Sufficiency

Or maybe it ought to be, to whom it may concern.

Both the same way of saying, nobody.

Will ever read this. For which I am glad. It means I can say what I please.

Dear diary.

I woke up this morning to the sound of music. Loud. Please allow me to introduce myself, some singer screamed, through my bedroom window boarded up. Deep drums keeping an odd beat. Sin, sin, sin.

In short, day like every other day this month. And I had laid out clothes to wear today on the chair beside my bed, which were my customary old grey weekday things.

But then this morning, although it was a Wednesday, my Pa leaned in through the door, and said, put on your Sunday best, Sufficiency.

Voices was gone already, had already dressed and made her bed. Assuming that she had unmade it at all. Yes Pa, I replied.

But first, child, get down on your knees and pray, he said, and I did. Dear God, I don't think I'm ready, I prayed. I don't think I'm ready for Hell. Dear God, dear God. And I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I just knelt listening to the music for what seemed like long enough. Then I stood up and started to go about getting dressed.

It felt awful, though, putting on these clean crisp clothes, when I hadn't washed myself properly in weeks. Since the water went out I have only scrubbed standing with cold used water in a basin in the bathroom, by light of a candle that's set on the lid of the empty toilet tank. White drops of wax all over the porcelain. The window's been boarded up of course, so the cops can't see to shoot. So I can hold the candle over the water, and lean my head over, and see my face. And I can see clearly how dirty I am. Cleaner than some, mind you. Hair washed and underwear wrung out in the rainbarrel on the sly. At night, when everyone inside sleeps, because somehow they can, even with the music always playing, bell-clear, beyond the fence. The rhythm of it, burn, burn, burn.

Sufficiency, Pa called up the stairs, we are waiting. So I put on my Sunday best, and brushed my hair, and came down to breakfast. Stiff collar scratching away at the back of my dirty neck.

Voices was stirring up some mush on the campstove that we had set up on the dead range. Her turn to cook today. My turn tomorrow. Good morning Sufficiency, Voices said. Good morning Voices, I replied, and, good morning Interpretation. He was sitting in front of his bowl with a spoon in his hand.

Your turn to say grace, Sufficiency, said Pa, so I bowed my head and spoke the words without listening to them, because as always I was making a prayer in my head of my own, which goes, dear God, I hope you can hear me, because I want you to know how much I hate you. I need you to understand how much greater my hate is for you than it is for Pa, even though I imagine my hate for him as like a diamond, harder than anything in the world, but You are not in the world, You are not constrained by its laws.

And I felt such a cold thrill, I had to make very sure my mouth was saying what it ought to, thank You, thank You. And, of course, dear God, I hate Voices too, for the things she's done. When it's my turn to cook I like to think about smashing something glass up as fine as I can and stirring it into her food. Yet that hate is as glass is to diamond compared to the hate that I feel for Pa, and he, as I have said before, is as nothing compared to You.

Amen.

I watched Pa take up a spoonful of mush and swallow it, watched Voices do this also, before I tasted mine. And I think maybe Interpretation was watching me the same.

And what would I do, if they fell over dead. In a way I wished that they would, and then I would know it was poison. If I ate then, that would be suicide. Not that it matters.

And if I did, what would Interpretation do.

After, I scrubbed the dishes clean in cold water, since we're not supposed to waste the propane on such luxuries. Even today in our Sunday best. And voices swept the kitchen floor, and then I scrubbed it, although it looked clean as could be in the candlelight, and so the morning passed away. And then Pa came back from wherever he'd been, and said, get down on your knees and pray, so we did.

And I was listening over the music and my own voice for the sound of him getting his gun. And I was wondering who he would shoot first. And who would be last. Dear God, I was saying inside, I am still not ready. Hell is like burning alive in a car crash forever. My Ma told me that. But I guess You know, I said, I guess You know pretty much everything. And then this wave of sickness came over me. I need fresh air, I said, and Voices shrugged, and I put on my coat and went outside.

The cops or someone yelled at me but I didn't look or listen, but I knew I had to find a private place.

