Page 3 of Fragile Wicked Things
I stepped into their circle unnoticed. "Why not a woman?" I cleared my dry throat. "They run households."
The group fell silent. Then they laughed with one another at the thought of a woman understanding difficult matters like balancing budgets and defending itself against an ideology meant to destroy American liberties. Talk of communism enthralled the group, and they all agreed it to be the greatest evil to affect America since Hitler. I moved away from them and retired to my room, shut my door, and waited.
Time wasted away as I lay on my bed looking out the window to my neighbor's magnolia tree. My mother loved that tree. I wished to plant one over her gravesite, but when I suggested it earlier that day, I received harsh 'shushes.'
A bird flew to the nest perched on the tree. Through the open window, I could hear tiny chirps and squawks of her young and watched as they pecked at remnants of what may have been a worm. For a moment, I felt happy at the wondrous sight of Mother Nature caring for their young, of the cycle of life, of how the worm's death meant the baby birds would live. Then I wondered, if the mother bird dropped dead, what would happen to her babies? Surely, no one would care for them, and day after day, I would find another baby bird that had fallen and died. No, they needed their mother.
As the day wore on, a relative calm consumed the house. Three or four people remained, and I heard them as they cleaned. Glasses clinked in the kitchen sink, and the harsh bristle of the broom swept the floor on the other side of my bedroom door.
Someone knocked at the front door. I heard a muffled 'welcome' followed by a harsh male voice. Maybe it was some lost uncle I knew nothing of? But it couldn't be since my only uncle had left his family destitute, and my mother's sister had no money to make the trek across the country from Vermont.
Mrs. Reed rapped lightly on my door and entered without waiting for a response. "Get your bag and come with me," she said, the incident from yesterday now forgiven.
I slid off my bed and grabbed my carrier bag, which Mrs. Reed took from me. She followed me out into the living room where I found my father as before, sitting in my mother's chair, still clutching a glass of lemonade.
The Reverend stood by a man I did not recognize. "This is Mr. Brocklehurst, Jane," he said.
I approached the giant man, staring up into his large nostrils. I knew I was expected to say, "How do you do, Mr. Brocklehurst?" but instead, I wanted to call him Mr.Brockleworstfor being the worst-looking man I'd ever laid eyes on. He had too much facial hair, wayward eyebrows and prominent teeth, sharp like a wolf. His grim lips turned upwards with effort, forced into an unnatural state. I sympathized with him, having given many false smiles myself. Had he known very little happiness as well?
"She's smaller than a normal girl her age," Mr. Brocklehurst said, looking me over in obvious disappointment at my stature. He must be used to giants. "Plain looking. And are you a good girl?"
"Usually," Mrs. Reed answered, "when she's not tearing at someone's arm." Earlier, I had mistaken the gentleness in her voice as a note of forgiveness. Weariness is what it had been.
"I'm sure we can all understand given her situation, dear wife. Jane, Mr. Brocklehurst runs a home for young girls like yourself, and he will care for you until your father gets…better and sends for you. Academically, I know you'll find her brilliant."
"My father is better now," I said, looking at the shell of a man sitting motionless. "Daddy?" I turned my attention back to Mr. Brocklehurst.
"Let's get going. We have an hour's drive ahead of us," he said.
"Someone made a mistake, Mr. Brockle..." Worst. Worst. Worst. "...hurst. I'm staying here."
Mrs. Reed let out a limp sound of exasperation. Mr. Brocklehurst looked over to the Reverend, then to my father who stared at a knot in the oak floor, his hands trembling.
"Well?" Mr. Brocklehurst said.
Finally, my father looked at him. "Take her." His words tore into my heart, ripped it wide open, exposing the innards of a sad little girl.
"No! I won't go! Please don't make me go. I can make dinner for you when you come home. I have time after school to cook and clean. I'll do my homework after supper."
My father ignored my pleas. He then refused to look at me; his eyes darted elsewhere. His hands grew white as they tightened around the arms of the chair until finally, he stood, gave one final look to Mr. Brocklehurst, and hobbled away, leaving by the back kitchen door. The screen swung loudly behind him, and he disappeared into the night.
I had no one now.
"Get your belongings," said Mr. Brocklehurst.
I had no one except for this hairy beast of a man. What followed could not have been me, but my anger behaving in a manner without my consent. I kicked and screamed among shouts of "wicked child" and "naughty girls burn for eternity," the latter from Mrs. Reed. This betrayal boiled up in me, and I resented having had kind thoughts about her, even though it was only once or twice.
"You are a witch who talks about others and gets into things you have no business in. Because you have no children of your own!"
Every word I spoke came out as an offense to her and Mr.Brockleworst. I didn't know then what I now understand—my hurt was not caused by them or the man who walked out the back door but by my mother, whose death changed my life forever and set me on a path of such unkindness at Lowood Orphanage, where Mr. Brocklehurst would take me.
My madness exhausted me, and I fell to the floor, heaving. No one said a word. At last, the house grew silent, and even the rage that had been swallowing me now subsided into a calm.
"I will go with you, Mr. Brocklehurst," I said. "I have no home now."
Two
Night fell. We journeyed past a landscape of maple and birch trees bordering a winding, isolated road; a blast of chilly air blew in through the cracked window behind me. Looking up, I sought out the Man on the Moon and found him, smile stretched from side to side. Could it be an omen that good things would happen going forward? Or he may have been laughing at me. Soon, his smile became obscured; the clouds hung low and heavy in the sky. Rain was imminent, but it came sooner than I had anticipated. We drove into a storm. The heavy rain pounded the windshield. The headlights illuminated only a few yards ahead, and with the car windows becoming misty, Mr. Brocklehurst slowed down. He leaned forward, wiping the windshield in large circles with his hands, then flicked the wetness from his fingers. I turned to the window beside me, lifted my hand and wrote my name.
