Absolution for Gretta MacClain

The scent of decomposing leaves underscored by strong whiskey and fear stung her nostrils. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing she were back home under the warm quilts listening to the soothing ticking of the mantle clock. Tears leaked down her cheeks. Her favorite Sunday shoes, a white patent leather pair with dainty pink bows, were ruined beyond redemption by the muddy path she followed.

A fire lit the woods, giving an evil red cast to the trees around her. She cringed, tugging at her Daddy's hand. She begged him to take her home. He laughed and ruffled her hair. It was okay, Gretta, it's okay. The flickering firelight made him look like a demon and not like her Daddy at all.

Daddy's friends had erected a cross in the clearing beneath an old oak. Maybe it had been there before, she didn't know. She'd never been there. She didn't want to be there now. She begged her Daddy to take her home. The flaming cross scared her almost as much her Daddy's friends did. Her younger sister shrieked in joy, spotting Pa-paw, her favorite person in the whole world. Gretta pressed herself tighter to Daddy's leg. Pa-paw held the thick rope.

Behind Pa-paw stood the nice man who had helped her cross Main street so she could get to the soda fountain for a vanilla coke. Only she barely recognized him. He was beaten and bloody and tied to a tree. She just knew that Daddy was there to help him like that nice man had helped her. She looked for her Daddy, he stood beneath the ancient oak, testing the noose.

Pa-paw cut the nice man loose and dragged him over to Daddy. It took several men to get him there, he suddenly began bucking and fighting his captors. Daddy slipped the noose around his neck and smiled at her as if it were going to be all right. She watched in horror as Daddy and a few other men hoisted on the rope, pulling the nice man upwards.

His legs kicked like he was trying to climb up a cliff with no hands. Gretta's eyes were drawn to his face. His eyes were open, the black pupils rolling wildly in the whites. Gretta was staring into those terrified eyes when he died, his body jerking then hanging limply from its string like a marionette that had been cast aside.

Daddy put his hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing. He said something but she didn't understand. Pa-paw called her name and, terrified, she looked at him. A flash exploded in her face. Her sister giggled. Dully, she heard the sounds of men congratulating each other.

Above her, he groaned. That kind man groaned like the sound of a rattlesnake hissing. "Why?" he demanded, "Why didn't you save me?"

Gretta jerked upright, clutching the quilt to her chest. She pressed a hand to her roiling belly, but it was too late. Bolting from the bed she raced to the small water closet and emptied what little she had in her stomach. She wiped her face and pulled the chain, listening to the screaming protests of the broken commode. She pressed her cheek to the cool porcelain and cried.

As usual, she hadn't gotten back to sleep. Instead, she curled up in her bed with a slim volume of poetry that her mother had given her. Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed... For a dream's sake. The lines of Christina Rossetti's Mirage blurred from the tears.

Eventually the sun rose again, giving her the excuse to climb out of bed. She gently closed the book and placed it on the night table next to the only picture in her small apartment. She looked at the grainy black and white photograph and squeezed her eyes shut. A little less than half an hour later she quietly let herself out of her apartment. A leisurely coffee before work would help to erase the fine lines beneath her eyes. After that, her job would keep her occupied enough to stop thinking about it. Perhaps afterwards she would go see the new Cary Grant picture, The Bachelor and the Bobby-soxer. She had heard her friends the secretarial pool talking about it, they had said it was funny. Anything to take her mind off of her life. The building superintendent had request she be absent until after six o'clock so that he might bring in a plumber to fix the commode. A moving picture would do the trick.

Gretta slipped her key into the lock late that evening and opened the door. She was still smiling from the picture and the late dinner she'd had with some friends. Tomorrow was a Saturday so she didn't have to work. Perhaps she would go to the museum and the library.

"S'cuse me, ma'am." A voice from the dark recesses of the hallway startled her. She dropped her purse, whirling to face it. A dark man emerged from the shadow, a hat held diffidently in his large hands. She put her hand to her chest. "I'm the plumber'n I fixed you all's toilet this mornin'n I left one of my tools on in yo' bathroom. I'se jes' wonderin' iff'n I could maybe get it back."

