Sin and Cinnamon

By Virginia Bryan

She likes to watch a man die.

People talk, and that’s what they said about her. She likes to watch a man die. Behind her back, of course. No one dared say it to her face lest she overhear them. That slut just might kill us, too, they whispered. She’s just that kind.

After all, she likes to watch a man die.

The way the word spread, they should have just scrawled it on a banner in big red letters and hung it out there on Meeting Street in Downtown Charleston for one and all to see. Of course, it didn’t help that newspapers around the state used those very words as a catchy headline. It did help sell newspapers, couldn’t deny that.
And, like the old saying goes, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And truth be told, she lit a lot of fires.

It was a question even she had to ask -- when did her life start to go wrong? Could it be when she was only fourteen years old, at the moment people claimed she killed her first husband? Or was it later, when they claimed she killed her second one, too? Not that she was really responsible for either. Their deaths happened – she couldn’t deny that. But none of it was really her fault. If all those people who condemned her so thoroughly had known everything that had gone on, they would understand that too. What about how what they did to her? What about the rapes? The abuse? Didn’t that matter?

And, besides, if she had really, really had things her way, that would have been the end of the killing, the last of the dying. But as so often happens in real life, it wasn’t to be. Other men would share his fate, others would die. And she wasn’t to blame. And she’d stand right up in court and tell people that -- it really wasn’t her fault. But who would believe her?

Fact of the matter, she hadn’t really wanted a husband in the first place, not even the first one, but no one paid attention to what she wanted. And the whole husband thing was, as they say, by hook or by crook, with all kinds of machinations behind her back that she had little control over and anyway didn’t find out until it was too late. And what happened after she got trapped into that unwanted marriage wasn’t her fault either. She rationalized that she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

But there was no way now that this unfortunate young girl could even suspect how bad things would get later. She would never have believed there could possibly be anything worse that where she was at this moment. It was enough for her to know that right now, she was in a world of trouble. Not even she realized at first how bad her situation was.

It all hit home when she found herself sitting on that filthy cot in that nasty jail watching the cockroaches crawl up the walls and the rats creep soundlessly across the cracked and broken floor – that’s when it hit her. If nothing else and she got “lucky,” she was going to jail – for a long time. But lucky was something she had never been, and she knew nothing good was to come. There was a good possibility that she might even be sentencing to hanging. She shivered, contemplating that fate – hung by the neck until dead.

Everyone thought she was guilty. Her money – what little she had -- was almost all gone. She knew that all too soon she would be destitute. And the whole town wanted to see her punished. There was no doubt about how people felt, because right now there was a crowd gathered outside the jail, milling around, cat-calling, chanting loudly, in unison, “Hang her! Hang the bitch!”

Hanged. That’s what they all wanted. To see her strung up. The words rang in her head -- Hung by the neck until dead. She shivered, had a clear vision of her inert, bloodless body laid out on the filthy, cold, concrete floor, her neck stretched out – broken in half. Dead. Just as dead as THAT man -- her last husband. It was coming. She knew it. Death was on the way.

And there would be a whole lot more dying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Virginia Bryan
• Release date: May 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476307060

Virginia Bryan

In the past, I did a lot of writing and got a lot of rejection slips. Then I divorced my first husband and went back to school to earn two computer degrees. Those qualifications led to a job in computer technical support for 12 years, but that work ended when the major company I worked for started sending all their help desk support to India.For years, I had been licensed to sell real estate, and decided it was time to switch careers once again. My business was steadily growing until the unfortunate collapse of the economy caused the housing market to tank. Business turned bad for everyone, not just me; but there was a silver lining. My current husband insisted this was my mandate to get back to writing.I was born in Burke County, located smack in the middle of the ancient and storied Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. My family moved away; but a vast number of my kin people still live there, many on Mineral Springs Mountain – the setting for many of my tales of betrayal, deceit, death, ghosts and hidden portals to other worlds.Burke County is also the site of the Brown Mountain Lights, mysterious, colorful balls of light that have been seen for hundreds of years and yet manage to defy scientific attempts to prove they do not exist. There is no doubt they are real; but to this date, no one has deciphered their true origin or meaning. Furthermore, locals swear to seeing ghosts on a daily basis, and not only at night. Gain their confidence, and they will share stories of ghost sightings even in the bright sunlight.I know that forbidding landscape all too well, having grown up steeped in the culture, privy to ancient tales of love and loss and hidden – and at times irresistible – forces. In my books, I share tales based on that mountain background, and the stories told to me.My favorite hobby is reading. There is nothing like the excitement of cracking open a new book, and I would read 24 hours a day if I could. However, even I cannot read enough, fast enough. So many books, so little time! I also do crafts, make jewelry, do art projects and paint (also have a degree in Commercial Art).Writing is my all-time favorite idea for a career. In the meantime, I still sell real estate as bills have to be paid!

Book preview

Prologue

The best thing was when the light went out of their eyes. He knew it would happen, but it still surprised him -- that abrupt transition from shiny awareness to the dull matte finish of death. To him, it seemed to last a mere second. And always too quick to catch, to see for himself.

He wondered. What did they see when they no longer saw him? Was it heaven? Or was it hell? No, it couldn’t possibly be hell. They had already seen it, been there.

Chapter 1

She likes to watch a man die.

People talk, and that’s what they said about her. She likes to watch a man die. Behind her back, of course. No one dared say it to her face lest she overhear them. That slut just might kill us, too, they whispered. She’s just that kind.

After all, she likes to watch a man die.

The way the word spread, they should have just scrawled it on a banner in big red letters and hung it out there on Meeting Street in Downtown Charleston for one and all to see. Of course, it didn’t help that newspapers around the state used those very words as a catchy headline. It did help sell newspapers, couldn’t deny that.

And, like the old saying goes, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And truth be told, she lit a lot of fires.

It was a question even she had to ask -- when did her life start to go wrong? Could it be when she was only fourteen years old, at the moment people claimed she killed her first husband? Or was it later, when they claimed she killed her second one, too? Not that she was really responsible for either. Their deaths happened – she couldn’t deny that. But none of it was really her fault. If all those people who condemned her so thoroughly had known everything that had gone on, they would understand that too. What about how what they did to her? What about the rapes? The abuse? Didn’t that matter?

