No ‘Moore’ Mess- Chapter Two (Serial Version)
Chapter Two- Mary (Moore) Neeley Remembers Bertha (Moore) Jones
Mary recalled her deceased older sister, Bertha as she scrambled some eggs for Jackie. There were many stories about how Bertha got stuck in a difficult marriage too. It was a topic rarely brought up around Mary as a child. Pastor Andrew refused to speak Bertha’s name.
Nobody told Mary why that was, but she knew better than to go prying into Pastor Andrew’s business. Once Mary was older, she learned the full story. It was one she hoped not to repeat in her life.
Years ago, Bud Jones was not looking for love when he met Bertha Moore. Bud was a high school senior. Bertha was in her junior year. Bud was a local football legend.
He was not a good student. The high school math teacher, Mr. Sperling, asked Bertha to help Bud pass Algebra. Bertha was eager to get close to the big football star.
They spent every evening after classes in the school library. They went over homework problems for hours. The pair got closer as the months passed.
One day Bud told Bertha he was in love with her. Bertha balked at the idea of a serious relationship. She made clear her position on the matter.
“We are too young for that.”
“But ‘Love conquers all,’ right?”
“More like ‘Love is blind,’ or dumb.”
Bertha heard the stories of young relationships not working out. She had big dreams of attending college. Bertha had zero interest in becoming a housewife. She wanted to join the space program one day.
“Sorry, I care about you, Bud. I do. But it’s just, I have bigger dreams. Than — ”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Come on, Bertha. Who has been more supportive of you than me?”
“Than I.”
“Whoa, there grammar police. Don’t forget who the man is here.”
Bertha laughed and pulled up her pink-knit sweater. She gave Bud a wicked smirk.
“And don’t you forget who wants these later tonight.”
Bertha and Bud were always jabbing each other playfully back and forth. Bud was determined to wear Bertha down. Everyone knew they were going to end up together. Everybody but Bertha that is. Still, Bud was determined.
The following Friday night Bud invited Bertha out for a special dinner. This time he brought a little something extra along with him. Bud bought a big dime store diamond ring, sans the big diamond.
“Will you marry me?”
“You know how I feel about marriage. Come on now, Bud. Let’s enjoy the food.”
“But you like the ring, right?”
“It’s wonderful. But you know, my mother. I can’t. We can’t end up like — ”
“Like?”
“Like them.”
That was a phrase Bertha uttered several times over the months as Bud sought to make Bertha his bride. Bertha was determined not to get trapped in a marriage like her mother, Roberta. Karma had other ideas for Bertha. Her strict, conservative father, Pastor Andrew, would seal her fate.
Everyone knew Pastor Andrew was an angry man. His rage was understandable to some degree. He was a Korean War veteran. Pastor Andrew lost good friends during the many bloody battles he fought. He also lost his left arm below the elbow. A grenade from a Korean soldier was responsible for turning him into a one-armed human slot machine.
Pastor Andrew also lost his once kind heart. It happened after he gained a purple one from Uncle Sam in the fall of 1952. The town was proud of his reported valor. He got a parade through the streets upon his return.
There were whispers when the going got tough, Pastor Andrew got going. Everyone died in the firefight but Pastor Andrew. Nobody said it to his face, but people wondered about how he alone survived.
God and Pastor Andrew alone knew what happened in the chaos back in Korea. But the rumors were true. He ran on that cold, dark night. Nobody could blame him.
Pastor Andrew spent two days hiding in an abandoned foxhole next to the decapitated corpse of his best friend as he waited for the gunfire to stop. If not for that grenade blowing his arm off as he walked to the rescue chopper, someone might have dug deeper into Pastor Andrew’s fantastic story. But nobody did.
People knew to leave Pastor Andrew to live with whatever happened to him. Pastor Andrew was rife with guilt. He suffered the uninvited flashbacks that came along with it. Alcohol was his only friend late at night.
