The Rosebush
by Jeanna TendeanNo, I can’t pick a better day. A storm is brewin’ outside, and there’s a storm brewin’ in me. A perfect day for what I need to say. God, woman, is there someplace else you need to be? No? Then slow your horses, and let the rain dry off you. Take off your slicker, pour a cup of coffee, and sit down for a spell. I’ll tell you in just a minute, but first, did you see the new rose that bloomed on the rosebush? Well, Mattie, I know it’s rainin’ cats and dogs out there, but this is a new rose we’re talkin’ about. Look at it later, okay? Good. Maybe by the time we’re done with this here talk, the rain will be long gone, and you’ll be able to see the rose clearly.
Mattie, I’m an old woman and I’m going to die soon. Don’t tell me to hush. I feel the reaper swingin’ his sickle closer everyday, and at times, I even see it, so light a cigarette - no, I don’t mind - not today, and let me speak my mind. Thank you for being my best friend. I never imagined my only friend would be a damn Yankee - a young one at that, but I love you just the same. Huh? Nonsense. I heard just last week on TV that these days, forty is really thirty. You got many years ahead of you. When you turn seventy-four like me, then you can holler old.
When I die, I want you to have this house, everything in it, and the two acres it rests on. Yes, I’m serious. Never been more serious in my life. I don’t have anyone else, so it seems fittin’ for me to give it to you. Well, before you get those tears of joy in your eyes, you should know by now that nothin’ ever comes free. You need to know what happened to my sister and me in this house sixty-four years ago.
Remember I told you my sister, Elizabeth Agnes Miller, drowned in the Poosa River during the summer of nineteen forty-three? Well, that isn’t true. A river can hide many secrets. But not this secret. Not my sister.
As you can see from that picture on the wall, she was a beautiful child. See her thick black hair? And those eyes were greener than the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Elizabeth was only two years older than me, but she acted ten years older. Why, she’d get madder than a hornet when I didn’t obey mama. I remember Elizabeth tellin’ mama one time, “if you don’t spank Eva Jane’s bottom when she does somethin’ contrary, after she grows up, she’ll act like a chicken with its head cut off.” Mama turned right around and said, “when you grow up and labor through childbirth, then maybe you’ll be qualified to give parentin’ advice.”
Elizabeth was the Miss Priss of us two girls. When mama drove into town, Elizabeth’d sneak in mama’s room and smear on different colors of lipsticks and rouges, then act like the Queen of England. And Elizabeth hated dirt, especially on her hands. Every night, she slathered her hands in so much Corn Huskers it took her an hour to rub it in. God, Mattie, I miss the smell of that lotion, so I bought a bottle of my own and sniff it every now and then just to remember Elizabeth. When the days were warm and right, Elizabeth and me would sit right out there in the front yard under that weepin’ willow and make clover bracelets and necklaces. Then we’d lie back on the soft grass and cool ourselves in the shade.
At night, we would lie in bed and tell spooky stories to each other, which really weren’t stories at all. We’d say things like, “the raw headed bloody bone is under the bed,” and then we’d scream like a couple of cats. Then she would sing me to sleep. She had the voice of an angel - but I’m partial, I guess. Elizabeth and me matched like cats and dogs, but nothin’ could separate us. There’s nothin’ more magical. What more can I say? We were sisters. We had great times - the best times of our lives. But they didn’t last long.
Mama was a good mother, did everything she was supposed to do, but that was all. She wasn’t the nurturin’ type, ya know? Mama was beautiful too, but also self-centered. Mama never said it, but I think she was jealous of Elizabeth and me. That’s just somethin’ a woman knows about another woman, ya know? She hated when us girls sat on daddy’s lap - said it was inappropriate. But hell, we were just little girls. When daddy played with us for a long time, mama’s mood changed faster than a jackrabbit hopping. But, I guess mama knew what we didn’t know at the time, and was jealous for all the right reasons. Daddy was never around much anyhow. He was a jack-of-all-trades. One day, he’d work on someone’s old ford, and the next day, he’d unclog someone’s john. Always workin’ different jobs for people around town. While mama was alive, daddy was the greatest man we didn’t know, because work and mama never allowed us. But after mama died, work never stood in daddy’s way.”
Mama died February the fifth in nineteen forty-three, when she was twenty-five years old. She was five and a half months pregnant when she went into labor. The baby was stillborn, of course, and mama bled to death on her bed. I remember hearin’ her in the bedroom, moaning and screaming. It was horrible. Daddy made us girls’ stay out here in the livin’ room while he ran to look for Doc Mills. He couldn’t find him nowhere, and when daddy came back an hour later mama was already dead. So mama died that day, along with our brother or sister - daddy never told us one way or the other. That was the worst time in my life, and Elizabeth’s too, or at least we thought.
