Poppies -Prologue and Chapter 1

— Prologue —
"...you guys are gonna look like Poppies in a field of daisies.”
-Adam to Alan She is dreaming. Mama and Pappy are smiling as the train rolls down the track Mama is so
beautiful and happy. Strands of her golden hair have fallen from her usually wellkept bun. She looks over at Pappy. He smiles lovingly at his wife and brushes a wisp of loose hair out of her clear, hazel eyes.
“Jobeth will be so surprised,” Pappy says in a faraway voice. His dark eyes twinkle, full of life. The conductor is walking up the aisle.“MAMA! PAPPY! RUN! GET OUT OF THE TRAIN!” The conductor is an elderly gentleman of about seventy years. He is dressed in black trousers and a matching black blazer. A black cap rests comfortably on his balding, pale head. His shiny black shoes stop at Mama and Pappy’s seat. “YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME! RUN! RUN!” The conductor tips his hat and smiles at Mama, his lips becoming smooth and unwrinkled. “Is there a problem?” Pappy asks curiously. The noise in the train is getting louder. A baby held to a plump breast in the next coach cannot be quieted and continues to cry in protest. The baby’s fists are balled up and it’s face is scrunched up in anger, fighting off some menacing creature no one else can see. The conductor places a blue-veined hand on the red velvet seat. Blood seems to billow around his knobby digits. Mouth gaping open, he looks out the window beside Mama. “HURRY--IT IS ALMOST TOO LATE! HURRY--GET OUT! MAMA! PAPPY!” The noise is increasing. The baby continues to cry louder and louder. The mother, frustrated, makes noises into the wiggling baby’s red face. She cannot understand her child’s behavior. Two gentlemen dressed in dark suits look up from the card game they are enjoying. They turn toward their window, mouths opened in surprise. Or is it fear? The noise in the coach is getting louder. There is an odd smell clinging to the air. A sweet, sickly smell. The smell of doom. The smell of certain death. “What is the problem?” Mama asks. Concern creases her smooth brow. She stands up in her seat and glances around frantically. Pappy reaches for her arm to soothe her. The conductor raises his old hand. It is shaking and blood is streaming down his arm, sliding into the waiting hole of his sleeve. His rumpled lips flap up and down like sheets on a clothesline. He defiantly shakes his raised hand at the window. Droplets of blood sprinkle Pappy’s clean white shirt and Mama’s hair. They do not notice the blood. They are looking at the old man’s fixed gaze. “MAMA! PAPPY! NO! NO!” Terror fills their eyes. The train reeks of fear. It is a fear that emanates from the very soul of each person on the train. They are going to die--they are going to die horribly and they know it. Mama looks at Pappy sadly and clutches his hand tightly. “I love you, Constance.” Pappy says above the whirling noise. “I love you, too, Michael” Mama mouths, her voice lost amongst the jumble of other fearful voices. “Jobeth . . . “ Mama chokes out. A tear rolls from Pappy’s dark eyes as he embraces his wife. “God help her.” Pappy breathes into Mama’s hair. He buries his face into her shoulder and squeezes Mama tight, knowing it would be the last time he would ever feel his wife again. Suddenly the train is lifted off the tracks. Screams echo through the compartments as the occupants are tossed around like misfit rag dolls that a spoiled child no longer wants. The hurricane sweeps the train into its vortex like a toy, crushing the conductor, crushing the card-playing gentlemen, crushing the now-silent baby. As quickly as it began, it ends. Everything is silent. There is no noise to be heard, except the crackle of flames starting to grow from the engine. The bodies of the passengers are twisted and mangled together, indistinguishable from one another. Blood flows freely from wounds and misshapen bodies. There is Mama. Pappy is nowhere to be seen. Her leg is twisted at an impossible angle. Debris covers her midsection. She is blanketed in blood. Her eyes are closed. A choking sound gurgles out of her bloody throat. Her fingers reach out into a mushy mass of severed arms and legs, searching for someone who is not there. She reaches in vain. Her broken fingernails dig into wet gore, aching for a comforting touch. Suddenly she feels the deep rumble that fills the air. Mama opens her one good eye in panic It rolls madly around in its socket searching futilely. Mama sees it coming directly toward her. A fiery ball of angry orange rolls quickly over the train. A wet bubble of a scream squeaks out of her blood-soaked throat just before she is consumed by the inferno’s sphere of death.