And, besides, if she had really, really had things her way, that would have been the end of the killing, the last of the dying. But as so often happens in real life, it wasn’t to be. Other men would share his fate, others would die. And she wasn’t to blame. And she’d stand right up in court and tell people that -- it really wasn’t her fault. But who would believe her?

Fact of the matter, she hadn’t really wanted a husband in the first place, not even the first one, but no one paid attention to what she wanted. And the whole husband thing was, as they say, by hook or by crook, with all kinds of machinations behind her back that she had little control over and anyway didn’t find out until it was too late. And what happened after she got trapped into that unwanted marriage wasn’t her fault either. She rationalized that she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

But there was no way now that this unfortunate young girl could even suspect how bad things would get later. She would never have believed there could possibly be anything worse that where she was at this moment. It was enough for her to know that right now, she was in a world of trouble. Not even she realized at first how bad her situation was.

It all hit home when she found herself sitting on that filthy cot in that nasty jail watching the cockroaches crawl up the walls and the rats creep soundlessly across the cracked and broken floor – that’s when it hit her. If nothing else and she got lucky, she was going to jail – for a long time. But lucky was something she had never been, and she knew nothing good was to come. There was a good possibility that she might even be sentencing to hanging. She shivered, contemplating that fate – hung by the neck until dead.

Everyone thought she was guilty. Her money – what little she had -- was almost all gone. She knew that all too soon she would be destitute. And the whole town wanted to see her punished. There was no doubt about how people felt, because right now there was a crowd gathered outside the jail, milling around, cat-calling, chanting loudly, in unison, Hang her! Hang the bitch!

Hanged. That’s what they all wanted. To see her strung up. The words rang in her head -- Hung by the neck until dead. She shivered, had a clear vision of her inert, bloodless body laid out on the filthy, cold, concrete floor, her neck stretched out – broken in half. Dead. Just as dead as THAT man -- her last husband. It was coming. She knew it. Death was on the way.

It hadn’t always been like this, she thought. I used to be so innocent -- and pure. And that was no lie. Once upon a time, she HAD been innocent, just a naive young girl looking for someone who could actually love her, without reservation and without wanting something from her -- and that something was usually sex.

But that brief period of pristine virtue was so long ago, it was hard to remember now. And sometimes, when so many people die around you, or perhaps one should say, ‘because of you,’ it was even harder to keep your mind straight. If you started thinking about death and murder and suicide, you’d go stark raving mad. And one thing was for sure – there was plenty of that to go around – lunacy and death both.

If only she had known how this would turn out, she could have made other decisions, could have done something to forestall what would prove to be the inevitable.

IF. What a joke. IF only she had known.

IF, always IF.

IF she had known, would those men have died? IF she had known, would she have been raped by all those other men? IF she had known, would others have died because of her?

IF.....IF.....IF........

Who was it that said the saddest words were ‘what might have been?"

No, she thought the saddest word of all was IF. Because IF she hadn’t made all those bad decisions, then all the other bad stuff would never have happened.

The next saddest? SIN. Sin was to blame for everything else that happened after the big IF, because sin was behind it all. Your sin, my sin, their sin -- there’s always plenty of SIN to go around.

Followed by – as inevitable as the sunrise -- death. Death always waited patiently. It knew its time would come.

For her, there were still far worse days ahead. And there would be a whole lot more dying.

Chapter 2

The beginning.

The best place to start. Perhaps then the whole thing may be easier to understand.

Where did it all begin? Down near Charleston, close by the swamps and the sea, in a medium-sized town called Cooper situated along the Cooper River. The time period was the earlier part of the 20th Century, in the late twenties into the thirties, when flappers and prohibition were still hot topics, and people lived much closer to the earth than now. A long, long time ago. Before the internet, before cell phones, back when even a home phone was a shared line – what was called a party line where there would be several homes on the same one.

Cinnamon was the result of a brief liaison between a Wassamasaw Indian and a beautiful young woman of somewhat limited means by the name of Abigail Hoagway who conducted her own little business on the side. And what was her trade? Prostitution. Hooking. The world’s oldest ‘profession.’ Call it what you will; she didn’t care. And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t a good person, and she wasn’t lazy. But she had never had the opportunity at a fine education, or the chance to learn needed skills. Still, she did have to eat, and survive, and all she wanted was to earn as much money as possible with the limited resources given her by life. And as it has always been in this world since time immemorial; when it came to what a woman was selling, men were buying – and that made them the easiest targets of all. Men had the money, and Abigail had what men have always wanted. Tit for tat, and all that.

Once upon a time, Abigail too had been an innocent young thing, but what can you say? A girl does have to make a living. And back then, opportunities were limited for a young woman on her own with very little available resources. Tall and curvy, long, strawberry blonde hair, and a patrician air that belied her humble beginnings, Abigail was quite beautiful and very desirable. She had a face that would let her get away with just about anything that involved a man. Huge, emerald green eyes, a complexion like creamy silk, a fabulous figure that had never seen an ounce of fat. All together she had the perfect package to entice the most susceptible suitor.

Consequently, by the time she was twelve years old, she had learned how easy it was to get a man to do exactly what she wanted. Just flatter her chosen target a little and touch him in a few appropriate places, and she would have his attention. Once she did, all she really had to do was whatever he wanted (and for her that was easier than you might imagine), and the money poured in. She kept a very low profile, however, which her clientele appreciated. Aside from her clients, not a lot of people knew what she did to earn her living. And she really didn’t plan to do this type of thing forever. What she hoped to do was find a rich man interested in keeping her for just his own pleasure. Then she would only have one man to worry about having sex with. She just hadn’t found that perfect man. Yet.