Mama had been dead for three weeks when daddy came in our room one night, and told me to go to sleep, but told Elizabeth to get downstairs. He said he needed to talk with her. I laid in bed forever, it seemed, while I waited for Elizabeth to come sing me to sleep. But I heard the katydids singin’ instead, and couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, so I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up the next mornin’, Elizabeth was sittin’ in front of the vanity mirror starin’ at her self, but looking as though she wasn’t seein’ herself at all - ya know what I mean? “Elizabeth, what are you doing?” I asked her. When she didn’t answer back, I got up and started brushin’ her hair, and then tears started pourin’ from her eyes. I held her tight, just like she’d done for me when I was a cryin’. Then she blurted it out. “Daddy done somthin’ to me.” “What did he do?” I asked. “It was nasty and it hurt somethin’ awful,” she cried. “He told me not to tell a soul, ‘cause if I do, the devil will come in the night while I’m asleep, and carry me away, and I’ll never see anyone again. But I just had to tell you,” she cried. Now, I was only ten years old, but I knew what daddy had done was wrong, though I didn’t even know what it was, ya understand?
Elizabeth told me everything daddy had done to her the night before. I had never heard such dirty things in all my life, and I begged her to stop. I didn’t want to hear any more, and then she said somethin’ even worse. She said, “Eva Jane, if he done those things to me, he might do them to you.” I started to sob even louder, and put my fingers in my ears. That’s when Elizabeth held me and said she’d protect me. Now, I knew my sister had protected me in the past, but this time, Elizabeth’s words did little to comfort me. This was daddy we were talkin’ about. How could she protect me from my own daddy? But I tried with all my heart to believe her. Lord knows I tried. Children are very resilient, more so than adults a lot of times - especially back then, when there was no such thing as Social Services. People in those days didn’t meddle in each other’s affairs.
Elizabeth never said anything else about what daddy did - she saw how much it had scared me, I guess, but the nights she wasn’t in bed, I knew. I knew.
Four months after daddy raped Elizabeth, she ran away. It was June the first. Daddy found a letter Elizabeth had written. In the letter, Elizabeth wrote that she couldn’t get over mama dying, and she wanted to die herself, and don’t try to find her, because you won’t. She also wrote she loved daddy and me. Daddy rounded up the sheriff and the townsfolk, and formed a search party. They searched all day around town, and all through Little Foot Forest, but didn’t find her. Later that evening the huntin’ dogs tracked her smell, and found pair of white sandals on the bank of Poosa River - they belonged to Elizabeth.
Sheriff Dudley investigated, if that’s what you want to call it, and decided, considering the letter she had written, and her sandals lying on the riverbank, Elizabeth must’ve jumped in the river and let the current carry her under. We didn’t have a funeral for Elizabeth, because people back then didn’t bury empty caskets like they sometimes do today. The day after they had found Elizabeth’s sandals on the riverbank, we had a memorial with candles and pictures of Elizabeth sittin’ all around in this livin’ room. The women from Bible Baptist brought over different casseroles, pots of beef stew, pots of chili, and large plates of deviled eggs. Those fools practically hand-fed daddy. I sat right over there on the bottom stair, quiet as a church mouse, and stared at the pictures of Elizabeth. I knew like the sky was blue that Elizabeth did not kill herself.
After the memorial was over, daddy sent me to stay with ole’ widow Smith for a few days. She held me and sang “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.” She made ginger snap cookies and sweet iced tea for us to snack on. She took my mind off my troubles until my last night there. We sat on her front porch and listened to the tree frogs croak and watched the fireflies light up the yard. Then widow Smith told me about the treasure at the end of the rainbow, how it isn’t gold like a lot of people think, but honesty and compassion for mankind and it’s not hard to find if people will search with their hearts and not their eyes. She also told me I could still talk with Elizabeth. 'The dead aren’t dead at all, Eva Jane, they’re just unseen,' she whispered, 'and if you call her name long enough, Elizabeth will answer you back. It may not be a voice you hear, though. Sometimes, the dead speak by a touch - ever so slight, and that’s when those hairs on your arms and the back of your neck stand up. Other times, it feels like an electric current flowing all over your body, and then your ears start ringing. And then there are times when the dead wake us up, but we’ll talk about that another night.' Now this scared me somethin’ awful, but I didn’t tell widow Smith. I just kept it to myself, and I pondered it.
Daddy drove to pick me up the next afternoon. I didn’t want to go, and begged - screamed for daddy to let me stay. Widow Smith tried to console me and said I needed to be with family, but she was looking strangely at daddy, like she knew something wasn’t right. She kissed my forehead and reminded me not to forget what she’d told me, though she didn’t tell me out loud. She told me with her eyes.
