Mother of Pearl

The sweat trickled down Lillian's flushed cheeks as she curled her fingers tightly under her thumbs, her small fists concealed by the loose cotton smock as she prepared to punish the drawn face leaning over her. Only inches above the child's trembling chin, the ten year old bully looked around at the other girls for assurance then turned back and with a sneer born from daily desperation, spit out a burst of venom, " If you don't believe me, you just ask her."

"I will. I'm gonna tell my momma the lies you're saying. She'll use a razor strap on your behind for sure," Lillian screamed as her tears mixed with the dust of the road and formed thin furrows along the lines of her down-turned mouth. Then the still heat of the afternoon stirred as Lillian swung both fists into the girl's face, forcing the taller child to stumble backward into the weed covered ditch and collapse from the unexpected onslaught. Wiping her nose with the back of her bruised hand, Lillian stood over the beaten girl when a long shadow first reached the group.

Outlined by the lowering sun behind, the Tennessee Walker smoothly trotted toward the children. Kicking up small clouds of dust from the dirt roadway, the horse and rider blended as the ripples of heat melted man and animal into one. The shadow crawled steadily along the crusted ground until the circle of children stood shielded from the Texas heat by the tall figure seated above the dappling gray.

"Good afternoon ladies. Discussing the finer techniques of embroidery this evening?" asked the man in the saddle as he pulled the gelding to a halt.

With an exaggerated sweeping motion, the man removed his hat, bowed, and as he leaned over, the tail of his silk scarf fell to the top of his polished riding boots. Released from under the straw Stetson, his black hair covered the collar of his duster, the dark curls clean and soft as the locks of a kept woman. Adopting a relaxed pose, he raised a leg up and over the neck of the gelding to better show the silver spurs and the little used soles of his boot. With the clean fingernails and light skin, working men might call him a 'Dandy' but the depth of his eyes stopped that careless remark before it cleared their throats. Now, without a hint of the danger within, his glance danced across the circle of children, playfully searching for a partner to join in his amusement.

Lillian's brother Ben, always asked the silliest questions but she was familiar with his quirky side. She ignored the question and never took her eyes off the older girl. The six year old was ready to finish it right there. If the bully made the slightest move, Lillian would tie into her like hornets on a watermelon in August.

Irritated at the interruption, the gray horse tossed his long mane back and forth as the circle of girls look down at their bare feet. The thin girl with the bloody nose raised her chin toward the man and complained, "She hit me. I didn't do nothin."

"Oh I see now, you ladies are fighting for the lightweight title of Sutherland, Texas. If I'd had known it was a title fight, I could've sold tickets," Ben smiled as he answered the complaining child.

A couple of the ten year olds in the back self-consciously grinned which only encouraged Ben to continue.

"Do we have a clear champion today, a conqueror to parade the victory plume through the coliseum?" Ben asked, warming to his audience now of several giggling girls. They all smiled, all except the girl with the bleeding nose; she remained on the ground, intent on picking burrs from the back of her muslin dress and trying to ignore Lillian standing above her.

"Well it looks like almost everybody had some fun so why don't you young ladies head on for home?" Ben said, his grin slowly fading as he saw their bare feet and tattered dresses.

The circle of girls broke apart, some heading into the bottom while others moved toward the tents by the tracks. With vacant eyes picking the ground for anything left of value, they walked slowly away and toward what remained of their homes. The South Texas drought had pulled the joy from their young lives, their childhood shriveled to a wafer thinness, as flat as the sun-baked frogs in the now dried lake bottoms. The unforgiving heat had stolen the dreams of their parents first; now it tore and peeled away the last traces of young wonder.

"Want a ride home Babe?" asked Ben as he offered his hand to Lillian. Ben's eyes didn't follow the children's paths since there was nothing he could do. He was a gambler of sort, but rainmaking was a gamble beyond his skills. Let the holy roller hypocrites get on their knees once again, he thought, then laughed at the irony, remembering the many hours he'd spent on his own knees rolling the unlucky dice in dimly lit alleyways.

"Don't call me Babe, I'm in first grade now," Lillian demanded as Ben lifted her up in front of him and handed her the leather straps.

"Well, if you're in first grade, I guess you're big enough to take the reins and head us home, but remember child, 'Full House' isn't your little pony you sneak cookies to and ride around the pasture. This is a real horse and needs a strong hand," warned Ben.

As the last child picked herself up from the littered ditch and headed for the cover of the mesquite thickets, the bloodied child shouted out a final burst of anger, " It's lucky for you, your Daddy saved you," then she disappeared into the thick brush.

Ben sunk the wheels of his spurs deep into the flanks of the gelding, pushing the horse into a full lope and forcing Lillian back into her brother's chest. Horse, man, and child ran for a quarter mile until Ben nudged the girl's shoulder and said, " Let him cool a bit Babe," and she tightened the reins to bring the soaking horse into a measured trot.

"How was your first day of school?" asked Ben as he took his handkerchief and wiped the sweat soaked dust from Lillian's neck. She loved the softness of her brother's handkerchiefs, often wishing her mother would make dresses from the same material. Her Momma always refused, saying it was too fancy for a little girl with good sense and proper manners.