It was him. The same rich sienna colored skin, the same flat nose, and the same downcast gaze. He twisted his hat in his hands and peeked up at her. She felt jarred, the past overlaying itself with the present and then separating. The other man's face had been broader, the forehead slanting backwards a little. His thick, tightly curled hair had been generously sprinkled with white. This one's forehead rose proudly, his face thinner. His hair was shorter and uniformly black. The other one's eyes had been the kindliest she'd ever seen. This one kept his eyes on the floor.

"Ma'am? I need that tool to do a job t'morrow." Even his voice, rich and smooth, matched the other's with the slow southern drawl.

"You're from Mississippi."

"Alabama. You all from Miss'ssipi?"

"Near Tupelo. I haven't heard a southern accent in all the years I've been here." She collected herself and opened the door. "Come in, I'll see to your tool. I'm sorry, you just looked like someone I once knew."

"Way you all was starin' at me, you must not've like him much."

"I thought he was a wonderful man. Come in." She found the chain for the light before he shut the door behind him. She was briefly nervous about being alone with a man, particularly a Negro one, but she shoved the uneasiness aside. "Would you like some coffee?"

She froze at the bolt to her lock clicking shut.

"No, I jes' want to know one thing. Is that you in the picture?" His voice, still smooth and rich, was menacing. Her mind grasped at inanities. The air suddenly seemed chillier. The crack in the wallpaper over her countertop had spread.

Daddy slipped the noose around his neck and smiled at her...

He stalked toward her, stopping when she could feel his hot breath stirring all those fine hairs that were standing straight up on the back of her neck. "Is it you?"

Daddy and a few other men hoisted on the rope, pulling...

"Yes..." The word ripped from her throat, a tortured sound from a wounded animal. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding hard enough to beat its way out of her chest.

"Which girl?"

His legs kicked like he was trying to climb a cliff with no hands...

"Please..." she begged, don't make me remember. She squeezed her eyes tighter, swallowing the rest of the plea.

"The smiling one?"

His eyes were open, the black pupils rolling wildly in the whites...

"N-no, my sister."

"The one next to him."

He died, his body jerking then hanging limply from its string like a marionette that had been cast aside...

"Y-yes." The tears squeezed past her lashes, pouring down her cheeks. His hand clamped over her mouth, jerking her head back against his solid chest. The musky scent of sweaty, angry male washed over her and she felt her eyes rolling in their sockets.

"My papa was lynched. I watched him die by decent white folk like you." She could feel the rage vibrating through him. "All ‘cause he dared t' bump into a white woman. A decent white bitch like you. She screamed rape and had him strung up. He tripped over a busted sidewalk and died for it."

"Why?" he demanded, "Why didn't you save me?"

She shook her head, whimpering.

"He died for a rape he never did do." The fingers of his free hand curled into the neckline of her shirtwaist. "I'm gonna get my justice."

The buttons flew off the soft cotton as he ripped it open. The belt defied him for a moment, bringing a string of curses. Her eyes bulged when he brought a pocket knife up to the hand holding her. She pressed against harder him when he opened it and cut her belt off. He jerked the dress down, yanking it off of her. She flinched when she felt the cold metal of the knife against the warm flesh between her breasts. A moment later the garment sagged and her breasts spilled free. Her staid, cotton drawers followed the dress.

...the noose around his neck...

He threw her toward her small bed, undoing his trousers as he followed her. He planted the knife on her night table, on top of her book of poetry and in front of the framed picture of two little girls, one smiling and one terrified, and a set of dangling, black legs.

Her eyes latched on that picture for a moment, the horror renewing itself all over again. His arm, as dark as the coffee she loved, came down and cut her connection with the past. He used her underwear to gag her.

...hoisting the rope, pulling...

He pawed at her, his hands roughly handling her tender flesh. He pulled at her nipples, tugged on her pubic hair, and prodded at her belly. She felt like a piece of meat being inspected by the man who intended to slaughter her.

"Oh no you don't, sugah. You gonna be here for the whole of it. Open them pretty eyes of yours. I want you to know exactly who is fuckin' you."

She squealed in fright when his fingers stabbed inside of her body, touching her in places that no man had ever touched before, in places she hadn't even touched herself. She wasn't ignorant, she knew how men and women mated, she just hadn't expected it to feel so invasive. Her body jerked, trying to get away from that awful hand.