To his credit, Pastor Andrew traded bottles of cheap Kentucky whisky for Jesus years ago. He gave up the booze cold turkey. He did so after wrapping his old, beat up truck around a big oak tree out on Highway 68.
Pastor Andrew swore he had “seen the face of God.” He laid on the concrete road bleeding in the pouring rain for hours. The near death experience made a believer of him.
He spent every Sunday after at church. Pastor Andrew sat right up in the front row with his family. He made it through a Southern Baptist correspondence course. His pastor’s certificate came in the mail six months later. It was quite the feat considering he dropped out of school after the fifth grade.
Pastor Andrew took what little savings he had and started a small church in his house. Bertha’s mother, Roberta, was against the idea. Pastor Andrew’s persistence and faith won her over. He also threatened to throw Roberta’s “heathen ass right out on the street.”
Roberta took the hint. She never said a negative word about Pastor Andrew’s church again. Roberta was front and center every Sunday. She sat with her daughters, Bertha and Helen.
They shouted and raised their hands in approval as Pastor Andrew preached the Gospel. The small congregation followed suit as they sat in brown, wooden folding chairs. The church grew over the next year.
The faithful members pooled their money. They built a small church. It was located outside the city limits on Highway 235. Pastor Andrew’s mostly stolen sermons caught on in the conservative little town, and his ego grew as fast as his church. It got Pastor Andrew a weekly radio spot. He was hardly ever home, but Bertha didn’t mind.
Pastor Andrew had no idea what his free spirited teenage daughter was doing. Her father was too distracted by fame. Bertha was free to do as she pleased most of the week. She was never home except to grab something to eat. Unfortunately, Bertha was not going to church.
Bertha spent her evenings getting far too friendly with Bud. She had a blast, but it came to a head one evening in the upstairs bathroom of her parent’s house. Roberta walked in on Bertha holding a pregnancy test.
“God! Bertha what’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you? Jesus! Tell me you’re not — Not that stupid. Show me your hand. Show me right now.”
Bertha held out her hand. Her fingers opened one by one until the test result was clear. It was positive. Roberta stood in the bathroom without saying a word. Bertha let out a long sigh as she stared in the mirror.
“Mama, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t you mama me, girl.”
Bertha got out but a whisper before her voice cracked. Roberta gave her daughter a hard slap to the face. Bertha didn’t bother to cry. It would not have helped anything. Roberta had the ‘Moore’ anger inside her though it was earned via marriage.
It was a rage that affected every woman in Pastor Andrew’s family. His mother beat on him daily when he was a child. Roberta was more fortunate as a youth, but years of living under the tyranny of Pastor Andrew made her an angry woman. Someone Bertha feared more than her father.
“Such a stupid girl. When I’m done with you, you’ll wish you were — ”
“Dead.”
“Yes.”
Roberta beat on Bertha something fierce that evening. Bertha’s arms and back were covered by red marks, but Bertha didn’t care. She had bigger worries than a few welts courtesy of her angry mother’s right hand. Bertha was two weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday, and she was battered, bruised, and pregnant.
Pastor Andrew learned about Bertha’s unfortunate condition. The news enraged him. Pastor Andrew took off his long, black leather belt as he growled at Bertha.
“You and I need to have a little conversation with this upstairs.”
Pastor Andrew beat on Bertha until his old belt broke. Bertha didn’t bother to scream. She knew it would make things worse.
“How could you do this to me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? You’re sorry. My church. My reputation. And you’re sorry?”
“Yes, truly, I am.”
Pastor Andrew was concerned about his own life. Bertha was not surprised. The pair had not had a real conversation in months. Pastor Andrew was in no mood for a father-daughter chat.
“You love lying on your back. Why don’t you go on over to Bud’s and keep on a lying down. Okay? You sure ain’t staying under this roof.”
“Papa please don’t do this to me.”
“Get out you, whore.”
“I am not a whore.”
“O-U-T.”