The Wassamasaw Indians had been around the Charleston area practically since time began, or at least since before the early eighteenth century. There was no history on how they got to North America in the first place, but it seems they were always here. They were one of the groups known as ‘settlement Indians,’ and were very friendly to the early colonial settlers. They had provided aid and assistance and even helped defend the colonists in the Yemassee war in the violent, early years of the 18th century. Thus, they were considered valuable allies, a major fact that easily led to their being readily accepted into the local society. Folks considered them to be the equals of the colonists, not an easy task back in this country’s early years, when folks tended to be a little prejudiced against the ‘natives.’ Still one had to admit, there were the haves, and then there were the have-nots, and these native Indians were considered by the more patrician settlers to fit into the latter category.

The man who fathered Cinnamon was known as William Clareman, and he was what many local girls called a devilishly handsome man, tall and muscular, with coal black hair and startling blue eyes that turned a deep, almost electric, turquoise when he got really angry, which wasn’t often. He was usually calm and good natured, but he did have his moments.

He himself might have been the product of an earlier relationship with a colonist, because most of his fellow Wassamasaws had dark eyes, but his were different – an engagingly brilliant bright blue that looked like they could see right through you. He was fortunate in possessing a charming personality and didn’t mind working hard, so eventually he had managed to accumulate a good bit of money, much of it not quite legally.

And that’s where Abigail came in. Money always caught her eye and she had seen William here and there flaunting his. And just maybe, she told herself, he was the right man she had been looking for. Definitely, he was not averse to throwing money around when he had it. He also had other quite obvious physical attributes that she had noticed before when she had seen him working around the town with his shirt off. She liked to watch those sturdy muscles flexing in the sun, glistening with sweat. She pictured herself running her hands over his hard body, feeling him pulsing against her... She’d be the first to admit, even whores like to fantasize.

His favorite hangout was the Drunk Julep, a local club started when Prohibition came into law, one of many speakeasies that sprung up in the hectic excitement of that tumultuous era, a place where you could get all the illegal liquor you wanted. Locals went there to do the Charleston and kick back some drinks. She had often seen him downing several cocktails --- Horse’s Neck or Bronx seemed to be his favorites -- while she gently nursed a Pink Lady or two. Her policy was to keep her drinking low key. She liked to keep her wits about her. William was not averse to buying for the house on a regular basis, and spent money easily, flaunting it to impress both women and other men. She watched the females flock about him, and she was jealous. She wanted some of that. And the way she looked at it, why shouldn’t she have a little of him, and his money, for herself? And that’s why she made it her business to catch his eye.

Both Abigail and William lived in the afore-mentioned town of Cooper, a fair sized hamlet of cozy little cottages and local owned shops whose main attribute was that it was cute and picturesque; and as some of the locals would say, not Charleston.

Transforming woods and swamps into a maze of mystery, strands of Spanish moss draped in thick clumps from every bush and tree. To the casual eye it seemed innocent and pastoral, but hidden within was a multitude of sin and evil. For Cooper was like any other small town in America. It had its movers and shakers, its angels and its devils. And it had its ego-maniacs, people who did what they wanted, when they wanted, where they wanted and hid their peculiar peccadilloes from the rest with sanctimonious piety. Sunday mornings, they showed up in church to echo the preacher’s fiery sermons with loud Amen’s! of their own. Can I get an amen?

Still, a casual observer might be forced to agree that Cooper was a thriving town and the city leaders had great plans for the future. And as part of that city planning, William had been hired by the powers-that-be to help redo Main Street which ran through its center.

Abigail came along the street early that Monday on her way to do some shopping. The day was showing promise as being a fine one. The sky was a deep blue with only a few puffy white clouds, and the air was fresh and clear. There was no sign of the mugginess and haze that occasionally swept over the area, that pervasive miasma that sometimes carried the faint scent of sea air and rotting fish.

The Charleston area, and its environs, has always been known for its flowering trees, especially azaleas, huge bushes of enormous flowers that blossomed all over in a riotous blaze of color. It was spring, and today they were in full bloom.

Abigail took a deep breath. The air was fresh this early morning, and Abigail thought she detected the faint scent of honeysuckle, but it seemed a little too soon for that. Honeysuckle was a summer flower and it was still spring. This particular morning, she was as happy as a cat in cream. She had had a very profitable weekend and looked forward to picking out a new dress down at the Paris Fashions dress shop. She already knew which one she wanted because she had been lusting after it for some time. It had a gold lame bodice with a matching skirt of gold chiffon, and she just knew it would be perfect for a night out on the town. True, it was expensive, featured at $20, which was a fairly heavy price for the time, but she felt she could afford it today.

William had stripped off his shirt and was wielding a pickax at a particularly stubborn bit of rock. He was no stranger to manual labor, and had built some impressive abs. As he raised the ax for another swing at the recalcitrant rock, muscles bulged in massive arms, blood vessels standing out like thick ropes, dark blue against his sun-brown skin. His stomach was flat and hard, his body glistening with sweat. He had on tight black trousers that left little to the imagination and displayed quite frankly that he was a man. That attribute became especially prominent when he chanced to see a beautiful woman. He was an earthy man. He never bothered to hide his erection. Why should he? It was a natural function. And women seemed to like it – he’d seen more than one staring openly, quite avidly, at his crotch. They could pretend innocence all they wanted, but he knew better.

Certainly, Abigail was not immune to a handsome man, considering what kind of business she ran. Although she had seen him in the Drunk Julep many times, she had never approached him. That perhaps might be considered crude and thus, non-productive-- she preferred the subtlety of a chance meeting. Of course, she had no intention of leaving that meeting to fate itself -- she always carefully planned everything out.

She had been waiting for the right time, and today suddenly seemed appropriate, as it appeared the two of them were the only people out here. The street was otherwise deserted; and indeed, it almost seemed as if they were the only ones left in the world. She stood and brazenly admired him from across the street.

At first, he didn’t seem to notice Abigail, but continued to pound away at the street. She had a brief thought, wish it was me he was pounding on. As if he had heard her thoughts, or perhaps merely sensed her gaze of appreciation, he abruptly paused and turned in her direction.

Hello, he called out, You’re looking particularly fine today. He lowered his voice and murmured the words in what he intended to be a deep, sexy voice.

