Read Online If I Told You Once: A Novel by Judy Budnitz - Free Book Online
Authors: Judy Budnitz
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goats lay in frozen twisted shapes in the gutters, daubed with red.
The smoke made black smudges in the sky.
I saw blotches and blooms of blood flowering on walls. I saw a boy’s cap in the road, cupping something dark and gelatinous.
I saw a familiar skirt. I saw a fork, a spoon. I saw a pair of severed feet, lined up as neatly as shoes beside a doorway.
I thought of Anya and how she could use them, and I heard myself laughing.
I pressed my face against the officer’s sour back so I would not see any more.
We are too late, the officer said musingly. He was riding slowly, looking about.
Such a pity, he said, such a waste.
I thought I heard a softness in his voice.
To think—three more just like your brother, he said. That would have been amazing. Our company would have been the best in the division.
He clucked his tongue at the horse as it shied at a child’s dress blowing on the wind.
I held myself stiffly away from him all the way back to the army camp.
I told myself that my mother had escaped, of course she had, she must have scented the impending disaster, certainly at this very moment she and my father were hiding in the woods with my brothers and sisters gathered around, roasting potatoes over a fire, my mother a whirlwind of activity and foresight.
I still felt hope, I did, I held my chin like my mother always did. I told myself I would be brave like her, and resourceful, and I would do what I had to do to save them all.
* * *
I ought to skip the next part of the story, you are too young to hear it.
But I won’t.
When we returned to the soldiers’ camp, the officer offered me another bargain, a trade. Your brother’s release in exchange for the pleasure of your company, he said.
Just a little while, he said. It won’t take long.
We stood in the mud, among tents and milling horses and the jangle of harnesses and spurs. A subordinate came to take the officer’s horse; as it was led away I saw that its legs were still flecked with the soot and debris that had once been my village.
I looked at the officer whose eyes were set too close together, pinching his nose. Hair in his nostrils. I thought of my mother, her power over men, men meaning my father, the way my father jumped to do her bidding and cowered from her though she was half his size. And I thought of Anya, who could make men act like fools or grunting animals simply by rolling her eyes at them.
I knew I was stronger than Anya. I had carried her on my back, I had dragged her through the snow. She was weak, I thought, and stupid, and not even whole, and yet she had driven a townful of men to madness.
If she had that sort of power, I reasoned, then surely I did too. I looked at the officer, who was tapping his riding crop against his boots, flicking away flecks of mud, admiring them.
I thought: surely I can get the better of him.
I thought: I will drive him mad, he will do whatever I say. Because that is what women do to men.
I thought: that is what Anya did, and I am far better than her, look at my two perfect feet. Cold but lovely.
That was my reasoning. I thought it sound at the time.
I nodded and the officer took me by the arm, not companionably, he grasped me near the armpit and jerked me toward the inn where the officers had their rooms.
And in that room, which was low ceilinged and too warm, I saw how his body drooped without the stiff uniform, saw the flabby ring of flesh at his waist that matched the one on his neck. And he laid his hands on me, hands that looked like disease, with their knobby joints and yellow nails. He began pulling off my clothes and I wanted to change my mind but the door was locked and it was already too late, I was backed into a corner behind the bed, a high bed with an iron frame made of bars like a prison cell.
He pulled off my clothes, layer after layer, and it took a long time, and I was aware suddenly of how my clothes reeked of goat and ash and the tart sweat of panic, and I was
The smoke made black smudges in the sky.
I saw blotches and blooms of blood flowering on walls. I saw a boy’s cap in the road, cupping something dark and gelatinous.
I saw a familiar skirt. I saw a fork, a spoon. I saw a pair of severed feet, lined up as neatly as shoes beside a doorway.
I thought of Anya and how she could use them, and I heard myself laughing.
I pressed my face against the officer’s sour back so I would not see any more.
We are too late, the officer said musingly. He was riding slowly, looking about.
Such a pity, he said, such a waste.
I thought I heard a softness in his voice.
To think—three more just like your brother, he said. That would have been amazing. Our company would have been the best in the division.
He clucked his tongue at the horse as it shied at a child’s dress blowing on the wind.
I held myself stiffly away from him all the way back to the army camp.
I told myself that my mother had escaped, of course she had, she must have scented the impending disaster, certainly at this very moment she and my father were hiding in the woods with my brothers and sisters gathered around, roasting potatoes over a fire, my mother a whirlwind of activity and foresight.
I still felt hope, I did, I held my chin like my mother always did. I told myself I would be brave like her, and resourceful, and I would do what I had to do to save them all.
* * *
I ought to skip the next part of the story, you are too young to hear it.
But I won’t.
When we returned to the soldiers’ camp, the officer offered me another bargain, a trade. Your brother’s release in exchange for the pleasure of your company, he said.
Just a little while, he said. It won’t take long.
We stood in the mud, among tents and milling horses and the jangle of harnesses and spurs. A subordinate came to take the officer’s horse; as it was led away I saw that its legs were still flecked with the soot and debris that had once been my village.
I looked at the officer whose eyes were set too close together, pinching his nose. Hair in his nostrils. I thought of my mother, her power over men, men meaning my father, the way my father jumped to do her bidding and cowered from her though she was half his size. And I thought of Anya, who could make men act like fools or grunting animals simply by rolling her eyes at them.
I knew I was stronger than Anya. I had carried her on my back, I had dragged her through the snow. She was weak, I thought, and stupid, and not even whole, and yet she had driven a townful of men to madness.
If she had that sort of power, I reasoned, then surely I did too. I looked at the officer, who was tapping his riding crop against his boots, flicking away flecks of mud, admiring them.
I thought: surely I can get the better of him.
I thought: I will drive him mad, he will do whatever I say. Because that is what women do to men.
I thought: that is what Anya did, and I am far better than her, look at my two perfect feet. Cold but lovely.
That was my reasoning. I thought it sound at the time.
I nodded and the officer took me by the arm, not companionably, he grasped me near the armpit and jerked me toward the inn where the officers had their rooms.
And in that room, which was low ceilinged and too warm, I saw how his body drooped without the stiff uniform, saw the flabby ring of flesh at his waist that matched the one on his neck. And he laid his hands on me, hands that looked like disease, with their knobby joints and yellow nails. He began pulling off my clothes and I wanted to change my mind but the door was locked and it was already too late, I was backed into a corner behind the bed, a high bed with an iron frame made of bars like a prison cell.
He pulled off my clothes, layer after layer, and it took a long time, and I was aware suddenly of how my clothes reeked of goat and ash and the tart sweat of panic, and I was
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