I’d read and study at the library every day. All the books I ever asked for were science books—could be anything from physics to botany. Miss Webb never could have guessed what I was trying the hardest to learn from all that work.
The bus driver would pick me up in the afternoon and take me to where we lived. I think he must have been sweet on Miss Webb. It was for damn sure that nobody was paying him to carry me and my chair all the way to the door, both ways, like he did all during the week.
I wished I had a way to show my appreciation for that, besides just thanking him each time—that was nothing but common politeness.
I think the driver maybe even knew that. Because, when I asked him if I could know his whole name, he just said, “Charles Trammel, son. I mostly go by ‘Charley,’ but that there’s my proper Christian name.” I don’t think he would have said all that if he couldn’t tell that I felt bound to repay his kindness in some way.
Everybody at the school knew all about me spending my days at the library. But nobody ever said a thing about it. Who would they tell?
iss Webb was the first girl I ever gave a Valentine card to. The only one ever, to be truthful about it.
She knew I could never bring books home—the Beast would tear them up just to be doing it. But I could bring the things she baked, and the big bottle of milk she always had for me, too, as long as me and Tory-boy could make them disappear quick enough. We got real good at that.
Miss Webb never tried to get me to read anything special; she just left me on my own. But she could get books I wanted just by ordering them from bigger libraries. I loved her for doing that even more than I loved her for feeding me and Tory-boy the way she did.
You are what you do. So I was able to love Miss Webb just for being herself.
I was a little ashamed of that feeling. I know I should have been wishing that Mr. Trammel and Miss Webb would get married, but I just couldn’t make myself do that.
I’m not even going to lie and say I tried.
’ve had this sense of balance inside me ever since I can remember, but I didn’t really feel it kick in until I found science. It was like a holy spirit, the way it beckoned me.
Preachers will say they “got the call.” I don’t know how it was for them—or even if they’re being truthful when they make that claim. But for me, there could be no doubt. Science called: loud, hard, and sharp. A bright-white light calling, “You come this way, boy!”
Igniting something that had been inside me all the time, as congenital as my disease.
That does happen; I know it for a fact. Homer LaRue is the finest fiddle player there is, even if you’ll never hear him on the radio. Folks say he just picked up an old fiddle one day and made it sing. Every year, people would come back from Branson and swear they hadn’t seen anything to compare to him. And Homer LaRue never had a lesson in his life.
Folks say the music was born in him, but he didn’t know that himself until it called him. That was like it was for me with science.
When Miss Webb saw me with an algebra book, she asked me if she could help me with it. I was stuck for a minute, like I was being pulled two different ways. I wanted to say yes; I always loved having her close to me. But I wanted to show off for her even more.
When I demonstrated that I already knew how to do all the problems, she couldn’t hide her surprise. “Oh, Esau, I never imagined—” Admitting that she had underestimated me caused her to blush. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I was only about twelve or thirteen when it happened, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
And I will treasure it forever.
Oh, how I wanted to see that blush again. But I couldn’t surprise her twice. After that, no matter what outlandish claim I’d make about what I knew, I couldn’t even get her to raise her eyebrows.
t wasn’t just killing I studied. I had to know about why me and Tory-boy had been so cursed. And I finally found the explanation I prayed wouldn’t be there when I looked.
Once I followed the trail down to its natural end, I found myself studying genetics. After that, it didn’t take me long to work it out.
I don’t remember my mother. No, that’s wrong. That’s just dishonest. What I mean to say is that I have no actual memory of the Beast’s woman—the one he always told people had run off on him. I knew that she hadn’t given birth to me.
I remember thinking how, if her first child hadn’t turned out to be a girl, she might have lived long enough to have actually been my mother.
I couldn’t think past that point without crying, so, after a few tries, I stopped. For good.
es, I wanted it more than anything on earth. And, yes, I worked at it every waking moment. But when that flower finally reached full bloom, it wasn’t due to any plan of mine.
It just happened, as if its time had come.
If people could look at a videotape of what happened, they’d get sick. And if they liked what they were seeing, they’d be sick.
The way it started, I didn’t have any feeling about it at all. It wasn’t new; it was part of my life. But when the Beast turned vulnerable, it was like looking at a beautiful new butterfly, opening its glistening wings as it rested up for its first flight. One of those rare sights, one you knew wouldn’t last but a few seconds.
And something you’d maybe never see again.
I say it just happened because it started the way it always did. Rory-Anne came in real late one night. The Beast was waiting. He said he could smell it on her, what she’d been doing. Rory-Anne was too messed up to notice his eyes had already turned red.
He made us watch. I was nearly fifteen then; Tory—the child she’d named after herself—he was turning seven. Old enough for school, but nobody ever thought of sending him. He’d watched the Beast hurt Rory-Anne plenty of times, just as I had. He didn’t understand that this time was going to be different. At first, neither did I.
The Beast had done all kinds of things to Rory-Anne before. We were used to it; she was used to it. He always called it “God’s punishment for whores.” First he’d use his belt on her, and then …
That night, when he was finished with the belt, he made her get on her knees. I thought I knew what was coming next—I’d seen that particular punishment a lot of times, even more since Tory-boy had been born.
By then, I knew why the Beast wanted Rory-Anne to get pregnant again. He wanted a baby girl.
The Beast unzipped his pants, but when he pulled his thing out, it just hung there, limp.
Rory-Anne burst out laughing at him. She called him all kinds of dirty stuff. I thought he’d beat her some more for that, but he just zipped up his pants and walked away. I figured he was headed for one of the bottles he always kept in his room.
When he walked back in, Rory-Anne was sitting on the couch. But she wasn’t crying, she was having a good time. Kept calling the Beast all kinds of foul names, pointing at him, laughing like a crazy person.
“Good thing you can’t get that little thing up no more, old man. Nigger cock tastes a lot better than yours, anyway.”
She didn’t stop talking that kind of stuff until she saw the pistol in his hand.
The Beast walked up real close to her and shot her in the face. Pieces of her head flew off behind her.
He looked at what was left of Rory-Anne’s face like he expected her to say something. Seconds passed. Then he put down the pistol, spun around, and walked over to the kitchen. He came back with the butcher knife in his hand.