Truth and Trust

Almost from birth it seemed, the two had dwelt within her— a sniveling coward and a militant soldier, one cowering in the brush like a timid hare while the other was striding forth boldly to establish lines of demarcation. One striving always to please the other; the other determined to survive in this miserable hell called life no matter the cost to others. They were both there that day. Maybe life would be different if the Right One had been in control of her. Maybe life, like any other tale, is one continuous sequence of events, molded in shape and directed in course by each preceding event as it unfolds.

She can remember her hurried walk through the meadow, weeds brushing against bare white legs, chiggers catching on socks and sweater. She can remember one terrified voice within screaming, “Run! Run or he’ll catch up!” Heart pounding in head, stomach clenching like a fist, chest enclosed in a tighter and tighter vice, her body prepared to take the advice. Tears fought to spring forth from an internal dam. “I’m scared,” that same voice whispered on a broken sob from deep in that tight chest.
Too late! A gnarled branch shot out to clamp on her shoulder.

* * *

Full of pride in his life’s accomplishments and his folklore heritage, the grandfather’s eyes twinkled often with mirth, but his demeanor commanded respect. He was an admired member of the community—president of the Chamber of Commerce, spokesman for the Farmer’s Co-op, and a leading figure in the civic functions of the surrounding area—following over 40 years of educational and coaching success. Over the course of his life, he had established an unprecedented regard from all; it seemed that no person could contemplate the possibility of besmirching his hallowed name.

Physically, his was a gaunt visage. Well into his seventies, he still carried his spare, six-foot-four-inch frame upright (albeit in the attire of a country farmer rather than the suits of his distinguished career). His face carried the wisdom of his years right along with a perpetual week’s growth of beard. Like an old horse, he had become “long in the tooth,” but he took pride in the fact that all teeth (save a gold crown on the very front) were his— no cavities and no fillings (or could it be feelings). He was never seen without long sleeves and long pants, but the work of nature was pronounced in his slow walk, his twisted hands, and the darkly burnished flesh that met his cuffs and collar. That he had been and always would be a man to be reckoned with was clearly evident.

* * *

His dreaded voice encouraged her to slow down in the heat. There was no rush; the boys would wait for them to get back. He could guarantee they had plenty of work to keep them busy. “Ten-hut!” a voice within shouted out staunchly. “Don’t you start crying! What have you got to cry about? Everybody loves you! Slow down! Breathe! Breathe, you stupid little idiot! Now listen…you’re not scared. Okay…you’re not scared. You are not scared!

The child took up the mental refrain, “I’m not scared. I’m not scared. I’m not scared.” The words sat in her mind like building blocks, and the pile of blocks grew with each repetition until her stalwart comrade had her protected like parents never did. But, the tiny voice of the quivering rabbit was still huddled in her soul, deep within her body, urging that body to run, to hide, to scream, to cry, and finally, to pray.

“If I run or hide or scream,” she thought, “Mommy’ll be mad again ’cause I hurt Papaw’s feelings. He only loves me, she’ll say. You’re his favorite…that’s why he likes to spend special time with you, she’ll say. As long as you’re with him, nothing’s going to hurt you…he won’t let you get hurt…he loves you. I don’t know why you try to hurt his feelings. He’ll think you don’t trust him.”

“If I cry,” she thought, “they’ll all make fun of me and then Daddy’ll get mad and I’ll get another whipping.” The only option to keep everyone happy was to stay where she was. She wished she wasn’t so scared…of Mommy…of Papaw…of life.

Papaw’s claw on her upper arm moved her up to the cattle trail out of the weeds as he warned her of the perils of “tearing off through the high grass that way.” She could end up with ticks, maybe even a snake bite. Then what would Mommy say? Do? He didn’t want her to get in trouble. He just loved her, he assured with a worrisome, slow shake of his head.

As he spoke, she looked straight up into the shadowed blackness of his face, which was haloed like an angel’s by a nimbus of the noonday sun. She forced a tight smile and said, “I know, Papaw. I love you too.”

The soldier within said, “Good. You’re safe for now. Just keep him where he is right now and we’ll be fine.” The rabbit pushed a cautiously crinkled nose forward as if to ask, “Are you sure?” but refused to venture forth from the closeting briarpatch.

The old man and the child began to walk around the hillside together toward the barn. The scene was the perfect picture of spring bliss—butterflies floated, bees circled drowsily in the heat, birds trilled in the surrounding trees and flitted from limb to limb, and the sun offered the sensuous pleasure of its warmth while the gentle breeze wafted the mixed scent of new flowers, new grass, and fresh manure to receptive nostrils. The rabbit within her began to relax. Maybe everything would be okay this time. The soldier still cautioned her to be careful.

