Breaking TWIG Read online

  Breaking TWIG

  by Deborah Epperson

  Copyright © 2011 by Deborah Epperson

  All rights reserved.

  Email: [email protected]

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Deborah Epperson.

  Cover art by Erin Rankin

  Formatting by BumbleB Media, Inc.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  First, I want to give my sincere thanks to my Writer’s Critique Group, a fantastic, eclectic group of women writers without whose help this novel would have never been completed.

  Leslie Budewitz

  Rena Desmond

  Christina Eisenberg

  Janet Fisher

  Marge Fisher

  Sami Rorvik

  Debbie Burke

  I would also like to acknowledge the Authors of the Flathead, and the following teachers who helped me along the way.

  Dennis Foley

  Kathy Dunnehoff

  Carol Buchanan

  And especially, the late Miss Alice Cashen, my honors English teacher who said, "If you want to keep your sanity, never stop reading books." Smart lady!

  And to my family--Nathan, Tara, and Garrett--who are always there to cheer me on, I give y’all my gratitude, my love, and any loose change you can find in the bottom of my purse. And to my BFFD (best friend forever dog) Jasmine, and our other four-legged family members, I give you all the affection, tummy rubs, and jerky treats you will ever need.

  To Erin Rankin (cover designer) and Roxanne McHenry (eBook publication expert), my sincere thanks for your expertise and patience answering my endless questions.

  To my late mother, Betty, the polar opposite of the mother in this novel, I say "Thank you," for showing me what a truly kind, encouraging, and loving person is. I miss you, Mom.

  PROLOGUE

  I must have been about five the first time Grandpa Eli told me the story of the Pickers and the Picks. He was sitting in his rocking chair on the back porch of the modest plantation house he’d built twenty years earlier. My imaginary friend, Claudia, and I were having a tea party under the shade of the weeping willow. A clump of purple flowers plucked from the wisteria vine trailing along the back picket fence served as our grapes, while half-a-dozen emerald leaves pilfered from a hothouse geranium represented mint cookies.

  "Becky Leigh," he called. "Did I ever tell you the story of the Pickers and the Picks?"

  "No, sir." I headed for the porch. "What are Pickers, Grandpa?"

  "Pickers are mainly folks who are big on the outside, but small on the inside." He gave a push and the oak rocker resumed its familiar cadence. "Not necessarily tall and heavy big. Pickers are more like puffed up big."

  I climbed into his lap, nestled into the crook of his shoulder. "Like popcorn puffs up when you cook it?"

  "No, more like a sore that’s got infected and is puffed up with mucus and poisons."

  "That’s yucky."

  He laughed. "That’s a true fact, Miss Becky."

  "What do Pickers do?" I asked.

  "Pickers hunt for someone who looks like easy pickin’s."

  "Easy pickin’s? You mean like when Momma makes Papa and me pick dewberries along the railroad track instead of by Lost Mule Bog because she says it’s easy pickin’s along the tracks? But it’s not really. It’s just the bog is messier, and you know how she hates messes."

  Grandpa stopped rocking. "Are you going to be quiet and let me finish my story, youngun?"

  I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle. It was the funniest thing, my grandpa pretending to be mad at me. "Yes, sir. I’ll be quiet."

  The rocker started up again. "As I was saying, a Picker hunts for someone he thinks will be easy pickin’s. That’s usually someone smaller, younger, or weaker in some way. It can be someone whose only weakness is that he or she is a nice person."

  I tapped Grandpa’s shoulder. "How does a Picker change nice people into Picks?"

  "Well, he screams and hollers at them. He makes them do things they know they shouldn’t do. Champion Pickers are experts at bullyin’, intimidatin’, and dominatin’ other folks." The rocker stopped once more. "Do you understand anything I’m saying, Becky?"

  "I think so. Maybe. Will I be a Picker or a Pick when I grow up, Grandpa?"

  "Can’t say for sure. Let’s try an experiment." He helped me down and pointed to a line of ants marching across the porch floor. "Go stand by those ants."

  I did as I was told.

  "Now, Becky, I want you to stomp them ants as hard as you can."

  "Why should I kill the ants, Grandpa? They’re not hurting me."

  "Because you can, girl. Because you can."

  I began to stomp. I stomped the ants in the middle of the line, the ants in the back of the line, and all the ants at the head of the line. I stomped so hard my cat’s dish vibrated across the floor, tumbled over the edge, and landed in the azalea bushes that circled the back porch. I didn’t stop stomping until all the ants were either dead or beyond my reach.

  Grandpa Eli motioned for me to come back. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. "That’s what Pickers do, Becky. They hurt other living things just because they can." Pulling me closer, he asked, "How did stomping those ants make you feel?"

  I lowered my eyes. "Bad. I felt bad, but . . ."

  "But what?"

  "But when I was stomping them I felt . . ."

  "You felt strong?"

  I nodded, too ashamed to acknowledge my Picker-like feelings in words.

  "How do you think the ants felt?"

  "Terrible," I said. "And so will Pinecone when he sees his supper is gone."

