Ten Words No. 2:
The Initiator
A Short Story
by Pedkop Bambera
(See 10 Words Intro for an explanation of the concept.}
The random words:
digestion, anchorages, Natchez,
initiator, dinghy, bridesmaids,
thrills, cruiser, reworked, selecting
digestion anchorages initiator cruiser reworked selecting
digestion digestion digestion
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Where was she going to find proper bridesmaids in this backwards little village of Natchez? Naomi had been sitting for an hour in her "thinking spot," a small terrace outside her bedroom that her daddy had built for her 15 years ago. Naomi could barely remember the move from Memphis, downriver to Natchez. Her mother had told her they would have many thrills on the trip south. She still had a picture in her mind of standing at the railing of the barge, watching men in a dinghy trying to break a path through a tangle of logs. And the whistle, the horn, whatever they called it, on the barge. The whole vessel vibrated when it sounded. They had arrived safely in 1805 and her daddy had promptly built what was still the largest, grandest house in town, right on the bluff overlooking the Mississippi. When he took her to her room, she remembered how proud and happy he was. He walked straight to a pair of high French doors, opened them, pointed to the little terrace with the grand view of the river, and said, "And that’s my girl’s thinking spot. If she has a problem, she’ll come here, sit a while, and the river will tell her the answer to the problem." He had picked her up, carried her outside, and set her on the terrace. They stood a long time, holding hands, watching the Mississippi in its huge, quiet brown flowing. Now, here she sat in her thinking spot, thinking. Though her daddy had done well in his shipping business, Natchez was still such a, well, small town. Naomi was determined to have a wedding that people would still be talking about in 1830. She always smiled when she thought of how the little Methodist Church would practically bust its seams when time came for the ceremony. Eight, she had decided from what she read in the months-old Eastern newspapers she read, eight was the appropriate number of bridesmaids for a real wedding. Over and over in her mind, she went down the list of possible candidates and, Lord help her, there were just not that many girls of her station in all of Natchez. What to do? Carol brought tea and set it on the small table. "What am I to do, Carol?" Naomi, said. Attentive servant that she was, Carol knew exactly what the lovely, spoiled white girl was going on about. "How bout a lottery, Miss Naomi? Let folks pay money to enter, and give it to charities." Naomi looked put out. "That’s no way of selecting proper bridesmaids, Carol, and you know it." "Your daddy said remind you we’re having guests for supper." "I remember." Carol moved silently back into the house, and Naomi returned to contemplating the river, waiting for an answer. The water around the anchorages was thick with barges, even a couple of steamboats, which were still not common. One of them was reversing, moving slowly away from the shore. It turned slowly upriver. Going to Memphis, Naomi thought. Maybe even Cincinnati. She smiled, because she and Tom and already decided on Cincinnati for their honeymoon. In two months she’d be getting on one of those steamboats for the slow trip up the Mississippi, and then the Ohio. Tom had already made reservations on a real river cruiser, not one of those working boats like she was looking at now. A real ship, with a stateroom, a parlor, a dining room. And music, and dancing… Her harmless little reverie was interrupted by her nose. A breeze brought an odor, not sharp or unpleasant, just different. She knew she had smelled it before, and there was a memory but she couldn’t get it. She sniffed. Where? When? A long time ago, it seemed. But the memory wouldn’t come. The odor persisted, and she felt she was being watched. She looked around. Only the magnolias, the lawn, the terrace, the river. Back to the bridesmaids. Now she had an idea. The solution was to get girls from other churches. She knew her daddy wouldn’t object. But would Brother Carlson allow a few Baptist and even Catholic girls into his ceremony? Naomi was sure her daddy could convince the preacher, since her daddy had practically paid for the new church building singlehandedly. . . . The guests finished with their idle chatter that night about the same time they finished with the coffee served on the front gallery. Naomi and her father saw them all off in their carriages and wagons. "I swan, Daddy," Naomi said as her father walked with her to her bedroom. "I don’t see how you and Mammaw have put up with such all these years." Naomi’s mother was in New Orleans with Tom, assembling the last of Naomi’s trousseau. "You’d think the whole world began and ended right here in Natchez the way they go on and on and on about cotton prices and barge wrecks and lazy workers and the like. It’s enough to put me off my digestion but good." "Listen and learn, my girl, listen and learn. They’re all good people, just doing what they know." Naomi grimaced. To her Natchez seemed the very end of the world, the last jumping off place, but she would never say that to her father. "Good night, pumpkin." He kissed her and went away. The odor from the afternoon filled her room. It had come to seem pleasant. She went to the open doors and breathed deeply. Down the bluff, a few torches were visible, and music floated up from one of the waterfront taverns. Carol asked if she needed anything. Naomi said she was fine. She put out the two lamps, undressed, and got into bed. . . . She knew she had been asleep but had no idea what time it was. Her eyes were closed but she was instantly awake. She knew someone was standing by her bed. She started to say, "Carol?" but something held her tongue. She listened and could hear very quiet, slow breathing. And, and there was something else. The odor, that was it, the odor was much stronger now. Why am I not afraid, she thought. Shouldn’t I be afraid, shouting, screaming? There’s a stranger, a smelly stranger standing beside my bed. She busily reworked her thinking, and still could find no trace of fear. Her own breathing was calm, her heart beating easily. How very odd, she thought. My own little adventure in the middle of the night in Natchez where nothing ever happens except floods and droughts. Faint rustling sounds. Whoever it was had sat on the floor, right beside her. Then, oh so slowly and gently, a hand—the skin was not smooth, not rough, just firm—settled onto her own hand. Warm, the hand didn’t move. How long? Naomi couldn’t tell. She tried counting her heart beats, but the experience of the hand on hers was too powerful. Her attention kept being drawn back to the feeling of skin on skin. Whoever it was, she also felt as if they were having a long, intense conversation but without words. As if they had known each other long ago, been separated, and now had a lot of catching up to do. She felt comfortable, at ease, relaxed, and? Happy, she thought. I’m happy! And she knew she was truly happy for the first time in her life. Like nothing she had felt in the perfunctory, brief embraces with Tom. Tom, after all, had been her father’s choice, which she had willingly, unquestioningly accepted. But then, her father had been the initiator of everything in her life. "I know what Pumpkin wants, and whatever she wants, I’ll get for her…" Then the terrible thought came: Was this yet another something from Daddy? Could he’ve arranged this? No. She was certain her father would be horrified at the dark, peaceful, mysterious scene being played out in her bedroom just a few yards from her thinking spot. The hand seemed to know she had drifted off. When her attention returned, there was just the slightest increase in pressure, and then release, as if to say, I’m glad you came back. They remained thus through the night. Finally, a bit more pressure came again, went, and the hand was gone. She heard rustling as he got up, and footsteps so gentle she thought ants walking on sugar would be noisier. I must know, she thought. She half opened her eyes. Against the sky that was already lightening with dawn, going out her French doors, she saw a figure, broad back, bare legs, breechcloth, moccasins, black hair in one long braid. And he was gone. END
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