My mom is a madwoman, and ever since I can remember, she’s forced me to pretend I’m mute. She calls me her son, binds my chest with strips of cloth, makes me stand up to pee, and even chains me at home like a dog. When I was eleven, Virgil Thompson, the village chief, brought over four relatives to spend the night with my mother. The bed creaked wildly, and Virgil joked, “What a shame that the mute one isn’t a girl. Then we could all get some fun out of it and have her give us each a kid.” And right then, I felt a rush of warmth between my legs. That was my first orgasm. The woods were thick with mosquitoes, and by the time I got back from picking berries, my skin was covered in itchy red bumps. It was a lively day in the village. Aunt Martha and Aunt Jean had both given birth. By the time I got back, it was all over, and there were two tiny, wrinkled bundles left behind. The midwife lifted Aunt Martha’s baby and announced, “A boy!” Everyone cheered. She then raised Aunt Jean’s child and said, “Another money drain!” Old Man Lee’s face darkened immediately. He lifted the squalling little girl by one foot, squinting at her. “Ugly thing,” he muttered. “Ha!” Virgil Thompson laughed. “What can you expect from a woman you bought for five hundred bucks? Might as well drown her and save some grain.” Mr. Dean Rivers, the teacher, chimed in, “You know, the only decent woman left in this village is that madwoman’s daughter. Too bad she’s broken beyond repair. Look at the mute one’s face, though – not even grown yet, but there’s already a hint of her mom’s sassiness.” Right then, he spotted me and waved. “Hey, Mute, come over here! Got some food for you!” The stone table near the village gate was piled with fresh bread rolls. I couldn’t hold back my drool, so I put down my basket and walked over. Mr. Dean Rivers handed me the crying baby girl and said, “Go on, drown her. Uncle will give you half a roll.”
This wasn’t the first time a girl had been drowned in Coldwater Hollow. According to Virgil, girls were just mouths to feed – they ate a lot, didn’t work as much, and by the time you raised one up, the grain it cost would be more than the price of a wife you could buy from outside. Take my mom, for instance. She went to a top college, and she was sold off for barely two grand. If you raised a girl from birth, between all the food and the work, it would cost you at least three or four thousand. On top of that, farm-raised girls are tougher and darker from working under the sun – none of that fresh, pretty look you’d get from an outsider. So, there usually weren’t girls in the village. Aunt Martha was an exception. She’d been brought in along with her little five-year-old girl. They said her daughter was as pretty as a doll, with a porcelain complexion, and Uncle Harvey spoiled her, fed her the best, and didn’t let her do any chores. By the time she was old enough, the men in the village would go visit her. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes in groups. Sometimes just her, sometimes with Aunt Martha too. They always seemed so pleased afterward, and Uncle Harvey would sit by the door collecting coins, either a dollar or fifty cents a head. With Aunt Martha and her daughter around, Uncle Harvey never had to work in the fields. I remember that the girl had already grown into a young woman by then. When the traffickers came around again, Uncle Harvey showed her off, and they bought her for a handful of fresh bills. That money built their house. When Uncle Harvey’s house went up, everyone was envious. Soon, they were all coming over to spend nights with my mother. My mom was much prettier than Aunt Martha. They all said that if she had a daughter, she’d be even more beautiful. But Mom never got pregnant again.
I took the baby girl from Mr. Dean Rivers. She was all wrinkled, with bruises under her skin, but her cries were loud, and her little arms and legs waved around, reaching out into the air. The stone table near the village gate already had a basin of water waiting. I leaned her back into it. She flailed and cried, almost like she was trying to swim while I held her. People crowded around eagerly to watch. I let go, and she began struggling desperately. Water splashed everywhere, and she choked, her cries louder than before. The men laughed, and the women stayed far back. “Hold her down! Don’t let her splash me!” Virgil shouted. Mom never let me see when they drowned a girl, but I’d watched from high up in the fruit trees on the mountainside. I was just about to press the baby’s arms and legs down like I’d seen, but then someone shoved me hard. It was my mom. She held me down on the ground, scratching and clawing at me, screaming, “You rotten thing! You good-for-nothing!” I curled up on the ground, wailing and crying. But Mom didn’t care. She beat me until she was exhausted, while the village chief and everyone else laughed. “Look, the madwoman’s going off again!” “Mute, hit her back! Beat the crazy out of her!” My mom pinned me to the ground, panting heavily. Her eyes were red, brimming with tears. I didn’t understand why she was so angry. They drowned girls every year here. Just like I didn’t understand why she kept binding my chest every day. I liked the way my chest had started to feel, the way it was slowly rising. Because it made me feel like I looked a little bit like her.
Mom left my face bruised and swollen. While she hit me, the village chief was nearby drowning the newborn girl. The sound of her coughing and gasping mingled with Mom’s crying, and it was terrifying. The girl died quickly. The village dogs began barking, fighting over the tiny body. Mom wrapped a dog chain around my neck and yelled crazily, “Take the dog out for a walk! Chop it up for stew, dog meat stew!” Everyone laughed as they wandered off. Some even joked, “How many pots do you think that’ll make?” Mom rattled the chain, “Go on, boy! Bite him! Bite him!” I didn’t move, and the people asking her laughed and went back to their feast. Mom pulled me by the chain, heading toward the Smoky Ridge Trail on the edge of the village. Mr. Dean Rivers said this was our own hidden Eden. The mountain god, he said, watched over the men here, protecting their livestock, their poultry, and their women from the outside world.