  "Don’t you worry about that cat. He won’t starve. But that’s what happens when a Picker gets riled up. Lots of innocent folks get hurt too."

  "Does this mean I’m gonna be a Picker when I grow up?"

  "It’s all up to you, child. You don’t have to be a Picker or a Pick. You can choose to be nice to people and insist that they be nice to you."

  I climbed back into his lap. "And if they’re not nice to me?"

  "If you stand up to the Pickers in this world, they’ll leave you alone. Remember, they like easy pickin’s."

  "Have you ever been a Picker, Grandpa, or a Pick?"

  "Sure. At certain times in
life, most people are either a Pick or Picker. It usually takes a lifetime for folks to figure out they don’t have to be either one."

  "Grandpa, do you think a Picker, a champion Picker that is, can ever change?"

  "Maybe. With the passage of time and a heap of prayers, I think anyone can change."

  I gave him a hug. "I think we should start praying for Momma right away."

  Grandpa Eli smiled. "I think you’re right, Becky Leigh."

  *****

  I did start praying. But after both my grandfather and my beloved Papa died, and after the only noticeable change in Momma—despite eight years of fervent prayers—was her new husband, I stopped. I let the tales of Pickers and Picks slip from my mind and forgot Grandpa Eli’s warnings on the perils of becoming easy pickin’s.

  Not until one day in November of ’63 did I recall the lessons of the porch. That was the morning Momma and her new husband, Frank, went to the Miller's house to watch President Kennedy’s funeral, and the time I got caught slipping into my new stepbrother’s room to borrow some paper. It was also the day a seventeen-year-old boy decided to teach a thirteen-year-old girl a lesson she wouldn’t forget. That was the day I knew for sure I was a Pick.

  CHAPTER 1

  November 25, 1963

  I never meant to interrupt the funeral of the President of the United States. When Johnny Santo found me crying behind our garage, I begged him not to tell anyone my new stepbrother, Donald, had raped me, but Anna Marie Santo had taught her son right from wrong. Johnny wasn’t about to let such a wicked deed go unpunished.

  He took me to Anna, our housekeeper and the lady who’d taken care of me since my birth thirteen years earlier. Despite my pleas not to, Anna insisted on calling my mother, Helen, and giving her the bad news. Momma doesn’t like bad news, unless she’s the one delivering it. But Anna sincerely believed my momma would want to be told about my assault. I knew she wouldn’t. Momma wanted to watch President Kennedy’s funeral. She’d bought a new dress for the occasion. I didn’t think she’d appreciate her plans being disrupted because of me. I wasn’t wrong.

  Momma stood in front of Anna and me, hands on her hips, feet apart, and lips pulled back in a snarl that would send the meanest cur in Sugardale, Georgia running for its life.

  "Stay out of the way, Frank," she said to her new husband. "I’ll take care of this."

  I wrapped my arms around Anna’s waist. "Please don’t let them take me."

  Momma stomped her foot. "Becky Leigh Cooper, let go of Anna and get over here."

  I’d never seen Momma so mad. And I’d seen her plenty mad plenty of times. Still, I refused to release my hold on the one person I felt could save me.

  Momma grabbed for me, but I swung Anna around and all Momma caught was air.

  Johnny pulled back his fist and headed for my mother. "Leave her alone, bitch."

  She screamed, ducked behind her husband, and latched on to the back of his new shirt. "He’s gonna hit me, Frank. Do something."

  "You’re choking me, Helen." Frank Wooten pulled at the front of his shirt with both hands. "For God’s sake, let go." He reached back, got a handful of Momma’s dress, and yanked hard enough to procure his release, ripping her dress in the process.

  "Damn you, Frank, you tore my new dress."

  Johnny’s uncle, Alejandro Garza, stepped between him and Momma. He grabbed his nephew’s wrist and pointed at the television. "They’re burying Mr. Kennedy today, Johnny. They’re burying the President of the United States. Show some respect."

  "That’s right, boy," Helen said. "Show some respect."

  Johnny pointed at me. "Why don’t you show some respect for your own daughter?" The fifteen-year-old turned to Frank. "That no-good son of yours raped Rebecca today."

  Frank stood there staring, as if unable to comprehend the meaning of Johnny’s words.

  "Did you hear what I said, Mr. Wooten?" Johnny asked, his voice growing higher with each word. "Donald raped Rebecca. When I see the bastard, I’m going to kill him."

  Anna grabbed her son’s arm. "You mustn’t say things like that."

  "Donald hurt Rebecca, Mother. I can’t let him get away with that."

  "You hear that, Frank? He’s threatening to kill your son." Helen shook her finger at Johnny. "You’re going to jail, boy. You’re going to jail for threatening Donald and for talking my girl into letting you poke around inside of her. If anyone raped Becky Leigh, it was you."

  I let go of Anna, put my head down, and charged at my mother the way Floyd Nelson’s goat had once charged him. In all the madness, I forgot that goat had ended up on Floyd’s bar-b-que pit. I just knew Momma had threatened my best friend. I’d have never fought my mother for myself, but I’d fight the Devil for Johnny. It’s funny how that works.