— Chapter 1 — Part 1 In the beginning
“Wake up Jobeth! Wake up!”
There is something shaking me, the girl thought. She opened her eyes to the threatening pull. Glaring down at her with steel-gray eyes was Mother Tomalina, a large woman who could never have been thought of as anything but homely. Even as a young woman, she had been nothing to look at. She had narrow eyes and no eyebrows or eyelashes. Folds of skin between them made them appear even closer together than they were. She had a long crooked nose, courtesy of her charming husband, Father James.
Tomalina Johnston, at the age of fifty-two, had not had an easy life. Her father forced her, to marry forty-year-old James Johnston when she was twenty-five years old. He claimed she should count herself damn lucky anyone would marry her ugly mug in the first place as he sent her on her way. She went to James Johnston, a man who repulsed and sickened her, married him and bedded with him begrudgingly, always with bile in her throat.
James Johnston, who found Tomalina unattractive, took amusement and sexual pleasure over her distaste in copulating with him. This caused him to frequently lift her gown and fondle between her frigid legs. If Mother Tomalina refused Father James, she would be faced with even more pain and humiliation: a nice black eye or a broken nose. Once he even broke a couple of ribs. With time, Mother Tomalina, who had never been a warm very person to begin with, became a bitter old woman. Her heart filled with hate and contempt. Her thin lips were usually pursed into a pucker. The beginnings of a road map of wrinkles covered her face. Her gray hair was always pulled tightly back from her long thin face, so tight that it seemed the roots would pop out and all that would be left was a handful of scant bun.
Mother Tomalina savagely grabbed the girl lying on the cot and dropped her like a lump of coal onto the cold cement floor. Jobeth felt no pain as she fell, only shame. Shame for the wet spot between her legs and on her nightgown.
She had wet herself again. Her mind started racing with the things to come. He would come now, and she feared him much more than she feared Mother
Tomalina. She closed her eyes and swallowed. How did she end up here? How did she, the daughter of Constance and Michael Roberts, end up on a cement floor, soiled and humiliated, awaiting a beating by people she had never even imagined could be so cruel. A lump formed in the back of her throat. Jobeth had once had such a good life, a happy life. Why did it seem a lifetime ago? The hurricane. It all started (or ended depending on how she looked at it) with the hurricane.
Her parents had been killed it on their journey home, after a getaway in Louisiana It was far from their Northern dwelling, but it was a much needed trip for Constance and Michael. Jobeth had stayed home because she had not wanted to miss school, and she felt her parents needed some time alone to heal some wounds. Six month’s prior, her younger brother Paul had been killed. As a rambunctious eight year old, he had been the apple of his parents’ and sister’s eyes.
Jobeth’s parents had given up all hope of ever having another child after their daughter’s birth. Each pregnancy ended by the fourth month in a painful miscarriage, sending Constance Roberts, sick and depressed, to her bed. By the time Jobeth was six years old, her Pappy had beseeched with his wife not to go through with the pregnancy she had just become aware of.
“Michael, God’s will shall be done. I will not destroy this gift.” Constance said calmly but firmly to her panicked husband. “But Constance, if you lose this one, we may lose you also. Is it God’s will that Jobeth and I live without you?” Michael asked in despair. “I do not wish to discuss the matter anymore. This child will come when it is ready or not. But it will be born when it decides and not beforehand.” Constance stood firmly, not looking at him. She rarely disagreed with her husband, but when she did there was no changing her mind. Michael knew there would be no arguing with her and he feared for his beloved wife’s life, hating the child in her womb that threatened her.Several months later at a birth that nearly killed Constance, Paul was born, big and healthy. As soon as Michael’s wailing, squirmy son was placed into his arms, all hate he had for the boy left and love took over. Jobeth, seeing that her mother was going to live and that the child she’d been carrying was also going to live, quickly forgot about her former feelings and became excited that she was no longer an only child. Since his birth, Pauli, a name adopted by Jobeth, was a child everyone, including his big sister, doted on. The little boy with light brown hair and seagreen eyes was aware of his family’s affections and knew that he could do no wrong. So, often he got himself into trouble knowing he would be forgiven. This was his mindset when he climbed the tree in the backyard of their home. He had been warned many times by his parents and Jobeth that it was too high and he could seriously