The first thing I saw when we pulled up in the driveway my rosebush. It was planted right out there in front of the porch - where it is now. Daddy saw me lookin’ at it, and said, “That’s yours to take care of.” I got out of the truck and walked over to it, and smelled the only rose that had bloomed so far. It was blood red and smelled sweet, but also bitter - like beer. 'Mr. Johnson picked the best rosebush he had from his new shipment, so I planted it yesterday,' Daddy said. 'Mr. Johnson wanted to give you somethin’ that wouldn’t die – said that you’ve seen too much death already.' Then he said, 'Sorry about Elizabeth. I know how close you two were.'
That’s when the stone-cold truth shoved itself deep down in my stomach, and it felt like a block of ice. Elizabeth was dead and I was alone - alone with daddy. Well, that’s when I lost it, I guess. I know I said children are more resilient than adults at times, but if you stretch a rubber band too far, too often, it will snap in two, and that’s what I did. Fear snatched my heart, and I fell down in front of that rosebush in a heap, and howled like an animal. I pulled out clumps of my hair, and slobbered on the ground - got grass and dirt all in my mouth. Daddy just walked away. He probably thought I snapped over Elizabeth’s death - and I did, but I also snapped for what he’d done to her, and what he was gonna do to me.
To my relief, daddy didn’t touch me for a long time. Maybe I scared him that day. He treated me how a father is supposed to treat his daughter. I often wonder why daddy waited so long before he messed with me. Perhaps he felt guilty for what he’d done to Elizabeth - I’m not sure. Can a devil feel guilt? If Satan had known what his end would be as God cast him out of heaven, do you think ole’ Lucifer would have made the same choice?
While other little girls were jumpin’ rope or playin’ house, I was alone, tending my rosebush, or pretending Elizabeth was with me, and we’d play all our old games. The only thing we didn’t do was tell spooky stories anymore. We were too afraid. When the raw-headed bloody bone is alive and well and sleeping in the next room, it’s not fun any more. The only real peace I could find was in my rosebush. It drew me like an ant to honey. I watered and fertilized it. I trimmed it when needed, and limed it every so often. Just like I do now.
I was thirteen the first time daddy climbed on top of me and chased his dirty deed. I closed my eyes and hunted for that treasure at the end of the rainbow ole’ widow Smith told me about, but didn’t find it.
Before long I got pregnant. I didn’t even know, but daddy did. I woke up every morning sick as a poisoned dog. When daddy noticed, he asked me if my flower come upon me that month, and I said no - my flower hadn’t came for two months. That night, daddy ordered me up on the dinin’ room table and made me drink a quart jar of moonshine. I only drank half when daddy told me to lie down and to take off my underpants. I remember thinking how disgusting he was for wantin’ it on the table, but he didn’t want what I thought. Much to my horror, daddy straightened out a coat hanger and stuck it way up inside of me. I was drunker than a skunk, but still, the pain was excruciatin’. It felt like all of my female parts were being butchered.
He gouged that hanger around and around, and deeper and deeper. Finally, thank God, I passed out. It ain’t worth talking 'bout further. When I woke up there was no more baby and I lay in bed, delirious with fever and bleedin’ for two weeks. I don’t remember much of those two weeks, but I do remember I wanted to die. I even prayed for God to let me die. Daddy nursed me back to health himself, gave me a month to heal, and then started his nastiness up again. Never got pregnant again. That home-done abortion ruined my female organs.
So for the next several years, after school, I cooked and cleaned, and almost every night - well, you know. There were many nights I laid in bed and thought about jumpin’ in the Poosa myself, but never got up the nerve. Ya need some more coffee? Well, just get if ya do.
June the first, the fourth anniversary of Elizabeth’s death, daddy died. I walked into his bedroom to wake him, ‘cause it was nearly noon. He was lying in his bed, and I could see he was dead, but that’s not what scared me. It was the look on his face. His beady little eyes bulged out from their sockets and his mouth was frozen in a silent scream. His arms and hands were stuck out in front of him as if he’d tried to fight somethin’ off, but it got him anyhow. Mattie, I wished a million times over I could have been there the minute daddy saw those demons from hell crawlin’ toward him to usher him home. I would’ve pulled up a chair and sipped a nice tall sherry. I know that’s bad to say and even worse to feel, but I already lived in hell, and figured it was daddy’s turn for a while.
I went and fetched Doc Stephens; Doc Mills had died a year earlier from an accidental shotgun wound to the head. Anyways, Doc Stephens said daddy died from a heart attack. He then asked me was there anything I needed, and I said to just get daddy out of here as soon as possible; I needed to clean house. Daddy was buried beside mama three days later. I went to his burial to save face. I cried a great deal. Everyone thought I was cryin’ over daddy, but I wasn’t. I was cryin’ because Elizabeth should’ve been buried there - not daddy. You don’t plant a rotten seed in the ground. You just throw it aside. I was seventeen years old, and I went to work at the Stitch-N-Sew clothing shop. I got by just fine. I had this house, daddy’s pickup, and my job. I never got married, either - damaged goods, I was.
