The other girls didn’t like you, and one day you learned why. “It’s ’cos you suck better,” one of the rail workers told her one night after she’d done just that for two dollars. “And, shee-it, girl, you’re the best- lookin’ whore in this place.” You figured that was a compliment, and it must be true because you seemed to make more money than the other girls. Some men paid extra for…other things, like putting it in your bottom. One time a nutty man with a beard even paid you to let him squirt his jism on your feet, and he paid three dollars! But the funniest one was a little man weirder-looking than the German. He had a nose made of gold and wore a red hat that looked stupid, and he paid to watch you move your bowels into a bucket. That’s when it came to your mind that lots and lots of men were really weird.
Then there were other men who were bad…
“You take him, bitch,” Jane snaps, glaring at you. “You the only whore here that likes suckin’ it. So go suck his.”
“Fuck you!”
You go to hit her but she runs away.
“Yeah, you best run! Ain’t no man wanna pay you with two black eyes’n I’ll knock the rest’a your teeth out to boot!”
“That’s enough’a that, Harriet,” Bella orders from the velvet couch. She was eating sugar balls from the baker’s.
“Is it that man I keep hearin’ ’bout?”
Bella just raises her brows and keeps eating.
“The one that’s so mean?”
Bella licks her chubby fingers. “Oh, Mr. Morris is a good customer, and he pays good. He just gets a little rough sometimes, but you’ll be all right. You’re a tough girl, ’cos that’s how I taught ya.”
“I don’t want him,” you declare.
Bella lurches up and slaps you hard across the face. “Do as you’re told, girl. Don’t get high’n mighty just ’cos you’re the favorite ’round here. I made you, remember? You were eatin’ grubs’n drinkin’ creek water when I brung you in. And I remember that day well, hon, how you were all covered with soot. I never told that to no one, even after I heard ’bout that charcoaler they found in the ash pile near ’Bethstown.”
You wilt.
“Am I gonna get any more sass out’a ya?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I need my girls to be reliable. Bunch of Mr. Gast’s rail men come back a few days ago so’s we’ll be busy. I need girls who wanna work, ya hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So get in there’n take care’a Mr. Morris.” Then she shoots you a big, jolly smile. “He’ll probably give ya five dollars, and he’ll only last five seconds!”
You share a phony laugh, then turn for the waiting parlor. But as you’re walking you glance in the pantry and notice Teeta, who’s mulatto. She’s dipping a tin cup into the spring barrel, and she’s only got one hand. “Mr. Gast’s railroad’s done is what I heard,” she says.
“Really?”
“They’se all comin’ back over the next few days, so we’se’ll be gettin’ lots of business.”
“Oh. Good.”
“Some’s back now.”
“I know. Bella told me.”
The mulatto girl’s eyes widened with something scary. “I heared they killed all the slaves when they was done. Near a hunnert of ’em. In Maxon.”
“That can’t be true,” you say.
“Hope it ain’t.”
“We hear things all the time that ain’t true. Like the Yankees gettin’ close. Our boys whup ’em anytime they get near Chattanooga. So don’t believe most’a what’cha hear, Teeta.”
The girl smiles a little, then walks away after taking down a jar of vinegar. But now that she’s gone you can see the calendar on the wall. You notice that it’s May 3, 1862.
“Aw, yeah, I done heard about you,” the voice seems to grind out of the air when you enter the sitting parlor. “‘S’bout time I had me a crack at’cha.”
You smile and bat your eyes, reeling in a sudden nausea. The man sits spread-legged in pants of tent canvas and wears a raggy hat. Several gold teeth interspersed with rotten ones sparkle.
“We’se finally back. Five years’a hard work’n for the last four I ain’t been back home but once a month. To top it off me’n some of the boys’ve been workin’ up the house past few days, diggin’ and such. I need me some relaxation.” He peers closer. “You ain’t even been workin’ fer Bella a year, have ya?”
“About that, sir.” You take his roughened hand and lead him through the crimson curtains to the hallway. You immediately notice that his hands are gritty with earth.
“And that’s a mighty fine ass on ya.”
You can’t think of any reply. One of his hands claws your bottom when you lead him into your room. A short, scruffy beard makes his face indescribable, but you notice…something—
Maybe it’s just the way the light is in the room, but his eyes look yellow, like a piss stain on a white bedsheet.
Even before the door closes, his hands are up your dress yanking down your linens. Fingers like file stones tweeze the tender folds between your legs.
“Yeah, that’s real nice, too…”
Finally you speak, as he’s bending you over the daybed: “Puh-pardon me, sir, you gotta—you gotta tell me what’cha want’n then pay me first—”
A ten-dollar gold piece hits the floor, spins like a top, and lands tails. Part of you could squeal with delight—you’ve never been paid that much for just one go with a man, but then your belly continues to sink because you know that this man Morris will make you earn it. You can’t help but notice the very long knife and scabbard on his hip.
“Sir, thank you—”
A knuckled fist hits you in the back of the head. “Shut up,” he says, and continues to fiddle with your sex like a baker working dough. His pants are already down…
You can’t even think about the thing he does to you. Oh, God, please, you beg over and over. Let him be done soon…
A half hour later, you fall back on the floor.
“There, that weren’t so bad, was it, sugar?”
You look up through misting eyes and see him sitting on the couch, his trousers still unfastened. The taste in your mouth combines with the smell coming off your lips. It’s so foul it seems evil, and just as bad is the malodor wafting off his exposed groin. On the couch arm lay a pretty cotton smock you’ve been sewing; it’s about half complete. You could howl when he picks it up and wipes himself off with it, then drops it to the floor. He winks at you, and lights a long, thin cigar that smells like burning garbage.
“Come on up here, pretty girl. I need my money’s worth.”
You remember the ten-dollar piece, and tell yourself that this will be worth it.
“I ain’t got much more time,” he says rather distantly now.
You reluctantly sit next to him. “Pardon me, sir?”
His yellow eyes stare into space, but then he smiles again. “Gotta get back to the house a right quick. One more thing I gotta do fer Mr. Gast. He’s already gone, but he trusts me’n a few others to do what he wants.”