Something flew toward me from over the fence, and I stepped back to avoid it. Then there was a little string of smoke rising up from the grass in front of my feet, and I bent down. Saw half a cigarette ringed thick round the yellow end with lipstick. I still did not look at them, but shouted, whore, do you understand, that Hell will be like burning alive in a car crash forever and ever, but worse, do you, can you, understand that, whore.

Well if I'm going to Hell at least I'll be in good company, she screamed.

I picked the cigarette up. Licked my fingers and squeezed the burning end out. Then made my way to the Jameses house, which is empty, because the Jameses, they have already gone to Hell. And when they did they left their larder full, but everyone left has come and gone over the days that have passed since, and the cupboards are pretty much bare now.

I came in through the back door, which opens onto a landing, and you can go up to the house or down to the cellar. And after a warm week or two, going down the stairs into the airless cellar you could tell there was a bad smell just beginning to seep through the seal of the Jameses big old freezer, which I guess no-one dared to open by the time they recalled that it was there.

It's a private place, though, and keeps out most of the music, and the smell has so far remained faint, so I lit a candle and went down. I always carry a candle in my pocket, or two, and a box of matches of course. We've got boxes full of flashlight batteries, but Pa and the rest said we have to save them for emergencies. You'd think all the lights going out would be an emergency, but once a week or two go by, it's just the way things are.

I walked toward the corner to the right of the stairs, where the freezer is, and some shelves where bags of potatoes and carrots used to be, and under the stairs is a good place to hide if anyone comes. And I was thinking about a lot of things, and trying not to.

Then by the light of the candle I caught some motion. The blinking of an eye, or the sparkle of sweat on skin. And I raised the candle, and looked up, and saw his face.

Of course it was a face I had known pretty much all my life, so I laughed at myself right afterwards, for jumping the way I did. Darkly Noon, you half scared me to death, I scolded him. What are you doing down here, I said. Look, looking for onions, he answered, in his way.

Don't you mean feeling for onions, I laughed, but he just looked confused.

Lord showed good sense calling him Darkly, I heard my Pa say one time, the boy sure isn't any too bright. To which I remember I wanted to say, does that mean that you think that the Lord could show anything other than good sense. But I didn't say so of course.

You don't have a light, I explained, and he seemed relieved. I, I, I, he replied. Had a candle, but it blew out.

Oh, I said, and smiled at him. Looked up into his face. He didn't smile back. But, I was thinking, whatever you can or can't say for his brains, or his speech, he's at least got those eyes, that put me in mind of blue saucers set down in the middle of white dinner plates. And that mouth, like a big old four-poster bed, silk sheets and eiderdown. Like the most expensive things in a catalogue.

Onions, hum, I said, out of desperate lack of anything else to say. Except, I'm so scared, I don't want to die, I don't want to burn, forever, but I didn't say those things. Onions, hum, I said to him. I don't see any here.

What what what were you looking for, he asked. Just a bit of privacy, I replied. After a pause he said, what what do you need privacy for.

I looked him up and down, and thought he looked uncomfortable, hot, in his silly Sunday suit. Tie strangling tight. Did your Ma make that suit for you, Darkly, I said. It's very nice, I lied. She bought it I think, he replied, and then thought for a minute, then asked again, why do you need privacy.

And his hair was neatly combed back and shone black like feathers or fur, and I could smell him over the rot in the uncirculating air, and I wanted to cry. Save me. But I didn't.

Why do I need some privacy. Well. Do you promise not to tell, I said. He nodded. All right, come here and I'll show you, I said, and set the candle down on the floor, and started to lift up the hem of my skirt. He turned his head away. Do you want me to show you or not, I said, and then saw the spark of his eye, as he dared a glimpse. Oh, he said.

The scars are getting awfully crowded in some places. I always take care to keep them up high under the skirt. Where nobody ought to be looking anyhow, I said, laughing. No, he said, looking. Yes. Does it hurt.

It hurts to make the cuts, I said, but the scars are pretty much painless. Pretty much dead as the rest of my skin, I guess.

