Which Way Home? by Linda Byler

Author:Linda Byler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Good Books
Published: 2016-03-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 14

LARGE, CALLOUSED HANDS CAUGHT HER WAIST tightly like a human vise, the grip forcing air from her astounded mouth. The smell of sour apple whiskey was hot and rancid, flowing past her ear, as she was pulled against the person who held her in his grip.

Instinctively, she began to struggle and pull away, her hands going to her waist, clawing at the disgusting hands that held her.

Slurred words of affection accompanied the sour stench of his breathing. When Hester saw how dire the situation was, she drew up a foot, and kicked backward, the sharp heel of her leather Sunday shoe catching her brother-in-law’s shin with a splitting blow.

She was released so suddenly she fell headlong onto the caked red earth of the cellar floor. Before she had a second to recover, the door creaked open and a shaft of light shone on her as she struggled to her feet. Her dress was covered with loose dirt, her eyes were wide and filled with fear.

“Hester! Vass geht au?”

It was William, her husband. Before she had a chance to brush off the dirt, he was down the cellar steps, his long legs lowering himself as swiftly as possible. Breathing hard, he grasped Hester’s shoulders, his eyes boring into hers from the light of the flickering oil lamp.

Before she could open her mouth to explain, William found the brother-in-law, his hands hanging stupidly by his side, his mouth working as he wrestled with his shame.

The result of that fateful encounter in the cellar were lies the brother-in-law told William in smooth, pious words, punctuated by sighs of righteousness as he explained Hester’s descent down the cellar steps and into his unwilling arms. She was an Indian, after all.

Hester remembered very little of the Christmas evening, her eyes large, afraid, furtive.

Nothing was wasted on Frances.

William did his duty, bringing his errant wife to task. Simply, it was her word against Johnny’s, the brother-in-law.

Over and over, she repeated her story, her words falling on ears stopped with indignation. William was furious, disappointed. How could she?

Hester sat beside the immense fireplace, the deacon’s bench empty except for her quivering form on one end, the soiled red dress in stark relief against the whitewashed wall like a Christmas poinsettia someone had trampled upon.

For the hundredth time, she shook her head. “I didn’t, oh, William, I didn’t. It was him.”

William stalked the kitchen floor, his hands behind his back, his head thrust forward in the throes of his anger. “I would believe you if it wasn’t for the Indian in you. Indians lie. They don’t care, godless heathens that they are.”

She stopped then. She gave up trying to tell William the truth. She watched with eyes that were dull and lifeless as he hurled every bottle of herbal medicine into the roaring fire, forbidding her to travel the community with her witchcraft, her Indian powwowing.

He grasped her shoulders, her forearms, leaving dull blue marks that lasted for weeks. He told her that if it ever happened

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