As they strolled along, the grandfather began to speak again. He commented on what a “fine job” she did earlier in the field, almost keeping up with the boys. He noted that her ability to work so hard was evidence that she was growing up fast; she’d be a woman soon, “just any day now.” He was proud of her.

The rabbit took a hop out and basked in this praise. After all, he had said she was almost as good as the boys. “Careful,” the soldier reminded.

“Oh, it’s all right,” the rabbit replied. “Didn’t you hear him? He’s proud of me. He loves me.” She began to scamper about elatedly in excited, jubilant circles.

As the two rounded the final hillock approaching the barn, the child was relaxed and happy. The old man had released his hold, and she skipped along in front of him.

When she spied the watering tub for the cattle, she faltered and cautiously searched the area. Cows were fine to pet through the fence, but she was terrified of them on their own territory. From her position, she could already hear the mild grunts and snorts of the pigs rooting in their pen. She liked the piglets. If she or the boys could keep hold of a piglet till Papaw came and marked it, they got a fifty-cent piece. The sows and boars were like the cattle—fine, through the fence. She climbed up onto the wobbly rails to peep inside.

The grandfather shouted cautions, urging her to be careful. What if she fell? What if she ruined her dress? Mommy would tan her hide. The child threw one more quick glance into the pen and then scrambled down to wait for him.

The filthy mire from the pigsty spread past both the upper and lower fences. Boards were always laid on rocks close enough to the outside of the fence to allow a handhold support on the slippery, uneven walk. As the grandfather approached the fence, she moved up to get her boost over it. She reached up her arms, and he lifted her to the top rail. But instead of setting her over, he held her there, lightly tracing the outline of her pink-flowered cotton panties.

He commented on her pretty little pink lips, her cute pink cheeks, her strong back and backside, and then on her pretty little “drawers.” He said he figured it would soon be time for her to move into silk drawers.

Long before his speech was over, rabbit had scurried back into hiding. In hiding, yes, but still whispering that old line—“Run! Run! Run!” Suddenly galvanized into action, soldier threw her legs over the railing and began to kick her way down, heartbeats and breaths shifting pell-mell.

The grandfather again cautioned her as he struggled to halt her descent. He didn’t want Mommy upset with her for ending up a mess. He would help her get across the boards. He would keep her out of trouble with Mommy. As he swung across the rails, the child slithered down the boards, catching splinters everywhere.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the soldier, “Move! Don’t run and fall, just move!” She gingerly turned to hop onto the boards and started across them, words pounding in her head—“Move! Move! Move!”

Just as she stepped onto the fifth board, the hateful branch caught at her again. Panicking, the rabbit screamed, “RUN!” Her feet moved, but they were already off the ground, rising to the bough of the tree for protection from the swill below.

He gently chided her for being so rash and not “minding” what she was told. He didn’t want her getting into trouble, he said. All she needed to do was wrap those “pretty little arms” around Papaw’s neck, and he would see to it that she came to no harm. Heart still pounding, her arms crawled up to lie loosely about his shoulders as one of his hands hitched her bottom up to settle on his jutting hip. As his other hand began to move up and down her thigh, sidling higher with each stroke, the child froze.

He had taken up a familiar chant. He “surely” did love her. She was his little sweetheart…the cutest little sweetheart he’d ever had. She needed someone to “watch over her,” to protect her. That’s why he was there—to love her, to help her out, to keep her out of trouble. He loved her and just wanted to make certain she was always happy. He really loved her more than anything.

Inexorably, the rabbit took complete control, crawling deep into the briary thicket of her mind and pulling the overpowered soldier right along. Both cowered, huddled in trembling fear, resolved now to offer comfort to one another as they faced another trial of existence. Each murmured tender words of reassurance as the soldier drew the rabbit up into his arms and curled into a fetal position with head on knees. “He’ll stop soon. We’ll be down soon. He won’t really hurt us. Please don’t cry. We’ll be okay. We’re always okay. I know; I’m scared too, but we’ll be all right. We’ll just stay together and we’ll be okay. He’s not even really here. It’s just the two of us and, as long as we stay hidden together, we’ll be fine.”

As they approached the end of the boarded walk, both of the hidden pair gathered strength. Relief began to filter into both hearts. “There, we can almost see the house from here. He’ll put us down now. We’re almost there.”

The old man carrying the child was still “soothing” her as he stopped at the corner of the barn to look toward the house. He turned to look into her face and commented on how pale she was, rosy cheeks not withstanding. He was concerned. He looked behind them toward the fields where the boys could be seen spreading the lye, then turned and retraced several steps. He knelt and set the child down, scanning her face and then her body as he moved his rhythmic tracing up to her arms and shoulders.