He kept staring, until I let my skirt fall back down. Then he said, I didn't know you ever did anything like that. As though it ought to have been obvious to him. But all my skirts are dark, you can't see blood stains, only dust, even supposing that you were inclined to look for such things. Do you do it too, I asked, and looked him up and down. Chest, belly, legs, acres of pale secret skin. But he shook his head.

Do you ever want to, I asked him, and he shook his head again.

Well then what did you come down here for, I said, sort of smiling, sort of teasing. I told you, for onions, he answered, loudly, and bent down and started digging around in the little triangle place where the stairs get low. I really don't think you're going to find any, I said, place is pretty much empty of food it seems to me. For no reason I could fathom he handed me back a box of rat powder he found in there. Open, half empty, the top and sides of it caked thick with the dust of who knows how long.

The stiff seam of my good clean collar cut into my neck, it felt like, and I fiddled the button open. I used to wonder how much of this it would take, I said.

Darkly stood up and turned around. Looked at me. To kill a rat, he asked. I laughed. To kill my Pa, I said. If I put it in his eggs. Under his bacon. Spread on his bread with the butter. Stop it, Darkly said.

I set the box down on the freezer. I never did anything like, I explained. Never did harm to anyone, except for myself, and that isn't a sin, so long as you don't go so far as to kill yourself.

Thinking about it is just as bad of a sin, he said.

Sin, sin, sin. I reached round and scratched at the back of my dirty neck, and unfastened another button. So, since I think about you, I said to him, the way I do, then I might as well do what I'm thinking.

What what what what do you mean, he said, which I think proves he knew. Never mind, Darkly, I said. And for a moment I considered letting it go at that. I could tell him to go, and then I would have my privacy. Never you mind. I leaned back against the freezer and stuck my hand in the pocket of my coat, and felt the knife handle. Bible and matches and extra candle.

But you know, there is one that I haven't showed you yet, I said. Do you want to see.

I sat myself up on the freezer so that I would be able to show it properly. Stretched my leg out along the top of it and pulled my skirt up all the way, to show off the one very best among all my scars. It's a big old cross, high up the inside of my thigh, and about the length and breadth of my hand, and all jagged and white and numb. I cut it three or four years ago, under our porch maybe or in a shed. And it seeped out this yellow-green jelly for weeks, that I would pick away, then wait for the wound to fill up again.

Darkly looked sort of disgusted. Sort of confused. It's upside down, he said presently.

Looks rightways up to me, I said. Bending my knee up high. Don't it look rightways up now to you too, I asked. I guess so, he said.

And we were like that for a minute, and then he reached out his hand and touched it. And that made it look smaller, because his hand is a good deal bigger than mine, but he seemed impressed by it anyhow. How can you stand the pain, he said, running his thumb down the vertical bar of the cross, up to the hem of the leg of my underwear, and he stopped there. I put my hand on his. It goes further, I said.

I don't think I should, he said. But he did. But then jerked away his fingers and looked at them like maybe he was expecting blood, like maybe he thought he had found a fresh cut. What, I said, do you think I have aids like those town whores and faggots and all, of course not he said, but I don't think I should. Why don't you think so, I said, and slid down off the freezer so that my belly pressed against him, his pants, where the zipper is, and the thing was big and hard under there. I knew it would be.

You got a flashlight in your pocket, Darkly, I asked. Aren't they supposed to be for emergencies. And I imagine he must have turned red, but you couldn't tell by the candlelight. That's not, he started to say, all agitated, and I laughed and reached up for his neck which was damp at the back and pulled him down and brushed my lips against his, which were all dry and smooth and warm as freshly ironed clothes. And worked with my other hand at opening the buckle of his belt. No no he kind of said against my mouth, my cheek, but he didn't try to stop me, until I had got it completely undone, and then I fell down on my knees in front of him. No no no no no no, he said, and stepped back away from me. Then he got down on the ground as well. Oh, don't, you'll ruin your nice new clothes, I said.

He grabbed my hand. Tight. We should, he said, but choked on the word pray, and squeezed my hand harder, and he was breathing fast. I moved forward, and put my knees on either side of his, and kissed him again. We can get married easy enough, I said, as I slid my free hand down his white shirt. Dirtying it, I imagine, with dust and sweat, but by the candlelight you couldn't see. Maybe God sent us a sign, us being down here together, I said. And undid the button on his pants, and pulled the zipper down.