Oh, how do you know how fine I look? Have you been watching me? she asked flirtatiously, and smiled winningly. The smile lit up her face, revealing perfect teeth beneath cupids bow lips. She was lucky. Good teeth were somewhat of a rarity among the lower-to-middle class citizens of that day, dentists being rare and somewhat expensive, with many folks not even owning a toothbrush.

Oh, I’ve seen you before. You always look fine, he called out, bestowing upon her a lazy smile of invitation. And she did look especially fetching today. He gave her another once-over. She was dressed in a pink checked frock today, and he always did like pink on a woman. He thought it made her look like more of a woman.

Not missing that enticing grin, she crossed the street and stood in front of him. Not as fine as you, she purred, and winked naughtily.

He was wearing a black Trilby hat, a popular style usually worn with the brim down in front. With a practiced thumb he pushed up the brim and gazed at her rakishly. Fine woman.

She looked into his eyes, bright blue eyes, as bright as a Caribbean sea. Sexy, bedroom eyes, she thought. God, I love his eyes.

You know what they say, put up or shut up. He grinned devilishly, staring at the front of her dress. It had a low cut bodice; and he especially liked the way her breasts puffed out at top. Like two ripe melons, he thought, and felt himself grow.

So, does the city pay you well for all this hard work? She gestured at the street beneath her feet.

Pretty good, if I may say so, he confirmed. He always did a good job and even his boss had said he appreciated his hard work and paid him accordingly.

That confirmed what she wanted to hear. She never wanted to waste any time on men who had no money. Might be good sex, but didn’t pay the bills.

When she had a particularly busy weekend, Abigail took Monday off. She told herself it was to recharge her batteries, but the truth was, she felt a little bruised and battered after the weekend activities and needed the time to heal a little. But this was just too good to pass up. Usually she had no desire for men, once her work was done, but this one was different. He was emanating some enticing vibes.

Well, why don’t you come by tonight after you finish here? she asked.

Don’t mind if I do, if you’d like to have me.

She gave him the address and went on her way, thoughtfully making sure her hips wiggled just so. Not surprisingly, she could feel the frank approval of those bright blue eyes blazing on her back until she reached the dress shop. She bought the dress she wanted, thinking not only did she deserve it, but it was the perfect dress for tonight – she hoped it would produce positive results. The clerk wrapped the dress carefully in tissue, placed it in a box and handed it to her.

I think this dress is going to be worth the money, she thought as she left the shop.

She strutted back down the street she had come up. Abigail always walked saucily, confidently, so that when she passed by, people knew this was somebody worth something. When she got back again to where William was working, she gave him a jaunty wave and blew him a kiss. He took off his hat and swept it towards the ground, bending in a courtly bow. He has such a beautiful smile, she thought.

She took the dress home and hung it up carefully so it wouldn’t wrinkle. Then she spent a luxurious hour soaking in a tub full of hot water, sweetly perfumed with bath salts from Paris. Her clients were some of the most prominent men in town and they showed their appreciation with lavish thank you gifts. She spent more time on her makeup, and her hair. Although her long curly hair did not always respond well to such ministrations, she spent long minutes creating finger waves. She admired the popular short bobs on other women, but couldn’t bring herself to get her own hair bobbed because she knew men really preferred long hair, no matter what they told their women who chopped it off trying to be fashionable.

And besides, she always gave men what they wanted.

She prepared snacks, bite sized sandwiches and simple hors d’oeuvres. Yesterday, she had bought some strawberries, just coming into season, off a farmer’s pushcart. Ruby red and juicy, they were huge, half the size of her hand. She had been saving them for a special occasion, and the time seemed right. She set the table with small crystal plates and heavy, cut glass champagne flutes. She turned off the overhead light and lit candles, gracing the room with a romantic twilight.

Shortly before the designated time of William’s arrival, she slipped into the gold lame dress. It fit perfectly, hugging her curves in just the right places, and draping suggestively where it should. She knew she looked like a million dollars. She added simple gold hoops to her earlobes. That was enough. She looked elegant and sophisticated, and very expensive, just the effect she wanted.

He came, promptly at the agreed time and knocked forcefully, and loudly, at her door. She liked that; it showed strength and purpose. She greeted him with just the slightest kiss on the lips, a prelude of pleasure to come, and led him into her dining room. They enjoyed their meal leisurely, taking turns feeding each other sandwiches and strawberries, interspersed with a kiss here and there, just very light kisses to tease him, make him want more. Abigail was quite skillful in her profession and in the art of seduction. She knew how to entice a man, how to tease him, how to push him away and then pull him back, how to make him want her with ever greater passion. It all paid off in the long run.

But she needn’t have worried that she’d have to do all the ‘work.’ William was no stranger to passion, and also quite accomplished himself in the art of seduction. He put up with those small kisses for just long enough. Then he pulled her to him and wrapped hard arms around her. He ran one hand down her back, and his touch felt like fire against her skin. He cupped a buttock, squeezing it lightly, and pulled her tightly against him. She could feel his manhood throbbing against her.

He lowered his head to her mouth and touched her lips with his own. His tongue, thick and seemingly with a mind of its own, brushed against hers, sending delicious shivers down her spine.

He reached behind her, expertly grasped the zipper pull and eased it downward. You could tell he was a man who had done this before. He eased the straps off her shoulders, and pushed the dress down, letting it puddle on the floor. She stepped out of it, and he picked it up and laid it across her vanity chair where it wouldn’t wrinkle. She liked that simple gesture. It showed thoughtfulness.

She stood there in the elegant gold French bra and panties she had especially ordered from Paris. She had several sets, as she found her customers willing to pay more according to how desirable she looked.

