was a special case, of course.
She even had her own room, after the kitchen undermaid had to leave because she’d been sleeping around again and had got herself in trouble. Sure it was pink, but it was a room.
Logically, she should’ve known it was too good to last. But it had been such a nice day and no one ever came back behind the rose bushes – there were thorns. But Jane could make them part for her like the Red Sea, and it was the only place she could read in peace. He must’ve seen the flashlight. It wasn’t like she had time even for Lizzie Bennett during the daylight hours.
“Hello,” the boy said, peering through a gap in the roses, his big dark eyes glowing luminously in the yellowed light of the little halogen bulb and his warm, slurred voice doing nothing to take the shock out of his words. Jane yelped and thwacked her head on the high stone wall.
Even then, neither of them really saw it coming.