The villagers said that after my dad died, no one repaired our house, so it fell apart. Mom and I lived in a shack at the foot of the mountain. There were guards stationed on the path leading in and out of the village. At first, they wouldn’t let us near, but Mom went off with one of them into the bushes, and after that, we were allowed to stay. I waited a long time for her to come back. When she did, she had a flashlight. She clicked it on, and I saw dust dancing in the beam. Mom reached into my messy hair, “Does it hurt?” It hurt. But not like it used to. I wasn’t really mute. Ever since I could remember, Mom had forbidden me to speak in front of others. If I disobeyed, she’d beat me. So I spoke slowly and haltingly, “N-now it d-doesn’t hurt anymore.” Tears began to roll down Mom’s face. “Oh, baby, how could you take a life like that?” She cradled my face. “It was just a biscuit – just a biscuit!” I looked at her, confused. But it was a biscuit. A soft, warm biscuit that was delicious and didn’t scratch my throat. In my life, how often do I get to eat something like that? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had one. Mom’s eyes welled up again as she looked at me. She held me tightly, crying as if she’d just lost something precious. She cried for a long time, and my back went numb from holding her. I thought about that baby girl the dogs fought over. Why hadn’t she let me drown her? If I hadn’t done it, someone else would have. If I’d done it, Virgil would have given me that warm biscuit. Then Mom and I could have split it. We’d each get half. No, I’d give Mom most of it. I’d only need a little. Mom worked so hard – farming, cooking, gathering firewood, patching up our shack. If I ever got my hands on one of those biscuits, I’d give Mom most of it. I’d be happy with just a small bite.
Mom cried for a long time before finally stopping. Then she went back to saying the same things she’d been saying for years. She looked at me and said, “Joy, tell me one more time. After you get over the mountain, what will you do?” I didn’t really understand why she kept asking. Everyone knows you can’t get over that mountain. The village is the whole world. But I went along with her anyway, saying, “After I get over the mountain, I’ll go west toward the sunset, and walk for a long time. I’ll pass three towns with lots of people, and then, in the fourth town, I’ll find a store and break everything inside.” “And if the store owner tries to stop you, then what?” she asked. “I’ll call the cops, tell them to call my Grandpa to pay for it. My Grandpa’s name is Samuel Alexander, he lives in Oakwood Estates in Parkland, Illinois. He has a daughter named Rachel Alexander. Rachel, like a home full of books,” I recited. Mom’s tears rolled down her face. “Joy, one day you’ll have all the bread rolls you want. And there’ll be meat, vegetables – things that smell good. You’ll have pretty dresses, and you’ll go to school, meet a man who respects you, loves you, and you’ll have a happy life.” I nodded to comfort her. It was obvious her mind was slipping again. How could there be plenty of bread rolls? I may only be eleven, but I’ve learned enough to understand the way things work in this world. Bread rolls only come out at big gatherings. Only Virgil and the men who bring new wives to the village get meat or vegetables. A “pretty dress” was just another one of Mom’s delusions. A girl is only a tool for men to have children and do work. Why would men respect or love a tool? Even though Mom had always tried to turn me into a boy, I was still just a girl. How could I ever have a happy life? As long as I can sell myself for a good price someday and make life a little easier for Mom, that’s enough for me.
The next day, before dawn, I was woken up by a woman’s desperate cries. “Please! I’m begging you!” “Let me go!” “I’ll give you money!” “My family has money, I can pay you more!” It was delivery day for the new “wives,” and sure enough, the new ones were already fighting. I’d seen this so many times before. Women usually fought when they first arrived. The tougher ones put up a fight, but after a few more beatings, they’d give up. The harder they fought, the worse they got beaten. The other women would tell them, “Stop fighting. Just accept it.” But Mom never said that. She’d told me once, “This place is a trafficker’s village. Every woman here was taken from somewhere else.” She said every man here deserved to die and that they’d all pay for what they’d done. I used to believe her without a doubt. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve started to wonder if she’s wrong. Is there really such a thing as justice? They all seem so happy. One of the new women was pulled out of the shack, her clothes ripped off, her cries of pain drowned out by the men’s laughter. Virgil’s son, only seven years old, joined in, poking and prodding her, encouraged by the men. Mom covered my eyes. “Don’t look.” But I’d already seen it too many times. The cries of those women never left me; they were always so full of despair, while the men were so full of joy. Mom seemed to be planning something. “Tell me again, what’s Grandpa’s name?” she asked. I repeated, “Grandpa’s name is Samuel Alexander. He lives in Oakwood Estates in Parkland, Illinois. He has a daughter named Rachel Alexander. Rachel, like a home full of books.” Mom nodded through her tears. “Don’t worry. Everything will be alright. Very soon. I promise you, baby.”
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