Unspoken Rules
    by Ann Hite

I

Cut Out The Pattern 1916

AzLeigh watched her brother through tiny slits in her eyelids. She lay on the sofa motionless, hoping to catch him off guard, wishing he would go for the kitchen money hidden in a small pot behind the Bible. She imagined herself the great Queen Cleopatra on the Nile, floating on her own personal barge. She read all about the queen in one of Father's books. Her brother removed the lid on the small pot.

"I caught you! Arthur Hawkins!" She sat straight up. "I'm telling Father. You will die a slow death for this one."

Arthur made one fluid motion from the bookcase to AzLeigh and pinned her down. His fourteen-year-old body was more like Father's and he sufficiently held her in place. His face touched hers. "You little witch."

She took a breath.

He clamped his hand over her mouth, hot tobacco breath heating her neck. "If you were a little older, I'd show you what girls are good for."

She tried to speak.

"I don't care if you're my sister. A girl is a girl. If you tell Father, I promise you'll live the rest of your life regretting it." He jumped from her like a panther, dropped the money in his pocket, pretended to tip his hat, and left the room.

The pot sat open, empty. AzLeigh walked to the bookshelf and replaced the lid on the pot, tucking it behind the Bible. Now, she was in as much trouble as Arthur. The dust from the Bible rolled under her fingertips.

The brand new pedal sewing machine hummed. Bess sewed a seam in what looked like a blue gingham pinafore, working the soft cloth into the needle as if she painted a picture. Her fingers were cracked from hot water and cold air. The sewing machine wheel whirled around and around and around.

"I know you're standing there, Miss Leigh."

"I saw Arthur take the kitchen money."

The machine twirled to a stop. Dark rings shown under Bess's eyes. "Did he see you?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you're in one piece, so he didn't kill you. But, I wouldn't put nothing past that mean child. What happened?"

Folks in town said Father married Bess just to have someone to watch AzLeigh and Arthur. Arthur carried a huge chip on his shoulder, bigger than normal. He nourished the chip until it was a full-fledge grudge. AzLeigh didn't have a reason to hate Bess. She couldn't remember her mother and mixed up memories with Bess. Bess said that was plumb crazy since Mama was beautiful and she was just plain, like weathered barn wood. All AzLeigh saw when she tried to conjure up Mama was a crying woman with an ugly purple face and thin hands like claws.

"He told me if I told, I would regret it the rest of my life."

"Arthur hates the whole world, and especially me. He's too darn big for his pants. If you don't stand up to him, he'll push you around the rest of your life. Talk to your father."

"Oh I can't. He'll beat him. I don't want that."

"It's going to be worse to be under that one's thumb. He's sneaky and tells bold face lies." Bess watched her. "I'll tell you what. I'll talk to your father tomorrow when he gets back from his trip." Bess smiled and AzLeigh hugged herself inside.

Her confidence followed her into the hall where Arthur stood, arms folded across his chest. "You're in for it now, Arthur."

But the look that rode in his eyes told her she was wrong.

"You ain't causing me any trouble, little sis." He shoved her into the wall. "Neither is that cow." He stomped by her and down the stairs.

Arthur came to supper and acted like an angel. AzLeigh saw uncertainty cross Bess's face in the form of frown lines around her mouth.

Bess stuck her head in at bedtime. "Don't worry Miss Leigh. That boy don't have nothing on me. We'll straighten this all out when your daddy comes home tomorrow." AzLeigh drifted off to sleep content with the night.

AzLeigh slept right through Bess's death. She found her the next morning crumpled on the floor wearing only a lacy nightgown-an affair way to frilly for plump practical body, and this made AzLeigh believe she was dreaming. She imagined Bess tried to go for help. The chamber pot was kicked out from under the bed and the water pitcher was upset.

The doctor pronounced her dead on the scene. The tragedy sent AzLeigh to her Father, who sat on the front steps with Arthur.

The doctor put his hat in his hand and patted Arthur on the back. "You have a duty son. Look after your sister. She needs you now."

Only a trace of the resentment and meanness lingered around Arthur's eyes as he nodded. After all, he was her brother. They had the same blood. He had to love her.