  I hit Momma so hard we went sailing over the back of Anna’s red leather armchair. The skirt of my dress flew over my head and for a moment, I couldn’t see anything but green and beige checks.

  Momma liked dresses with tight skirts because they showed off her figure best. So it wasn’t a surprise her new dress had a tight skirt. But it was a complete shock to everyone when her skirt ripped from hem to waist. She screamed for Frank, and I felt two strong hands pick me up. I struggled to get down, but even though I was a teenager in years, size-wise I looked about nine. I didn’t have a chance against Frank.

  Mr. Garza helped Momma up and quickly stepped out of her reach. I didn’t blame him. I’ve been caught in Momma’s reach many times. It isn’t a pleasant experience.

  "Your boy has turned my own daughter against me, Anna," Helen yelled.

  I tried to tell Momma it wasn’t Johnny who turned me against her, but she was arguing with him and his mother and didn’t hear me. No one heard me even though I was screaming.

  "Johnny would never hurt Rebecca," Anna shouted. "She’s like a sister to him. He found her crying and brought her here. I’ve taken care of this child since she was born."

  "You’ve been my maid since she was born. I’m her mother. I take care of her."

  "And how do you do that?" Johnny asked. "With whippings and making her work like a slave." He pointed at Frank. "Rebecca’s father has been dead for only three months, and you’ve brought this man and his monster son into her home. You let them hurt her. You let them hurt her bad."

  Frank was holding me on his hip the way one would hold a two-year-old. We looked at each other, our faces inches apart. He was there to support Momma. It was his son who’d raped me. Yet when I looked into Frank’s blue eyes, I saw pain and confusion. The same pain and confusion I’d seen in my papa’s eyes and in my own. Because of that, I couldn’t hate him.

  "Are you going to let Johnny speak to me that way, Frank?" Momma asked.

  My new stepfather put me down, but held on to my shoulders preventing me from running to Anna again. "I think we should all calm down."

  "That’s a good idea," Mr. Garza said.

  The two men looked at each other for a moment and then both nodded.

  Grandpa Eli had warned me to be careful about drawing lines in the sand. "A line in the sand can become a rut. A rut can become a ditch, and a ditch can be worn down into a pit. There’s not much difference between a pit and a grave, Miss Becky," he often advised.

  But on this day, the battle lines were drawn. Like usual, Momma had drawn them, and her battle lines were always deep—pit deep, grave deep. With Momma, you were either on her side or you were on the wrong side.

  She stood there, arms folded across her chest, glaring at Frank, giving him the look. Frank had known my mother only a few months before they’d married. I figured he hadn’t experienced the look yet and felt like I should warn him about it. But then I remembered, he and I were on opposite sides of Momma’s line.

  "That’s all you have to say about the matter, Franklin Wayne Wooten?" Momma asked, in her low, slow-down voice.

  Now, I really felt sorry for Frank. When my momma gives you the look and calls out your whole name in her lo
w, slow-down voice, you’re gonna pay. She only uses all three weapons together when she thinks she’s been betrayed somehow. When you betray my mother—in fact or just in her head—you pay for it. Maybe not right away. Momma often likes to study on the best way to make someone repent for what she considers to be sins against her. But sooner or later, everybody pays. I didn’t figure Franklin Wayne Wooten would be an exception just because he and Momma had been married for only three weeks.

  For a moment, everyone quit shouting and pointing fingers at each other. For a moment, I felt some hope that we might all survive the day. Then, my momma spoke.

  "It’s time we called Sheriff Tate," Helen said. "Roy will know what to do."

  I knew what that meant. Sheriff Tate was a good friend to my mother. So good in fact, that whenever Papa went out of town, Roy Tate would make a special trip to our house each night to make sure Momma and I were safe. Yes, I knew if Sheriff Tate came, he’d believe Momma’s version of the rape over my truth. No doubt about it. Before this day was over, I’d be getting a good whipping. Might as well get one for lying as to get one for telling the truth. Anyway, the most important thing to me was keeping Johnny safe and out of jail.

  "I lied about the rape." This time, everyone heard me.

  "You lied, did you? Did you hear that, Frank?" Momma asked.

  "Rebecca told the truth." Johnny started forward, but his uncle held him back.

  "What would you know about the truth, boy?" Helen asked. "You’re just damn lucky she spoke up before I called Sheriff Tate or you’d be spending the night in jail."

  Anna came to me. She took my face in her hands and asked, "Are you sure Donald didn’t hurt you? Are you sure you’re not just trying to protect my Johnny?"

  The room grew silent. Everyone’s attention focused on me. Most of the time, I think of myself as being invisible. Not invisible like a ghost, but like a souvenir plate from last year’s vacation. At first, everyone is excited about seeing the plate, but then it’s put on the bookcase and only taken down when it needs cleaning. Soon, the little plate is viewed as being more trouble than it’s worth.