I never expect anyone to fully understand my attachment to the rosebush, but it was the only beautiful thing I had that year in nineteen forty-three, and all the years that have followed. And instead of dyin’, like everything else in my life, it grew. But the main reason I love that rosebush is because Elizabeth is buried under it. I feel her, sometimes even see her under there with dirt, and mud all on her hands and in her hair, and it breaks my heart. She hated to get dirty - especially her hands. It’s a wonder I haven’t drowned the rosebush, ‘cause when ever I see her down there all filthy, I water the rosebush like I’m tryin’ to clean Elizabeth off. Why do I think she’s buried under there? Well, I’ll tell you, Mattie. People thought she committed suicide by jumpin’ in the Poosa, but I know she didn’t. I believe she got pregnant, and didn’t survive daddy’s home-done abortion like I had. Daddy was that devil Elizabeth had told me about, and he came while she was asleep and carried her away. “No Mattie, you’re right, that’s not hard evidence - not for someone who’s standin’ on the outside lookin’ in, but when you’ve been standin’ in the dark for so damn long, lookin’ out, you can see the light real clear.
There have been times I grabbed the shovel and almost started to dig, but fear took me over. You know when it’s late at night, and you’re in bed, and it’s real quiet, and you hear the floorboards creak on the other side of your bedroom door? You know somethin’ is crouchin’ there and it’s starin’ at you through the crack of the door. Big drops of sweat start poppin’ out of your forehead and underarms, and you’re just lyin’ there with that ringin’ in your ears, waitin’ for the fear to pass. Well, that’s how I felt every time I started to dig.
Truth is, it was Elizabeth that proved to me that she really was and is buried under there. Thunder cracklin’ outside woke me up one night. It was rainin’ bullets, and lightning lit up my room. I sat up, terrified. After a few minutes, I calmed my nerves and started to lie down again when I smelled somethin’. I sat there tryin’ to figure out what it was, and when I did, it scared the hell out of me. Raw, wet earth. I could even smell the lime I’d used to balance the soil. I couldn’t move. Even though it was black as coal in my bedroom, I wanted to close my eyes, but was afraid to. My heart felt like it was going to beat outta of my chest.
Finally I looked beside my bed and waited for the lightning to strike. I wanted to see what was standin’ beside my bed. And in a flash, I saw her. Elizabeth was naked, and I could see parts of her stomach and thighs were decayed and filled with maggots. Her hair wasn’t thick and black anymore. It was muddy and stringy. Her eyes weren’t green, but white from a milky, gooey coating, and when she opened her mouth, a ball of earthworms slithered out. She reached for me, and I saw skinny bits of bloody, muddy bones stickin’ out where her fingertips should have been. Then it was pitch black again, and couldn’t see a damn thing. My mind saw plenty, though. I jumped up, expecting Elizabeth to grab me with her cold, muddy hands, but she didn’t. I flipped on the light, but no light came. I felt for my matches in the drawer and lit a candle on my nightstand.
Elizabeth was gone, but I saw a trail of rose petals on the floor. Slow as a snail I followed them out into the hall, down the stairs, into this living room, and I saw the front door standing wide open. I didn’t follow the rose petals outside - I knew where they would lead. I quietly shut the door, and remembered what ole’ widow Smith told me - that sometimes the dead wake us up. Needless to say, there weren’t any petals left on the rosebush the next morning.
You look terrified, Mattie. No, I don’t blame you one bit. It is scary. Scary to me for a different reason, though. What if Elizabeth asks me why I didn’t confess the truth, and have her buried in a proper place, instead of in a thorny, dirty grave? How can I answer her? Will she be mad at me? Will she look the same as the night she woke me up, with the decayed flesh and maggots? I guess I’ll find out soon enough. Mattie, I’ll die soon and this house is yours. But like I’ve said – don’t nothing come free. I need you to take right good care of my rosebush. I’m begging you. Don’t let it die.
I want you to have me cremated and spread my ashes around the rosebush, so Elizabeth and me will share the same resting place. Then we’ll go search for that treasure at the end of the rainbow. Will you do the things I’ve asked, Mattie? Well, you go on home and think about it, but please, don’t think too long. A mind has a curious way of convincing itself that the truth is a lie. Has the rain stopped? It has. Good. Before you leave, be sure to peek at that new beautiful rose. Elizabeth sure would appreciate it.
©Jeanna Tendean
Jeanna Tendean resides in Gadsden Alabama with her husband and two boys. She is currently a student majoring in General Studies. Her work has been published in Tales from the Moonlit Path and has another story due out this March at 13 human souls ezine. If you wish to contact Jeanna, you can do so at www.myspace.com/frogs4u.