        II

Sewn Seams 1939

It was Saturday night, and every Saturday Grace Jean and Alice, her best friend, her only friend, took the streetcar into Marietta and watched the newest monster movie. The girls, calm and laughing inside the theater lobby, under overhead lights, made fun of the life-like monsters on screen. Later, when the streetcar deposited them on the corner, two blocks from home, they were certain glowing eyes stared from the woods. Both girls ran for their lives, evil licking their heels, parting ways. Alice ran to a crowded worn out, cold house, and Grace Jean to one room on top of the Mercantile.

Grace Jean opened her eyes to pitch dark that swallowed her. A slice of pale light stretched across the faded quilt on the bed; AzLeigh, her mother, was gone. She crawled onto the bed with her eyes tightly closed, body straight, covers over her head. Grace Jean imagined a summer day, swaying on a swing, back and forth; the dip flipped her stomach as the world rushed at her back in one long smooth motion. Sleep, blessed sleep overtook her, saving her from the monsters one more night.

AzLeigh turned the knob as the one room allowed the gray light of morning to wash away the secrets in dark corners. Grace Jean pretended to sleep as AzLeigh slid into the bed beside her. One day, they would have their own house, AzLeigh promised, one with a robin-egg blue door. But until then, she had to share the room with her mother. Often, Uncle Arthur visited too. Arthur always wore a quiet look as his hands worked business with the nightly newspaper, folded corners; small rips around the edges as he sat in deep thought.

On the nights Uncle Arthur visited, he arrived with supper prepared by his cook in his wife's kitchen, wrapped in wax paper . From his pocket, he pulled a single stick of peppermint, which he presented to Grace Jean. She accepted the candy, feeling as if she were part of some criminal plot.

Grace Jean attended Osborne Elementary School. Each morning she tucked three pennies, milk money for the day, and two peppermint sticks inside her frilly pinafore that Mother laid out the night before. She was much too old at twelve to wear pinafores, but she didn't have the heart to reject Mother's gifts. AzLeigh sat afternoons in front of the Singer sewing machine, curtains thrown open for extra light. She pedaled the machine like a bicycle, guiding the cloth into the threaded needle, creating perfect seams. She worked until Grace Jean came home from school, and Arthur paid his visit.

On this morning, Grace Jean placed each hand into her new rabbit fur gloves and left the house without waking her mother. Alice stood in the playground, rubbing her bare hands together.

Grace Jean pulled the gloves from her hands. "Here. I hate these."

Alice shook her head. "I can't take your gloves. They're brand new." Alice's dress hung off one shoulder, bare to the cold. "Mama says we may not have much, but we come by what we have honest."

"Take them or I'm going to hold my breath." Grace Jean took a deep breath, puffing with her cheeks like a bullfrog.

Alice jerked the gloves from her. "That's stupid. I'm not poor. Just because you have enough money to go to the movies every week doesn't make you better than me, Grace Jean Hawkins."

She let out the breath in one great push. "I hate those gloves. You're doing me a favor. It ain't got nothing to do with you."

"You're such a liar. You asked for them last week. I heard you with my own two ears. I saw how you eyed that rabbit's fur, rubbing it like it was something real special."

"Yeah, but Uncle Arthur bought them."

"Why don't you like him? He buys you whatever you want. I wish I had an uncle like him."

"Keep quiet! If you tell, everyone will think you're dirty and bad. "I hate him!"

"Geez, you don't have to yell about it. I'm going to class."

Grace Jean pulled the peppermint sticks from her pocket. "I'm not upset. I just don't like him." A loud hum built in her mind. She pushed the candy at Alice. "I brought these to you."

"You're going to get me in trouble. Ain't no one going to believe someone like me would have rabbit gloves and peppermint. My mama will beat me good."

Alice's eager look told Grace Jean she would have a best friend for one more day. "Just eat the candy now and no one will know. Tell your mama I gave the gloves to you. She can come and ask me if she don't believe it."

"That's really stupid. Mama would never come around your mama." Alice looked away. Grace Jean slid her hand into Alice's gloved hand. The fur warmed her fingers as they walked hand in hand, best friends, to class.

AzLeigh waited on the street curb after school. Uncle Arthur sat in his car watching, waiting.