"It isn't polite to show off," Momma always told her.

"School was ok but I missed Girdy. Why can't she go with me?" Lillian asked, fidgeting now that they weren't going fast.

"Girdy is a Negro, Babe. She can't go to the white school," answered Ben.

Lilian thought this over as they trotted past the row of sharecroppers' houses. She waved to the few children sitting on the front steps and reined the horse over to scare a skinny piglet rooting dandelions along the road's edge. Most of the houses were boarded up now as people had moved on. Signs painted with banks' names were stuck into the hard ground, warning others to stay away as if they needed the warning. The hot wind, pulling all traces of moisture from the soil, was warning enough for most.

Lillian had yet learned to read all the letters so the scribbling meant little to her as she absently worked the word 'Negro' across her lips. Somehow, the words Girdy and Negro had never come together in the Suthers' house. Lillian's mom called Girdy precious and sweet and sometimes stubborn but never Negro.

As they trotted by the last boarded house on the road, Lillian turned her head around, looked up into her brother's eyes and asked, "Why do the families go?"

"Times are hard, Lillian. I haven't seen cotton prices this low since '04," answered Ben, then thought better of pouring economics into the mind of a child.

"It's so damn dry, girl. There hasn't been any rain in a coon's age," added Ben, confident that she'd understand the connection between the rain and crops, even if the bankers couldn't.

"You shouldn't cuss. Daddy says cussing is vulgar," corrected Lillian as she stuck her elbow into her brother's ribs as a warning.

"That old man thinks everything outside of reading his damn Bible is vulgar. Besides, you don't even know what vulgar means, young lady," challenged Ben.

"Yes I do," a determined Lillian said, "There's good folks and there's common folks. Common folks are vulgar."

"Is that so?" asked Ben, smiling at the certainty of a child's belief.

"Yes, that's so," answered Lillian, as she stiffened her lip to prove the point.

"Well, here's something for you to chew on, girl. Folks are just folks. The less time you spend worrying about whether they're good, bad, vulgar, or have two horns growing out of their head, the more time you'll have to enjoy 'em all," announced Ben.

The word 'chew' woke Lillian's stomach which growled from a pent-up demand and her thoughts tossed aside her brother's wild idea as food entered center stage.

"Girdy and me are goin' to eat peach cobbler tonight. Momma promised and I'm so hungry, I could swallow a horse apple," Lillian blurted out, brightening at the thought of her and her best friend digging spoonfuls of sweet peaches and sugared crust from the white porcelain bowls.

Ben reined the gelding over to save a foolish rooster running from one edge of the road to the other and asked, " How can you be hungry, child? Your mother fried you half a chicken for lunch today."

"I gave most of that away to the girls whose mothers forgot," said Lillian.

"What do you mean by 'mothers forgot?'" asked Ben, always curious about how Lillian saw the world.

"Some of the children's mothers forgot to fix lunch so I shared," Lillian added, recalling the way the girls had grabbed the offered chicken, sucking the small bones until they glistened. Those girls had eaten like orphaned pups in winter. Lillian always fretted over the stray dogs that showed up in the worst of weather. She usually sulked until her Daddy gave in and fixed a straw lined box in the barn.

Ben hugged Lillian tightly to his chest and said, " Maybe those mothers got other things on their mind, Babe," as they passed under the Suthers' arched gate and continued up the long road to the hilltop house.

Lillian looked down at her brother's smooth hand resting on the saddle horn. His duster had ridden up to show the creamy buttons on his shirtsleeve. Ben called the buttons 'Mother of Pearl' and was proud to show them to everyone. Lillian's small fingers traced the soft round edges and wondered if the mother of pearl ever forgot her children's lunch.

"So, what was the fight about? I've never known you to fly off the handle. You can be a little pain in the ass but generally you just stiffen up and sulk, " Ben questioned, ready to change the subject to butterflies if her answer proved unpleasant.

"They made up lies," answered Lillian, quickly closing the questioning at hearing the farm dogs' welcoming howls. She knew Girdy would be close behind the pack, running to keep up and breathless as always.

Above the dusty cloud thrown high from the running pack, Girdy's head swung from side to side as she raced to catch the dogs.

The dark girl was also six but a full head taller than Lillian. The two children had been inseparable as long as both could remember. Momma had said Girdy had shown up like a stray dog on the back porch, her shivering arms holding a folded quilt made from flour sack remnants. Like the dogs, she'd been taken in and loved as well as any other abandoned creature. Before Ben's arrival, Lillian had depended on Girdy for everything she didn't want parents to know. Now, with Ben here, she had another ally in the plans and plots of a six year old rebel.

Momma met them all on the front porch, a wet rag ready to wipe the grime from the girls' faces before they were allowed to sit at the kitchen table and drink their glasses of buttermilk. She spread her arms wide to gather them in, her white hair sandwiched between the two dark headed children as she hugged them tight to her large chest.