William ran his hands down her back, caressing each muscle with practiced hands, kneading gently, sending fine sparks of passion through her body. He unfastened the bra and eased it off. He slipped two fingers delicately beneath the elastic of the panties and slowly slid them down. She stepped out of them, and he bent and retrieved the panties and bra and laid them over the dress. Now she stood naked before him, and he noted how her skin looked in the candlelight, smooth and flawless. She had a tiny waist that nipped inward, and hips that curved outwards with just the right curvature to give her a delectable hour glass shape. Her buttocks were small but tight -- just enough flesh to fill his hands. He definitely liked what he saw. He bent his head and nibbled on each nipple in turn and followed up with kisses up her neck and back onto her mouth. Once more, he greedily slipped his tongue into her mouth and probed ardently.

She found herself enthralled by the man; drunk with desire, filled with a white hot fire she thought might consume her. She had to admit, this was not the way she felt when servicing her clients. It had been a long time, and many men ago, that a man had entranced her so completely. This was so different from her usual experience with customers, and it was more than exciting – it was electrifying.

She reached out and unbuttoned his shirt, her fingers fumbling, and the hot flush of desire making her a little clumsy. She slid the garment off his shoulders and then unbuttoned his pants. He stepped out of them and threw them in the corner. And now he stood naked before her and he was as fine as she had hoped. He was happy to see that nature had endowed him well, unlike many of her regular clients who were too small and knew it. She ended up having to flatter and cajole them and work much too hard for her money. They fell onto the bed together and began hungrily ravishing each other. It would have been hard to say who was more aggressive, him or her, but it was for sure each contributed a share.

It was a tumultuous night of steamy passion, but it didn’t end there. The two made a glamorous couple, and others envied their beauty and obviously adoring relationship. Truth to tell, they couldn’t get enough of each other. To the locals, it must have seemed they were everywhere together, all over Charleston and the waterfront and local attractions, including the Drunk Julep on nearly a daily basis. They journeyed to Folly Beach Island and its popular Atlantic Pavilion and danced the Charleston-- and its sometime companion, the Lindy -- to sparkling, catchy music hosted by some of the biggest bands of the time. Tommy Dorsey appeared at the Atlantic, and so did Glen Miller, and other less well known – but still wildly popular -- artists. Their bands played beguiling dance music that enticed the soul, swing and jazz and what later would be called shag music but now was merely lively melodies with exciting and contagious tempos. Sometimes they stayed out most of the night, came home and made love until morning’s first light, and then –exhausted and spent -- slept the day away. It was a great time to be young, alive, and in love – with a plethora of lust thrown in.

Whatever they did and wherever they went, they enjoyed their life together immensely and neither wanted it to end. Certainly, neither wanted to do anything that might jeopardize such total perfection.

Once, they had been out shopping together and a young couple had entered, dragging two little kids behind them, a small boy and a slightly older girl; and the mother cradling a sleeping infant in her arms. The little boy climbed on a counter and knocked several crystal pieces off which fell to the floor and shattered into a dozen sharp pieces. The shopkeeper glared angrily at the parents who thoughtlessly ignored the ensuing devastation.

A huge display of candy suckers sat on the end of a counter. They resembled pinwheels, decorated with several garish stripes of color, neon shades of red and yellow and green, and all too regrettably attracted the little girl’s attention.

Please, can I have one, pl-e-e-e-a-a-a-a-s-s-s-e-e-e? the child begged in a wheedling voice, drawing out the word in a long, annoying, breathless hiss.

No, said the mother. It’s too close to dinner. She was a short, slightly plump woman of about thirty. She had done her mousy, brown hair up in a loose bum, but it had been a long strenuous day with two bratty kids. Some of the hair had escaped and now hung in greasy strands, draping limply around her receding chin. She had a mournful, put-upon, distressed look about her, and anyone could tell that she was caught up in an untenable situation.

Obviously outrageously spoiled, the small girl was not willing to give up quite so easily. She stamped her foot and screamed, I want one now! Her voice rose to a high pitched wail so sharp it hurt Abigail’s ears.

The little boy had been watching this display of greed. Not willing to be left out, he chimed in with his own high-pitched shriek, If Judy gets a sucker, I get one, too!

No, neither of you gets one, said the father, firmly. He looked to be about forty, balding across the top, with a harried expression on his face. Abigail got the impression he might be tired of this woman, these children, and his marriage all together. But most especially, his aggravating offspring.

The two children looked from the mother back to their father and saw determination and stubbornness in their faces -- there would be no candy today. Frustrated and thwarted, both began to yowl in piercing, strident tones so loud it hurt the eardrums, a harsh caterwauling that sounded like cats courting at night. The noise startled the sleeping baby awake, and it too began bawling at the top of its lungs.

The ensuing bedlam was more than Abigail and William could stand. They bolted speedily from the store into the street where the normal sounds of street traffic seemed mild compared to the cacophony inside.

God, said William. That’s one thing I never want – kids! I don’t want to ever have to go through shit like that!

Neither do I, she agreed. I like it when it’s just us. No screaming kids. No one to get in their way. Nothing but fun, that was her motto.

I want you to promise me, no kids. He gazed at her intently, his eyes now the color of smoky cobalt, pulling her in, enticing her with captivating promise. How could she refuse his entreaty? Besides, a baby was one thing she had never wanted. She had a hard enough time taking care of her own needs. How could she provide for a child?

Fine with me, she happily agreed. She had a tough life growing up with hardly enough food to eat; she didn’t wish to force such overwhelming poverty on an innocent child. And to be fair, not only had she never been the mother type; but she was having way too much fun and didn’t want it to end. No kids for her.

But all too soon, reality began to intrude into their perfect little world. It is an axiom that nothing so hot and so good can last forever. William, consumed with an all-consuming, white-hot desire that propelled him to recklessness and carelessness, spent a lot of money and let his business slide. Abigail had stopped taking on customers because William paid for everything, and she didn’t really need to earn more money right now – at least, not THAT way.

But there was one other vexing problem, one that Abigail knew she couldn’t ignore for long. Birth control was pretty much non-existent in those days. Condoms were primitive, thick, invasive and sometimes painful to use, as well as prone to breakage. Therefore, many men took no precautions, but unwisely left it up to their partner. And women of the day had few options. Some women insisted that a cider vinegar douche would work, if used promptly and often. And there were a variety of home remedies that others swore by, but none was fool-proof. Abigail had always been careful, but passion led her to allow her vigilance to slide.