...legs kicked like he was trying to climb a cliff...

He withdrew his fingers, then replaced it with something bigger, harder, and more painful. He pushed it against her, shoving her thighs out of the way. She struggled against his weight, panting harshly through the thin cotton drawers. Whatever he was shoving into her was splitting her apart, stretching and widening her. He grunted with the effort, then pulled the thing back a little.

"You all's nice an' tight, bitch. I ain't never had a virgin before. I could get to used to a tight cunt like this. It's gonna hurt, when I bust you open. There'll be blood." He grinned, showing her all his teeth.

She knew what he was pushing into her, his penis. She whined in her throat, thrashing her head back and forth. He pushed forward again and the pressure inside grew suddenly unbearable. She moaned, the tears flooding her eyes and leaking into her ears. Her body convulsed, fighting him. Something inside of her gave with a sharp, wrenching pain. She screamed into the cotton, bucking against his hold hard enough to almost throw him off. It only served to bury his penis deeper.

... died, his body jerking then hanging limply from its string like a marionette...

She moaned, a terrible sound like the cries of a dying rabbit. He rocked on top of her, moving himself deeper into her. A slick wetness had developed, probably the blood he'd spoken about, and it eased his way inside. She sobbed silently, her body wracked with them. Why was he doing this to her?

Her eyes latched onto his, desperately seeking for anyting that made him human, made him something other than a savage animal stealing an innocence from her that could never be found again. She saw nothing but the rage he felt. And the pain. There was pain mixed in with his ferocious anger. And confusion like hers. Why? His father had been lynched, strung up for touching a white woman. Like that nice man had been strung up just for taking her hand and helping her across the street. And guilt...

...Why didn't you save me...

She slumped against the mattress, staring wildly at him. The pain and the anger and the confusion and the guilt rolled into one unbearable lump of emotion until she couldn't tell his pain from hers. With one last, might thrust, he embedded himself in her fully. The biting pain between her legs roared through her body, taking her over so completely it burned away the guilt and the anger and the hurt.

He stared down at her, eyes never leaving hers. She could see deep into his soul. His need for revenge fought with his conscience. Slowly, he withdrew his body from hers until the only connection between them was the unbreakable lock of their eyes.

...save me...

She needed him to save her. She ripped the gag from her mouth and he made no move to stop her. "Save me."

"I-" He broke off and tried to break eye contact. He failed.

"I need this. I need you. Do it, damn you. Do it!"

"You're crazy!"

"I killed him! Me! It was my fault he died. My fault they hung him. I watched him die and didn't do a damned thing."

He backed away even more, uncertain in the face of her fury.

"God damn you!" She slapped him solidly across the cheek. His head rocked back for a moment, then his eyes clashed with hers again. The anger was back.

"Fucking bitch!" he snarled.

His hand slipped between them. She glared at him defiantly. A moment later the now familiar pressure was back. For a moment she thought she would have to slap him again. Instead he gathered his powerful body then thrust himself deep into her. The pain enveloped her again, burning away the guilt.

"His name was Jeremiah. He was a grandfather," she hissed, her voice sounding like the hissing in her dreams. "He dared touch me, the lily white daughter of Sheriff MacClain."

He paused again, holding himself inside of her. She clawed at him, urging him on. He resumed his heavy thrusting, working himself back and forth in her clenching womanhood.

"I was standing on the wrong side of Main street and there was a dray team in the way. He took my hand and helped me across the street. That night my Pa-paw and the other knights caught him and brought him to the Lynchin' Tree. My Daddy dressed me and my sister up in our Sunday best. We were so excited."

He had slowed down again, his eyes never leaving hers. She wrapped her legs around him, digging her heels into his taut buttocks. The pain was receding, leaving the old hurt welling from her bleeding heart.

"Then we got there. Pa-paw and his friends had already beat him bloody. I almost didn't recognize him. I had cried all the way through the woods, but I couldn't cry any more when I saw him. I was terrified. They strung him up. I watched him die." Her body shook violently with the sobs she held back. "I watched him and I didn't save him."

"How old was you?"

"I was five."

