Page 80 of If Looks Could Kill
The patio connects the other townhomes in this building. If she can get out, she can run to someone else’s door. Or take a one-story drop to the street. Better that than Mother Rosie’s men.
She hears them in the foyer, talking in voices that echo. They seem to think they’re alone.
For shame, Pearl Davenport, she scolds herself. You darted behind these curtains like a rabbit into a hole. You left Miss Stella alone, and Cora and Freyda, utterly defenseless.
Yes, well, these men have guns.
Now she hears Miss Stella’s voice, high and rasping, and the men, growling out threats.
Their shouts swell.
Pearl’s heart smites her, and she finds her courage.
No, her anger.Men.With their big throats and big bodies, their big muscles and big guns, their huge, arrogant, conceited pride. Their offended majesty at the thought that women want something from life too, even if only to be left alone.
Every man, a god. Every woman, a dog. She is done with such a world as this.
Come to me, my darlings.
Her serpent crown awakes. A surge of energy pulses through her. She is ready for battle.
She parts the curtains and strides across the Persian rug, burning with rage.
She hears the striking of a match. Through the archway, she sees Miss Stella, candlestick in hand, calmly lighting it, though confronted by three men with guns.
Pearl recognizes all three of the men from Mother Rosie’s crib. Murderous anger surges through her. They hurt Freyda and Cora. They sliced off her precious snake.
“There’s one of ’em.” One of the men has seen Pearl, though not well, in the darkness. “Just grab her and let’s get out of here, Joe.”
“We’re not going back withoutalldem girls,” insists the one they call Joe.
Miss Stella bows her head and closes her eyes. Pearl wonders if she is praying. She draws nearer to see. The men advance toward Pearl. They don’t see Miss Stella remove her turban.
The old woman’s head snaps upright. Her snakes erupt from her skull, hissing and showing their fangs. The men turn back to her. The cloudy film of age is gone from Miss Stella’s eyes. Black pupils yawn open, rimmed with red like fire.
Look away.
Pearl closes her eyes. A crunching sound fills the room, bouncing off the ceiling with the loud report of ice cracking on a frozen lake.
Pearl hears a crash. Another and another. Like boulders colliding. Like gravel pouring.
Miss Stella’s voice calls to her. “Pearl? Pearl?”
Pearl opens her eyes. All is dark. The candle has gone out.
“I’m here,” she tells the darkness.
A sigh of relief escapes Miss Stella.
But where are the men? The room wears the silence of a tomb.
The old woman strikes another match. Her arm shakes. It takes two fumbling attempts to get the candle lit. When they are, Pearl sees what she already knew she would find.
Three shattered statues, toppled onto the floor.
Legs and boots of jumbled stone. Hands broken off and spun far from wrist stumps. Three horrified heads snapped off at the neck and rolled away. One with a cauliflower ear.
Inert as German bowling balls. Cold as tombstones. The heads of her enemies.