When, he said. With my face pressed against his neck, and my other hand still caught in his. So I leaned back a bit and looked into his eyes. Tomorrow, I lied. With my hand wrapped around his thing.

All right, he said. Maybe, he said, maybe you're right. And he looked away from me, stared off into the cobwebby dark, but his fingertips slid up my leg and found their way from the top to the bottom of the cross again. Touched nervously, then retreated toward my knee. Which I guessed was about the best I could hope for, and I didn't really mind. I rested my head on his chest, and breathed in the smell of his sweat through the starchy perfume of his Sunday best shirt. And his breath through his mouth was hot in my hair, as he moved up and down back and forth in my hand, only a couple of times before the stuff came out of it, the seed.

He very quickly grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop the stuff up. A handkerchief handy, but no light. I had to laugh. I knew that's what you come down here for, I said. And he raised his hand. Don't, he said. Don't what I asked, and pushed the hand aside. Don't talk like that to me, he said.

Well don't you talk like that to me either, and don't you go shaking your fist at me, I said, as I rose up, and dust fell down all around my feet.

If you're going to be my wife, you had better get used to it, he said. And I looked down into his face in the dirty light. And his big blue eyes were as hard as my hate. And his silk and feather mouth was a bed of nails.

I'm sorry, I said, I was only teasing, I know you are good. Me, me, me, he said, standing up, brushing the dust from his knees and the legs of his pants. I'm sorry too, he said, and his face was soft again.

And it made me very happy just then to know he was going to Hell.

I guess I'll leave you to look for your onions, I told him. I'll see you soon, Sufficiency, he replied. I'll see you tomorrow.

And I walked up out of the cellar, and into the cool of the afternoon.

And the town boys were at the fence, and they cried out true and terrible things as I came into view, as if they could smell me clear on the rising wind. And them or the hellbound cops were playing their music loud again. You've got to pick up every stitch, the singer screamed. And I hurried home.

And Interpretation was perched on the porch in an old blue shirt and some pants with knee patches that I sewed, that used to belong to my Pa, when I was just learning. Where have you been, he said, and I said looking for onions, and why did you change. Pa said to put our good clothes away, he said, keep them clean for tomorrow. And, how did you get so damn dusty, Sufficiency.

I'm going to tell Pa what you said, I said, and he chased me upstairs. And when he was gone I went into the bathroom and put my foot against the door, and shoved my hand in under my Sunday skirt and rubbed hard, now while I still could recall it clearly. The heat of his body, the toothpaste taste of his mouth. Rubbed hard so that it hurt even while it felt good. And stuck my fingers in, and rubbed, and shoved them in and out, and my nails drew blood, but soon enough the thing happened, like it happens to a man, and I was satisfied.

And then I went down to supper.

This is the last ham, Voices told us. Is there anything left at the Jameses house Pa said, and I said I had been there and I didn't think so. And Interpretation said grace, said thank You, dear God, for this last canned ham, and I wondered if he was really saying something altogether different in his head, but I didn't think so. I don't think he's going to Hell with the rest of us, even if he does say damn.

And I wonder how lonely Heaven will be. Now, myself, I know I'll be in good company.

After supper I washed the dishes in cold water again, and swept the floor. Then I went to the bedroom, and took out my book, while no-one was watching, and started to write. And I have been writing since.

And some time later Voices asked, what are you writing, that's taking so long, Sufficiency. No business of hers, I responded, and shielded the page from her eyes. And soon enough, Pa called her away. Said he needed her help with something. Said, Voices, come here.

And soon enough after that I could hear the sound of them, next door. The sound of their sin, the rhythm. Whore, I whispered, while my hand went on writing. Dear God. Dear diary.

I'll finish this up, while she's gone, and then hide the book back away in its secret place. And then I may lie here a while. I won't go to sleep. But the rest of them will, though the music plays on.

And when they're asleep I will creep down the stairs, and wash myself clean in the water they drink from.

And after that, I'm going to start a fire.