Her monthly was late. First sign something was wrong. Her schedule was often inconsistent, and the tardiness had not at first worried her. But then one morning, she woke up with a repugnant taste on her tongue, her mouth dry and cottony, and her head spinning. She cautiously lifted her head and the room whirled around her. She gingerly pushed herself to a sitting position, the acid of bile rising in her throat, erupting in her mouth like the first spurt of lava in a volcano.

William lay on the other side of the bed, snoring gently, lost in his own private dream world, oblivious to what was happening to Abigail. She bolted quickly from the bed, stumbled through the house, barely made it out the back door. She lurched forward and threw up in the grass by the birdbath. A robin getting a drink of water cast one startled eyeball on her and darted skyward in a burst of fright. She collapsed on the bench by the birdbath and sat still for long moments afraid to move, fighting nausea that pierced her stomach like thorns. The backyard pitched and rolled, its bright flowers whirling about her in a kaleidoscope of pink and yellow. She felt so bad, she almost prayed to die. Why was she so sick? The only thing she could think of was their dinner trip the night before to The Flying Fish, a local, very popular seafood restaurant. She had been served a huge fried flounder. At the time it had seemed so succulent and delicious, but now she suspected it may have turned in the sultry summer heat.

Finally, the nausea began to pass and she began to feel as if she might indeed live a little longer. Unsteadily, she eased the back door ajar and slipped back inside. She was grateful to see William still in bed, sleeping soundly. She made coffee, hot and black because she didn’t think she could stand sugar and cream right now, and drank it gingerly. After a half hour or so, she felt much better, and tried to forget the morning episode. And she didn’t tell William. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, she rationalized. Besides it was just one of those things. Everyone gets sick now and then.

But the next day was a repeat performance, and this time she had not eaten fish or anything that might have been bad. Afterwards, each day was the same, and after two weeks of throwing up every morning, she had to face facts. She was an adult woman. She knew what this meant.

She was pregnant.

Pregnant. And at that time, even she could not know how that one simple little word would ultimately destroy her life.

But, all too soon, she would find out.

Chapter 3

What was she to do? She couldn’t tell William. She knew what she had promised – no kids. There had to be a way to get out of this mess. She briefly considered a trip to one of the barrier islands. She had heard there was a Creole woman over there – a known practitioner of spells and demonic rituals – a person who specialized in voodoo and medicine to get rid of unwanted babies. She’d heard other women talk about it in whispers. But she would have had to take a boat to get there, and the prospect of traveling across that sometimes tumultuous strait of churning waters was too much for her stomach to even consider. She just couldn’t will herself to do it; and worse, she wondered seriously if she could even make it. Could she withstand the misery of combining seasickness with this malady already troubling her? She seriously doubted it. Instead, she might be tempted to throw herself overboard and end it for once and all.

Finally, fate intervened and she could no longer hide her sickness from William. One ill-fated morning, something woke him, and he heard the violent retching from outside in the yard. Puzzled, he walked out barefoot to see what was going on and caught her throwing up.

My God, you’re sick, he exclaimed in horror. She could hear the alarm in his voice. Extremely worried, he put his arm around her, felt thinness beneath his touch, her ribs prominent against his hands. She had lost weight. Losing weight so suddenly usually foretold a serious illness, he thought. Alarm ran through his body. Are you okay? he asked worriedly.

She had collapsed onto the bottom step with her knees bent in front of her. She dropped her head, resting it on her knees, trying to control the vertigo threatening to consume her.

He loomed above her huddled, wretched form and stared down at her, observing how pale and drawn she was, with her face white and her hair matted in clumps. He knelt beside her.

I asked you, are you okay? She saw his concern but was afraid to confess to him what troubled her. She remembered the promise he had insisted upon. No kids. None. Nada. What would he say if he found out she was now pregnant? She needed time to decide what to do.

Besides, she felt so bad she could barely speak. Yes, she said in a whisper. It was all she could manage – another word and she would have thrown up once more. She didn’t dare say anything more, lest he guess the truth.

He wasn’t about to be fooled. No, you’re not! You‘re sick! You need to see a doctor.

Fear lanced through her body. She couldn’t go to a doctor. She knew he would only confirm what she suspected. I’m okay, she managed to gasp. And then the ghastly dizziness overcame her again, and she began retching violently once more.

William jumped back quickly, but not fast enough. She threw up again, and the mess ended up landing on his bare right foot. He looked down at his toes and saw the remains of last night’s dinner. My God, he thought, I can still see the corn kernels, just as yellow as when they were served. His own stomach rolled; and for a moment, he thought he too would throw up. He managed to fight back the incipient nausea, but he was appalled. Something was seriously wrong.

You’re going, he insisted, if I have to carry you there myself. Who’s your doctor?

I don’t have one, she moaned softly.

What do you mean, you don’t have one? How can you not have a doctor?

Lasts year, the one I had all my life died; and I haven’t found another one I like as much. I hardly ever get sick.

Well, you’re sick now. You need to see a doctor, and I know one. I’ll take you to him, he said, determination in his voice. He was not about to back down.

A tremor of fear raced through her like a stiff shot of rye whiskey. Any other time she would have appreciated his caring, but not now. She knew there was no way she was going to get out of this without his finding out what was really wrong with her. And what happened afterwards would not be pretty.

William’s physician was not far from Abigail’s home. Seeing it was such a nice day and warm and pleasant, William insisted they make the short walk together.

The fresh air and exercise will make you feel better, he said. And he was right -- it did, for a little while, at least as long as needed for the walk to the doctor’s office.

The wood house had once been painted white, but now that coating was peeling and flaky. It had been a long time since it had seen new paint. Only one story, it was small and not well kept. As they walked up the gravel path to the front door, Abigail noticed that the bushes were overgrown and untrimmed and the few tufts of grass that struggled to survive had grown high and unkempt. The yard itself was sparse and there were no flowers, but there were a few broken pots scattered about that may once have held beautiful bouquets. But that must have been long ago.