AzLeigh smiled real big. "Your uncle Arthur has a surprise for us." She pushed on Grace Jean's shoulders, guiding her to the car.

Uncle Arthur drove the car out of town. Boarding houses, stores, and homes turned into pastures, trees, and a farmhouse here and there. The door handle felt cool in Grace Jean's hand. Just open the door and fall. That's all you have to do. It won't hurt for long. Maybe you're neck will break. At least the trouble would disappear. AzLeigh laughed as her brother talked. Grace Jean studied AzLeigh's French twist and wondered if her mother really was so stupid, or if it was an act so she could live with herself?

The house sat on a road dotted with large trees. Uncle Arthur reached across the seat and squeezed AzLeigh's shoulder. "Look at it. Your own house."

A door the color of a robin's egg beckoned to Grace Jean. It was the perfect color for a door.

III

The Finished Piece 2001

Grace Jean was a self-taught tailor, who sewed beautiful, detailed clothes for her daughter, Leigh. Each piece was sewn with the precision of an artist. Grace Jean worked bent over an antique Singer sewing machine, handed down from her mother. The curtains were kept drawn over the windows in her sewing room, one stingy light shining on the seam, half glasses balanced on her nose, the needle humming up and down through the cloth, straight perfect stitches, the motor whirling. Grace Jean remained intent on the dotted line of thread, as if this were her highway to freedom. Meanwhile Leigh ran for her life, escaping Grace Jean, who found fault in the very image of her daughter, the hatred curling inward like a snake preparing to strike. Both women entered into separate worlds of their own making.

The year Grace Jean turned seventy-two, her mind frayed around the edges like an old, used dishcloth. Gone was the hatred she harbored like a long lost friend. Forgotten were the artistic pieces of work, the satin faded to moldy colors; piled in the corners, on the tabletops, on the sofa, chairs, and beds. In the end, death saved her from the monsters in her mind, insanity in its purest form. As the steady beep of hospital equipment timed her last minutes on earth, a fleeting thought burst through the thin fabric between life and death: Words mean nothing when a soul hides the truth. She died with the image of an eight-year-old Leigh, wearing newly sewn clothes, a substitute for protection.

Leigh turned forty-five the month Grace Jean died. The year had been good to her. The art critics praised her work, and she had succeeded in a way Grace Jean couldn't comprehend. The message of Grace Jean's death came with a single door key. Inside the cramped, cluttered house of her childhood, Leigh traced her mother's madness through layers, years. Delicately sewn blouses, skirts, and dresses for a child were piled in every space, creating a maze to the sewing room.

Leigh searched for the answers in the beauty of the fabrics. Buried deep in the folds of faded pink satin, an aging prom dress, was a shoebox containing crumbled brown photos. Each photo featured a young Grace Jean. In one photo Grace Jean wore the prom dress. She stood arm in arm with Leigh's grandmother. Two women so close, but their expressions exposed a well-constructed wall. Leigh stood deserted in the open wound of their combined souls. Behind the camera, stood the real monster, Uncle Arthur, unseen by the causal eye. When she attempted to draw the glistening threaded connection between the four, a harsh screech stopped her; insanity beckoned, voices telling a truth. She wanted to embrace the voices, wrap her arms around their comforting, tortured souls, and lose sight of the obligation to remain whole, healthy, and strong.

Leigh created her art with paints, pencils, and canvases. Her paintings reflected soul, purpose, haunted by moans of misplaced emotion. The object that fascinated her most was a plain door, painted blue. The image enticed her to enter, embrace the knowledge.

She pulled her sketchpad from her purse, drew a six-panel door, and colored within the lines, using sky blue, but something about the shade threw off the vision. Grace Jean had colored along side Leigh when she was young, new at holding the crayon between her fingers.

"Keep in the lines, Leigh dear. You must keep within the lines. It is the unspoken rule that allows the finished piece."

Grace Jean's house, cluttered with clothes, unwanted children's clothes, echoed the rule. Leigh's doors made her semi-famous. The art critics and fans never knew that a gilded path led to each finished canvas; within each of the door's confines, lay one tiny piece of truth, the decisions, the reality.