He quit moving, holding himself deep insider of her. His eyes closed, almost in defeat. A moment later his arms sagged and he slowly collapsed on top of her.

"Why are you stopping?" Her hoarse whisper told of her guilt and pain more articulately than any words could have.

"I cain't do this."

"You need your justice and I need you to save me."

"This's wrong. You didn't do nothing wrong. I cain't."

"Please."

"You all were five years old."

"Please, I can't live with it anymore." Her tears choked her.

"I cain't..." His voice was as unsteady as she felt. They lay coiled together in silence for a few minutes. The silence of the apartment held the noise of the rest of Chicago at bay. He reached some sort of decision, she could feel it with the quivering tension that invaded his muscles.

He rolled off of her, onto his side. Hooking an arm around her waist, he tugged her backside against his front. She sighed in relief when he stabbed into her again, his thick penis roughly abrading the delicate, swollen tissues. The pain washed through her again, absolving her. He lifted her upper leg, pulling it back and over his, spreading her obscenely open to the clear light from the naked bulb in her tiny kitchen.

This new position pulled her vagina around him like a serpentine sheath. He groaned in her ear and she wallowed in the fresh violation. His free hand grasped at her breasts, squeezing and kneading them. She was startled by the darkness of his skin on the paleness of her flesh. He pinched the nipple gently, pulling at it. She was even more shocked to feel a rush of pleasure.

His tenderness was more than she could stand. "Stop it. Make it hurt."

She slapped at his hand, but he ignored it, laughing softly in her ear. His hand slid from her breast down across her belly. She felt her anger build. The pain of his fucking receded into a dull soreness from her untouched vagina. His fingers were bringing more pleasure as they tangled in the riotous nest of curls between her legs. She wanted to cry, he was doing it all wrong. She needed the pain, she had to have. Only the pain would save her.

"No, don't," she moaned. "The pain-"

"Sshh." He ignored her and slid his fingers to the wet place where they joined. She could feel the thick shaft of his penis gently rocking in and out of her and his fingertips gently exploring her most intimate flesh. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against the soft waves of pleasure he was building inside of her.

He parted her lower lips even wider than his penis did. His cock, she thought viciously. Cocks were nasty things her mother had warned her about. Cocks carried diseases and pregnancy. His cock didn't feel nasty, it felt wonderful, actually. One of his fingers pressed against that cock and slid inside of her with it. She relished the brief flaring of pain that extra stretching brought.

She squealed when he brought it out and touched the sensitive knot at the top of her sex. She'd rubbed herself, thrilling to it. When he did it was much better, hotter than anything she'd ever felt. "No!" she cried. "Sto-"

His free hand slipped around her and clamped over her mouth, silencing her. Her voice could easily carry through the thin walls of the apartment building, alerting her neighbors to what he was doing. She'd be ostracized. Worse, he'd be lynched. A black man raping a white woman. She shook her head wildly, no, she'd never let that happen again.

His finger circled the knot in fast strokes, then abruptly shifted to a slow, gentle rubbing. Her traitorous body writhed against him, begging for more of whatever pleasure he could give it. His cock felt like liquid fire, stroking every inch of her insides with a luscious friction. Even though she was hot, her nipples hardened almost painfully. She whimpered against his hand, wishing he'd stop, needing him to stop.

He didn't. He changed the rhythm of his thrusts, moving more insistently and rubbing his cock against a part of her vagina– her cunt, she snarled at herself, cunt– that wept with joy. She could feel the liquid heat of her own juices pooling stickily on her thigh and dripping downward.

"Tha's it, baby," he murmured encouragingly. "I know you like it. I can feel your lil' cunt suckin' my dick."

The bed squeaked, an obscene muted counterpoint to his dancing fingers. She shook her head, denying and making a liar out of herself. She didn't want it, she hated it, the pleasure wasn't what she needed. She needed justice, not pleasure. Cold, painful justice to take away her guilt. He was giving her burning hot pleasure.

Her body clamped down, jerking spasmodically against him. His cock felt like it was growing inside her wet, quivering cunt. The rasping it made against her swollen inner tissues was the most delicious sensation she'd ever felt. The pressure was growing, driving her toward the goal of some explosion, one she knew she didn't want.