John Burke, MD was lettered on the door, the letters pockmarked and fading, eaten away by the weather. Below was a small sign that said, ‘Come in.’

They climbed the steps and stood on a concrete front porch, outlined with bricks. It too needed repair; a couple of corner bricks had somehow gotten broken off. There once had been a screen door, but now all that remained was the frame and a few scraps of screen. William pulled back the frame and grasped the door knob, pushing the door open. A bell tinkled in the back. She entered reluctantly; extremely averse to going through with what she knew would be a debacle.

The general practitioner used two of the front rooms to see his patients, and made his home out of the back rooms. The foremost front room was used as the waiting room, and it was tiny and sparsely furnished, with a small settee and a broken down arm chair and one table with a lamp sitting on it. At the back of the room, near a door leading to a hallway, sat a desk behind a small screen. The dank room was dark and chilly and reeked of strange odors – a noxious mix of rubbing alcohol and ammonia and disinfectant. There was also the underlying scent of some kind of foul-smelling medicine that brought back memories of when she was very young and helped care for a friend who had died of the ‘white plague,’ now known as tuberculosis. She remembered the faint scent of death in that home, an omen of what was to come. And now, here in this sinister place, she could have sworn she detected a slight tinge of that same pungent odor, lurking in the shadows at the fringes. Unexpectedly, a shiver crept down her spine. She wondered how a man could live like this, with these awful odors, day after unending day, without wanting to swallow poison himself.

The doctor appeared in the doorway, clad in a dirty white smock that looked like it hadn’t been washed in about a year. To her, there appeared to be almost a black aura around him -- like an angel of death. She shivered inadvertently and thought, he’s so cheap, he won’t even hire a receptionist. That’s why he came out to speak to them himself.

I’m Dr. Burke, he said and offered his hand. It was limp in hers and felt like a dead fish, cold and slimy and quite bloodless. Abigail looked him over. He was a short, portly man, bald on top, with a fringe of long gray hair that hung limply around the bottom half of his head. He made up for the lack of hair on his head with a full beard that had once been black but now had gray mixed into it, and it was unkempt and needed trimming. Unfortunately, he also sported a huge belly that made him look like he drank a lot of beer. Certainly not the way she thought a doctor should look. How can you tell others to observe healthy living, she thought, when you looked like you did the complete opposite?

For his part, he saw her looking him over, realized she was assessing him as well, and quite literally stuck his nose in the air. He certainly was not going to make apologies for his appearance. A damn whore! A slut! He gave a snort of derision. Who was she to judge him?

Abigail turned to William and said, pleadingly, Please, William, wait out here for me. If she was indeed pregnant, she didn’t want him to know right now. There might be a better time later to tell him. Or maybe she could find something that might get rid of it, and he’d never have to know.

No, I want to go back with you, he said stubbornly. He was concerned about her health, but he also worried about his own. What was wrong with her? And what if she had something that was contagious? And if worse came to worse, and the news was bad, she was dying, or ill with some deadly disease, I want to know about it. I need to know what kind of hell I’m getting myself into.

Please, she laid her hand on his arm, and her voice took on a wheedling note. I need to talk privately with the doctor about lady stuff. I don’t want you to see me like that.

The doctor stood and watched their interchange, waiting impatiently. She looked back to him, silently willing him to say that he preferred to see her alone. Instead, he said to William, You are free to sit in, sir, and emphasized the ‘sir.’

The doctor turned back to Abigail. Come with me, he said roughly, giving her a disapproving look.

She gazed back disdainfully. A vestige of covert communication, even a veiled animosity, had inadvertently passed between them. No love lost here. She had the feeling she knew him from somewhere. And then she remembered where she had last seen him. Going into the house of a friend – another prostitute she knew. And he looked down on her? A damn hypocrite.

For his part, he recognized her also, but he was not about to admit it. So, he thought, she and the other woman were friends. That possibility made him angry. He wouldn’t be surprised if the other whore hadn’t told her all about him and his predilections – and there were some he wouldn’t want anyone else to know. It would be embarrassing, and demeaning. Perhaps they compared notes; knowing how women liked to talk, he was sure they did. Maybe they even laughed behind his back, giggling over his small manhood. He didn’t much like that -- talk about humiliating. What a man had was what he was given, born with, and no damn woman should have the right to criticize, or even talk about it – especially not with her friends.

Irritated by his own thoughts, he said crossly, Please come back to the examining room. He stood aside to allow her to step up beside him.

Again, Abigail pleaded with William, Please wait outside. Do it, just for me. She tried to smile but it came out as a ghastly, ghostly smirk.

He shrugged his shoulders. Are you being shy? Believe me, I’ve already seen everything you’ve got, and in every position possible.

At that remark, the doctor turned and looked at her speculatively, a smarmy little smile on his face. She thought she knew what he was thinking, and turned red with embarrassment. William, you don’t even respect me, do you?

And now she knew it was hopeless. There was no getting rid of William, short of shooting him on the spot. Too bad I don’t have a gun, she thought wryly. At that moment, she almost felt like she could do it.

The doctor led them back to what he called his examining room, a cluttered little cubicle crowded with a long, none-too-clean wooden table and some cabinets with glass doors. Strange brown bottles were stacked here and there, and the room itself was dusty and nasty looking. He gave her a dingy, once white gown and told her to put it on. Instead of leaving the examining room to let her disrobe in private, he stood and watched as she did so, his eyes avid and rapacious. She tried not to look at him.

Lie down on the table, he rasped gruffly.

The table he indicated was scratched and gouged and looked none too clean. It sat high in the air, to make it easier for the doctor, and had a little stool to step up on. Abigail did as he asked, and slid backwards a little and lay down, tucking the gown chastely around her body. There was no covering on the bare surface, and it felt cold and greasy beneath the skin of her back. Up close, she could see vestiges of red here and there, and wondered if that might be old blood. The scent of death that had been faint in the anteroom was even more prominent in this dreary, dark little cubicle. Combined with the other odors that had also gotten stronger, she was beginning to feel nauseated once again. A powerful wave of nausea swept over her, and she had to fight to remain calm and not throw up all over this nasty place. Or over him. Serve him right if she did.