hurt himself should he fall. Pauli felt he could do it. He had climbed many trees in his eight years and this beast of a tree would prove that he was the best tree climber around. He had done well until he reached the top branch. The twigs up this high were brittle and bark flaked off easily under his thick-soled boots, crumbling to the ground far below. Pauli had to clutch tightly to the main torso of the tree several times to balance himself. As he looked up, the leaves of the tree spiraled up to the sun, letting only glimpses of sunshine through. He felt triumph. He had conquered the beast. He raised his right hand high into the coiled green and let out a victory cry. His hand slapped against a branch. It moved and let in some of the sun’s blinding rays. Squinting, he became temporarily blinded. His hand instinctively went to shield his eyes, causing him to lose his footing on the branch. It happened so fast. Pauli never knew what hit him. He never even felt his neck snap, sounding eerily like the branches that fell underneath him, as he hit the ground and landed on his head. He was killed instantly. Jobeth and her parents were devastated after the death of little Pauli. Although they clung to each other for support, the emptiness would always be in their hearts. Jobeth felt relief when her parents had left on the train to a popular resort located on the coast of Louisiana. She had visited there many times with her parents and brother. It was a favored place to vacation in 1893. The dark circles that seemed to haunt both her beloved parents’ eyes seemed to be just a tiny bit faded. She knew this was just what the doctor had ordered. She had been studying quietly in the parlor, curled up in Pappy’s favorite velvet chair when she heard the knock on the door. Sitting up, she folded her notebook and absent-mindly placed it on a nearby end table. Shivering, and feeling as though something was wrong, she walked to the door. Rich aromas hung thick and delicious in the air. She had prepared her Pappy’s favorite: roast suckling pig with potatoes and baby carrots, topped with a thick rich gravy. Her mouth began to water with anticipation of her parents’ arrival. They were due any time now and she could not wait to see them. It had been lonely while they were away and a little frightening at night with all the shadows dancing around on the wall. One night she was certain Pauli’s ghost had returned to get her, angry because she had not saved him from his fall from the tree. She knew she was being silly. But still she hid, quivering under her covers, fearful Pauli would come, his head sitting on his shoulders in an unnatural way. Jobeth quickened her step to the foyer, figuring that maybe it was her parents so loaded down with parcels that they could not get the door. She smiled broadly and skipped excitedly to the entrance. Opening the door, her joy was quickly dashed. Isaiah Hyman the old Jewish man who was her family’s closest neighbor was standing in the doorway. He twisted his yarmulke nervously in his rough, old hands, his leathery face drawn and sad. “Mr. Hyman, what is it? Is there something wrong?” Jobeth’s heart suddenly began to race. Mr. Hyman was not a man to smile much. He never had any type of expression on his face, only a neighborly wave and a “How do you do?” Frightened, Jobeth began to twist her hands together. Maybe something had happened to his sweet wife Sarah?“Is it Mrs. Hyman?” She reached out and clutched the old man’s hand warmly but firmly. “No Miss Roberts, Mrs. Hyman is doing well, but I do bring bad news.” He looked down at the ground, wishing he were not the conveyer of unfortunate tidings. “It is about Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. There has been an accident . . .”
Jobeth could not stop crying. At first it was a guttural deep wounded cry that took her breath away, but as days past, it lessened to silent tears. People from town frequently came to console the young girl, bringing plates of steaming food, but nothing worked. She sat numb, hands limp in her lap, as each person asked the same questions.
“Do you have any other relatives dear?” “No. They were all I had,” she would answer bleakly. Concern for Jobeth’s welfare soon became eminent. Although she was fourteen years old, she could not run a large farm–and it was improper for an unmarried girl to live alone without a guardian.
It was unanimously agreed by the town council that since Jobeth had no living relatives, she would be sent to a nearby town to live with a couple who were known to take in orphaned children.
The arrangements were made immediately and the couple was very accommodating in accepting another mouth to feed. Jobeth’s father’s farm was auctioned off and his arrears paid off with the proceeds of the auction. The small amount of money left after all the debts were paid was given to the couple taking Jobeth in. This was to help feed her, clothe her and keep her in school until she came of age. All this was done as Jobeth sat back passively and watched her old life slip away.