"Tell me all about it. How was your first day at school Lily? I'll tell you something first. Girdy moped around all day, missing you and the trouble you two get into," said Momma as she busily scrubbed the faces of the girls, wiping down their arms until she saw the bloody scrapes on Lillian's hands.

"What have you done here, child?" Momma asked, turning Lillian's small hands over as she examined the cuts, "I'll have to put iodine on that for sure."

Rolling a cigarette as he leaned against the porch column, Ben flinched at seeing Lillian's eyes shut tight and tears start to flow as the word 'Iodine' came out of Momma's mouth.

"For God sake, Momma, they're just scratches. Don't bath the girl in that damn iodine," Ben pleaded as the tobacco spilled from the half made cigarette.

"This child's my responsibility. You've proved that with your good for nothing ways so let me take care of her as best as I know how. Girdy, go get the bottle," Momma said, continuing to glare at Ben, rooting him to his spot on the porch.

Girdy began to mimic Lillian's sobs, outperforming her friend in both intensity and loudness. Trapped between the loyalty to her best friend and a duty to follow her Nanna's instructions, Girdy howled, causing the mixed bag of dogs to start their own complaints.

"Girdy, didn't you hear me?" demanded Momma as she looked around for a rock to silence the dogs.

"Jesus, I'll get the goddamn bottle, Mom. Don't make Girdy take part in your craziness," Ben yelled as he opened the screen door, throwing it back hard against the clapboard siding, his boots hammering the linoleum flooring as he walked to the kitchen.

"Watch your mouth, Ben, or I'll wash it out," yelled Momma to his back as he turned the kitchen corner.

'I'll bet you would, old woman,' thought Ben as he moved the cans and bottles of detergents and cleaners around the shelves, hoping against hope, that the dark bottle would be missing. But it wasn't. Warning of the danger of overzealous motherhood, the brown label's skull and crossbones stood stark and forbidding under the closet's single light bulb.

'I might not be able to make it rain but I can save one little girl from that old woman,' thought Ben as he tiptoed to the steel sink, twisted the encrusted cap from the bottle and began pouring the red liquid down the drain.

As the contents neared two-thirds empty, Ben lost his nerve and righted the bottle. He stared at the remaining portion, ashamed of his cowardice as the naked skull smirked back in his face. Thirty-four years of the same treatment Lilly now faced, had made Ben moldable to his mother's demands. It was as though the minute he crossed his parent's threshold, his spine was jerked out of his back and locked deep away in some hidden box to which, only 'they' owned the key. In Houston, where he'd made a name for himself, Ben's enemies would cross to the other side of the street seeing him coming down the sidewalk. Here, in the house of his birth, he was no braver than the thin waif of a girl who'd yelled out the truth that afternoon.

"Where's that bottle?" the voice of his mother's demand stormed down the hallway.

Since compromise was the middle name of cowardliness, Ben took a pitcher of well water and filled back the bottle to the proper height, washing the outsides with a dry cotton towel until the glass container appeared untouched. The liquid's color stayed unchanged, a blood red ready to burn the evil out of the most stubborn child - a punishment cloaked as a good deed, the same as his Deacon father preached the devil out of the lowly sinner whether the devil resided there or not.

Ben hurried back to the porch and handed the bottle to his mother. He looked out and across the fields to shield his eyes from any questions, then resumed his place leaning against the column. His shaking hands, unable to cooperate, tried vainly to roll another cigarette.

"Here sweetheart, this won't hurt much. Momma knows what's best for her little girl," Lillian was assured, as the burning liquid poured across the broken skin.

Lillian squirmed, kicking her feet and trying her best to break free from the woman's grasp. Then she yelled as loud as a six year old could, " You're not my Momma. The girls at school told me. My real Momma wouldn't hurt me."

Momma released her grip on Lillian's arms, drawing back as if her soul was on fire from the potent liquid.

"Those girls are common little gossips. You can't believe a word out of those white trash mouths," She cried, grabbing the porch swing's chain for support as her knees turned weak.

Now free, Lillian waved her hands above her head, trying to cool the burning wounds with the afternoon air. To help her friend, Girdy blew across the open cuts until she coughed and gasped for air. Both girls madly danced in circles on the wooden porch, unaware of the figure collapsing onto the seat of the swing. The wooden seat swayed slowly as Momma moaned, " Dear sweet Jesus, Why have you forsaken me? Why do you always take my children away?"

As Girdy's breath returned, she laid her head on her Nanna's lap and said, " I'm here, Momma. I'm not goin' away."

Ben remained as rigid as the column he leaned against, afraid that the slightest sound from his mouth would collapse his world, dropping him into the bottomless pit his Father preached about so often.

The cigarette paper fell from his fingers, and as he grabbed at the fluttering parchment, a lone button tore loose from his shirtsleeve, leaving only a single tuft of broken thread as evidence of the mother of pearl's lost purpose. Ben then knew that the plaintive moans of his Momma's despair threatened to bury him and his daughter unless he spoke.

Barely audible above the evening breeze in the oak leaves, his voice whispered," Lilly had to know sometime, Momma. You've forgotten that day would come. Maybe we both tried to forget," as Ben bent down to retrieve the lost button and gather his daughter into his arms.