Despite her vain attempt at propriety, the doctor roughly grabbed the fabric and pushed the hem of the gown to her waist, exposing the bottom half of body. He had a greedy, lascivious leer on his face, as if he had been waiting for this moment of humiliation. He grabbed her legs and roughly pushed them up until her knees were bent and her most private parts were starkly revealed to him and William both. She blushed several shades of red, and closed her eyes to avoid having to look at that awful face peering avidly into her nethermost area. She steeled herself as he thrust freezing cold fingers into her tender passage, probing none too gently. She was forced to endure an examination that proved to be not only painful and embarrassing, but much worse – absolutely degrading.

After what seemed interminable minutes, he looked up and smiled snidely, Well, it’s true. You’re knocked up. Having bullied his way into the exam room, William was standing beside her when the doctor maliciously confirmed what she already knew. She cautiously turned her head and saw the expression on William’s face, already turning blood red.

That’s it, missy. Get dressed, the doctor said sharply and left the room abruptly. William followed.

Abigail could hear them conversing in low tones in the waiting room, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Feeling degraded and ashamed, she tried to push the whole horrible experience from her mind, but she couldn’t shake an overwhelming sensation of dread and dismay.

She put her clothes back on slowly, trying to postpone confrontation with William as long as possible. She knew it would be awful, and he would be unforgiving. Reluctantly, she finally had to walk out to the waiting room and found the two men standing side by side, arms crossed, judgmentally staring at her.

And, standing there, with William fidgeting distractedly in front of her, she could tell he was definitely not pleased. She saw the smoldering look that flushed across his face. What had begun as a rosy flush was now darkening rapidly to the deep red of fury.

For the most part, William had been a calm man, and fairly easy to get along with, unless he got stirred up about something. Previously, that had not happened too often, but Abigail knew him all too well. He had a quick temper, and could be swift to anger, especially if things did not go his way. She had seen that fury several times, knew its power, and thus always tried to make an effort not to get on his bad side. She was adept at reading people, careful to properly coach her words to avoid misunderstandings, and she did not like to argue. It was much better to cajole a man into doing what she needed to get things to go the way she wanted them.

But now she could see that all that had gone by the wayside. William was furious, staring daggers at her. Not taking his eyes from hers, he asked the doctor, How much do I owe you?

That will be $5, said Burke. He had considered asking for twice as much, just on principle. But when he caught another look at William’s face, he hastily reconsidered. William was definitely not happy with the diagnosis. That man was obviously teetering on the edge, and he didn’t want to be the one to push him over. Let it be that woman. She deserved it. Just like a typical slut. Get herself in the family way so she can trap a man.

Without looking at the denominations, William jerked several wrinkled bills from his pocket and heedlessly threw them down on the front desk, almost as if the money was on fire and burning a hole in his hand. The doctor glanced quickly at the cash and noted that it was six one dollar bills, but didn’t bother to point out the mistake. For the moment, he left the money lying where it fell.

The doctor looked from William’s livid face back to her pale, frightened countenance, and his suspicions were confirmed.

Not good news? he sniggered, and smirked maliciously, happy to rub it in as much as possible. She was mortified; there was no doubt the doctor understood her position all too well.

Not waiting for her, William stormed out of the office. She hesitated, more than a little terrified, not sure if she should even follow him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor scoop up the money and stuff it quickly in his pocket. She saw what William hadn’t noticed -- it was six ones, not five. Cheating bastard.

At last, unable to delay any longer, she followed William out the door. He was already well ahead of her, almost back to the street, tearing along at a much faster pace so that he stayed a few steps in front. His feet struck the ground hard; dust puffed up at each step. He didn’t say a word to her all the way back.

For herself, Abigail was content to walk at a slower pace, dragging her feet, taking as much time as possible. She definitely didn’t want to walk through that door and be alone with William, subject to the full brunt of his anger. She thought miserably, Why can’t the ground just open up right now and let me drop straight to hell? It can’t be that much worse than this.

When they reached her doorstep, he stood aside for her to unlock the door, and then charged through into the living room, again not waiting for her. When she reluctantly entered, he was waiting impatiently, standing stolidly in the middle of the floor, his arms crossed over his chest. He glared ferociously; white hot anger rising from him like waves of heat, his eyes now seemed to be glowing black as the devil’s soul.

How could you do it? he shouted viciously.

How could I do it? she screamed back. You were there. You did it too. What do you expect? When you go fishing and use bait, you just may catch something!

You knew I didn’t want kids! he screamed. We talked about it before, and you promised!

I don’t want kids either, she cried miserably. I tried to be careful. It just happened."

Just happened, my ass! He bellowed viciously. A huge blood vein had popped out on his temple and was throbbing with every beat of his heart, palpating visibly. It looked ready to burst. Before, she had thought him a handsome man. Now he looked like a demon. All he needed was horns. This was a side of him she had never before seen.

But it did just happen, she protested. I didn’t want this either. I’d rather have fun than raise a kid.

A likely story. Getting pregnant is what women do when they want to trap a husband. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you wouldn’t have to work anymore. Just sit at home and take it easy, laying around, doing nothing, he spat out contemptuously.

That’s what you men like to think! You don’t even know what you’re talking about! You’re not the one who has to go through nine months of pregnancy and then the pain and misery of giving birth. You men have it easy.

Easy? You got to be kidding me. We have to pay to raise the kid and educate it. And we have to put up with you women! he chanted viciously, looking to hurt her.

He glared at her appraisingly. And then, cruelly, wanting to wound her as much as possible, he blurted out the most abusive thing he could think of, words that men have used in similar circumstances probably since living in caves, How do I even know it’s mine?

She gasped. Just what the typical expectant father might say when presented with an unwanted offspring, she thought sourly. If she had been more foolhardy, she would have slapped him, just to get even for such a demeaning comment. But she didn’t trust him enough to do such a stupid thing. He was so angry he might retaliate and beat her to death out of sheer anger and frustration. She had