The house she was sent to was the home of Mother Tomalina and Father James Johnston. From the moment Jobeth stepped into the filthy shack, she relived her parents’ death in dreams. Sometimes Pauli was with them, his neck broken and his head twisted and hanging on his shoulders. When she awoke from the depths of her nightmares, bathed in sweat and panting heavily, she saw that she had wet herself like a child just fresh out of nappies. Although Jobeth was humiliated, she could not seem to stop herself. Which brought her back to her present predicament: Lying on a filthy cement floor with Mother Tomalina standing over her. “You filthy girl.” Mother Tomalina screeched. Jobeth tried to get up and run But she was too slow as Mother Tomalina’s strong hand stopped Jobeth in her tracks with a stinging slap across her soft face, sending her sailing across the room. This time Jobeth felt the pain. She brought her hand up to her throbbing cheek and instantly felt the heat rise from her assaulted countenance. Quickly she wiped away the drops forming in the corner of her eyes. “Get up and strip.” Mother Tomalina said in a dry, dead voice, as she turned her back to Jobeth. The girl stood up, shaking on weak legs, and stared at the large rump bent over the tiny cot. Mother Tomalina quickly removed the gray, soiled sheets.“I should wipe your nose in it, you filthy girl.” Mother Tomalina hated children, and thanked God that He chose not to implant her womb with any of her husband’s demon seed. She knew that it was she who was barren and was grateful for it. Guilt filled Jobeth as she shivered and slowly started to unbutton her worn night gown. She could not understand why she wet herself nightly. She never had before. Her numb fingers slowly worked on her buttons. She stared down at the faded gown and wondered again as to the fate of her old clothes. She used to have pretty dresses. Blue and pink with lace collars, not these gray sheer nighties she wore now. They were so worn from use that one could see her naked form beneath it Where had her clothes gone? She had not seen them since she came to live here. Mother Tomalina had taken them from her the moment Mr. Hyman had left after dropping her off in his buggy. “You won’t be needing these high missy clothes here. You’re here to work, not show off your wares.” Mother Tomalina sniffed through her nose that first day. Jobeth didn’t understand the meaning of those words as she followed the homely older woman down to the cellar, her clothes captive in Mother Tomalina’s firm grasp. But they became crystal clear soon after.“Fourteen years old and still messes the bed. Dogs ain’t this bad.” Mother Tomalina scowled, scooping the sheets into her arms. She turned to face Jobeth, who was still fumbling with her buttons. “Not only are you as dirty a dog, you are slow as one too.” A large hand suddenly reached out from beneath the sheets and grabbed the neckline of the nightie. Jobeth’s head snapped up in protest, but before she could say anything Mother Tomalina had ripped her gown viciously off her. She quickly bent down to pick up the pieces of her only night garment and tried in vain to cover her nudity. Now what will I wear!? Jobeth screamed in her head, not daring to speak her anger aloud. “Humph.” Mother Tomalina clucked, her eyes sinking into the younger girl’s naked body. “That modesty of yours will go. There is only one place for the likes of you and that’s the streets.” Jobeth wrinkled her forehead in confusion. The streets? What did she mean? Mother Tomalina twisted her lips into a sour pucker. “Don’t look so innocent to me--within a year you’ll be spreading those pretty white thighs to any eager man with a jingle in his pocket. I’ve seen your type before. You’ll end up with a bastard in your belly not knowing who the Pa is or where he went. Jobeth opened her mouth in protest but Mother Tomalina quickly turned on her heels to leave. She swiveled around suddenly to face the dismayed young girl. “Father will be down to deal with you shortly. I reckon he’ll be mighty mad.” She smirked. Jobeth’s blood ran cold in her veins as Mother Tomalina closed the door. She will do for a while, Mother Tomalina thought to herself. He would leave Tomalina alone for a little while at least, and when he got bored with this one, she’d just find a new one. She groaned under her own weight as she ascended the stairs. She would sleep well tonight.
“How could she say that?” Jobeth’s lips quivered “My Mama and Pappy never raised a girl like that.” She clutched her gown around her tiny breasts and went to sit down on her cot. The cold, wet gown touched her flat belly.
Goosebumps jumped to the surface of her skin, forcing her thoughts to reality. Father James would be down soon. Ice-cold fingers crawled up Jobeth’s spine and the hair on the nape of her
neck stood on end. He would be dressed in his usual trousers, old and faded from years of use. In his large, hairy hands would lay the belt. The belt that would soon turn into a whip that would lash Jobeth’s young flesh.