He fussed over the splinters and chiggers that had caught her. He had to get her “straightened up” before they could go to the house. Her mommy would “light into her backside” if she saw the child this way. He would help her out. He loved her. He didn’t want her getting hurt just because she’d been with him.

She stood like a marble statue as he removed her sweater and began to pluck burrs from the fluffy white cotton. A trembling began within her, an urge to do something, but her two advisors were resigned to destiny and remained huddled in a tragic, quivering state. As she stood there before him, his presence seemed to recede. She could see him and even saw his lips moving in speech, but what she heard were the clucking of the chickens, the grunts of the pigs, and the soothing whisper of rustling leaves at her back.

He laid the sweater across his knees and reached for her hands. He removed a few splinters and then brought her tiny hands up to his face, turning his lips to kiss each palm in turn. His eyes moved down to her legs and he slowly turned her body as he extracted more splinters. A calm voice within her commented, “He’s really nice…keeping me out of trouble with Mommy. I don’t know why I get so scared.”

He urged her to the ground and took a pristine handkerchief out to wipe down her legs and then her shoes. All the time, she could see his lips moving, uttering words that floated to her in space as she rose above the scene to watch as an outsider.

The now-soiled handkerchief went into his grey workshirt pocket and his hands replaced it on her legs as he continued to squat in front of her. He commended her on her knees, then her legs, his hands and eyes following his words to her upper thighs. He assured her that she would be a woman soon and out of those “cottons,” wearing “silkies.” He swore she was so pretty he just couldn’t stand it. Just as the words drifted to her mind, his cold, scratchy fingers moved inside the crotch of her panties.

The two huddled in hiding roused from paralysis long enough to scream “RUN!” one time. The child squirmed backwards up against the hill, scuttling up and back like a “crawdad.” The grandfather’s left hand snaked out to catch her ankle and pull her back down the hill, his upper body dropping forward to trap her beneath his weight. She was breathing quickly and shallowly, lips trembling as she fought back tears standing in her eyes. She could still feel his hands, but at least he wasn’t “really” touching her now.

His hands were at her cheek, his voice whispering. He wondered what was the matter. He knew she couldn’t be scared. A pretty little thing like her had nothing to be scared of…he loved her. He wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her. He just loved her.

He shifted and she felt just a fleeting touch of a hand between her legs. She twisted, but then whimpered a choked cry as he hit her there. He’d never hit her before. Her eyes opened wide and then squenched shut as her teeth clenched and she tried to shift back up the hill again. His hands found her shoulders and he seemed to begin to rise. She twisted again, but this time he hit her harder. It seemed as though he’d cut her body in half. Pain throbbed from her knees upward into her chest, and she became limp like a ragdoll.

He was smiling now. She could see him through a red mist. She felt unbeckoned tears trickling into her hairline and ears. She felt throbbing pain throughout her small body, but an even greater pain in her chest rising to choke her.

He shifted and she shuddered as the pain increased. Her eyes opened on the swaying limbs above and she became lost in a haze. Again, she heard the chickens, the pigs, a distant “moo.” She sensed his torturous movement but no longer cared. She was in the trees, listening to the gentle leaves. Vaguely she noted his hallowed face contorting as if in excruciating pain, his fetid breath rasping above her head, a frenzied trembling of his body, all this seeming separate from her explosive pain. What if she had hurt him?

Eventually she felt his face on her face and heard him whisper of his love…how he would never let anybody hurt her for the world…how he would take care of her…how she was really a woman now…how she needed silkies now. He promised to get her some…anything to make her happy.

Both he and his voice retreated; she saw him rise like a towering oak. Strangely, the ache of her body remained. Like a resounding throb, it echoed in each tiny part of her body. She gingerly began to inch up the hill away from him, still on her back. He smiled and reached out a hand. She cringed and a whimper stole from her throat. He continued to smile, assuring her that he wanted to help. He said she had some “cleaning up” to do before her mommy saw her. He said he’d take care of her. He wouldn’t want her to get in trouble.

As he helped her gingerly sit up, she saw the red of blood smeared on her thighs. It was on her dress, and her ripped panties were bright with the stain. Sobs broke forth now as tears streamed down her face. She knew she would get a whipping. She could even die. She hoped she would die…Mommy was going to be so mad. For the first time, she railed at him, “Mommy’s gonna’ be mad. You messed up my dress! Mommy’s gonna be so mad, and I’m gonna git a whippin’. I wish I’d just die. Mommy’s gonna be so mad.” This last finally trailed off with the sobs.

He shook his head and said she was going to have to learn to trust him.

* * *

That day she didn’t get in trouble, and Mommy didn’t get mad. Mommy was happy. Papaw took care of her. He loaded her in the Jeep, got her a new dress and three pair of “silky drawers”; she didn’t get a whippin’ from anyone, and she didn’t die. She figured it just took understanding truth and trust.