She was terrified of him. He was huge and burly with cruel, beady eyes. Never had she met a man like him. Then again, she had never experienced brutality until she had come to the home of the Johnstons. Jobeth peeked through the strands of her own greasy hair. She had always been clean, but since she was thrown into this prison for some hidden crime she had committed, she had only been allowed one bath per month. “It’s too much trouble to waste time pumping water from the spring,” Mother Tomalina said. Jobeth was not permitted hot water either when it was time to bathe. It was a waste of cooking wood to heat water for a bath. “We don’t have them privileges here.” Mother Tomalina would preach, “A cold bath makes for a quick bath, so you can be sure you won’t be lazing around soaking in a hot, fancy tub.” Jobeth had to admit the old woman was right about that. The water was always ice cold. She would quickly wash the grime off her skin and be out of the tin barrow before she turned into an ice cube. Once, she was last to take a bath. The water had been warm and greasy from the previous people who used it. This disturbed her more than bathing in freezing water. From then on she volunteered to be first into the tub. It was better to wash in cold water than to bathe in someone else’s dirt. She closed her eyes and cowered on the corner of her cot, waiting. The Johnston’s didn’t have a large house and with all the children they took in, there was not enough room for everyone to sleep. Jobeth’s cot was in a small room dug out in the cellar. All that furnished the room was her cot. The few clothes Mother Tomalina had given her after taking Jobeth’s were neatly folded in the corner of her cubbyhole. Her heart pounded uncontrollably as her eyes darted around the gray room. She would never become accustomed to the degradation of being whipped naked. The first time Father James had come into her room a month ago, she was more upset that he had seen her naked then at the beating. He did not seem to care if she was naked or not. He just grabbed her and beat her and left. Jobeth had cried for hours. No man had ever seen her naked. Not even Pauli or her Pappy. It was just not decent and she felt somehow dirty from it all. But worse of all was the way Father James looked at her. It was a hungry look. Like a fox about to pounce on it’s prey. Bile rose in her throat. Those eyes were far more frightening than the belt ever could be.
Father James stood holding onto the knob of the door. Inside was the whore. The whore he must possess. He felt himself harden with desire. Yes, she
would be his, just like the others. She would be his. He thought of the greasy little wench inside and a mixture of lust and hate filled him. Scratching his swollen belly, he belched with disgust. All women repulsed him. They reminded him of his mother. As a child his life had been filled with humiliation after humiliation by the very hands of the woman who birthed him. His father would leave for work in the fields and the nightmare would begin.
“JAMES! You lazy good-for-nothing, I told you to get the eggs from the barn.” She would yell with such venom. James would duck his curly head down to try to avoid the hard whack across the head, but it didn’t matter. Her hand always connected, and if it wasn’t her hand, it was something else. Once she had knocked him out with a rock. As he lay semiconscious on the ground, bleeding from the head, she calmly stood over him, her dark eyes looking down at his sixyear-old body with disgust and said, “Get up, or just die. I don’t’ care which one you choose.”
The memory flooded Father James with hate and anger. He had endured his mother’s torture until he was eighteen. On a cold winter’s morning she had woken him to a slap across the head and something snapped. He grabbed her hand and all the anger he had built up inside him broke through like a raging inferno He saw the fear in her eyes as he easily twisted her arm behind her back. She grunted painfully as he forcefully heaved her body next to his. He said nothing as his hand went up and connected full force across her thin face. The joy he felt did not need words. She had cried out, but that only excited him more as he ploughed his fist over and over into her face. It was the beginning. The beginning of years of abusing women. First he found pleasure in beating them, but soon that became tiresome. As his beating became more violent, so did his sexual desire. After a while his beatings were accompanied with much more. He sighed thinking about it. They were all the same. Just like his mother. His mother had died from his abuse, but he had gotten away with it. Who would have suspected a son of beating his mother to death? He always got away with it and he would again with this one… what was her name? He scratched his greasy head and specks of dandruff fell onto his yellow stained shirt. Jo something… Some silly name he had never heard of before. He didn’t really care. She would be his to play with in whatever way he wanted. And today he wanted more than to beat her, he wanted to own her. Father James turned the knob and walked into the tiny room. The girl was huddled into a corner of the bed. She shrank back in fear. The smell of sweat clung to him and consumed the room as he gently shut the door, locking it behind him.