Bertha pleaded for an hour with Pastor Andrew for him to change his mind. That was never going to happen. Roberta convinced Pastor Andrew to let Bertha stay the night. He agreed, but only after smacking Bertha across her right cheek one more time
Tears dripped from Bertha’s pretty, little face as she walked up the stairs. She found her younger sister Helen straining to press her good ear up to an open air vent. Bertha figured Helen enjoyed the moment. The two never got along.
“You know?”
“I heard.”
“What are you going to do about Bud?”
“No idea at all. I know he wants to marry me.”
“That’s great. Problem solved, right?”
“But I know he won’t be happy about — ”
“It?”
“The baby.”
Helen moved to Bertha. They sat on Bertha’s unmade bed. Several minutes passed as they prayed.
“Amen.”
“And amen.”
“It’s going to be okay, Bertha. God will pull you through.”
“I’m not sure.”
“He will. You wait and see. God is good.”
Bertha marveled at Helen’s unshakable faith. Helen was the stronger believer of the two young sisters, but the God Helen praised was not kind to her in the least. She was a big girl.
Helen wore heavy glasses. The scratch-covered lenses were an inch thick. She spoke with a heavy lisp. Helen wobbled and swayed when she walked. Polio turned her left leg into a limp pretzel as a baby. She wore a cumbersome, silver metal brace on the deformed leg except when she slept.
The doctors said she would outgrow most of those problems in time, but the kids at school bullied her non-stop. The older high school boys mocked Helen as she waddled down the halls. The other girls were less kind as they passed her on the stairs.
“Helen Hippo! Where’s your zoo?”
Helen never let it bother her at all. She believed God had a plan for her life. She was ready with a quick response to those who put her down.
“God loves me so much that he made more of me to love.”
Bertha was as guilty as anyone in mocking Helen. Bertha wished she could take every last angry, hurtful word she uttered to Helen back. Bertha thought about apologizing, but she had more pressing problems.
“Thanks, sis. But things are a mess for me right now, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I know, but ‘The harder the rain the bigger the rainbow.’”
“If that’s true.”
“I know, it is.”
“Then, it’s going to be one very big rainbow.”
“Yes, it is. Praise the Lord. God is great.”
The next day Bertha got up early, not that she slept much. She barely touched her breakfast plate. Bertha’s mother, Roberta, was not the best cook in the world. Still, it was a shame Bertha let those runny scrambled eggs and half-burnt, wheat toast go to waste. This was especially true in her present condition.
“I’ve got people to do and things to see.”
Bertha blushed. She felt the embarrassment of flipping the phrase around in her thoughts and in her life. There was a steady drizzle of rain outside.
“Best you take an umbrella.”
“I know. I’m not stupid.”
“What was that?”
“Just forget it, Roberta.”
“Roberta?”
“Sorry, mother.”
“That’s better.”
Bertha grabbed her faded pink and white parasol. She thought it was fortunate the rain hid her tears as she walked to Bud’s house. Bertha knew the area, but she could not remember going by the house. Bertha had never been in Bud’s home.
Bud warned her, “It was for the best that you don’t come over.” Bertha walked with a knot in her stomach from the stress. Finally, she found the place. It was not the biggest house in the world. Bertha marveled at the old junk cars littering the overgrown front lawn.
They were in various states of disrepair. Bertha wondered if any could start. A pink and white little jalopy caught Bertha’s eye. She stepped off the cracked, grey sidewalk to take a closer look.
She loved cars, especially fast ones. There was something about watching the blur of speeding metal whizzing by her she loved. Bertha spent time downtown watching the young, local boys circle the town square every Saturday night. Oh, how she envied them!
Bertha did so because she didn’t have a car. She never had the courage to get her driver’s license. Bertha lamented never finding the gumption to go down to the local DMV to take the driving test. She panicked every time she sat behind a steering wheel.
Pastor Andrew and Roberta tried to teach her to drive, but with no success. They were not alone in their efforts. Widow Wilma Evans offered to teach Bertha how to drive.
Wilma was a touchy-feely middle-aged next door neighbor. She gave it a try with Bertha, in more ways than one. Bertha regretted her lack of driving prowess, and that she was no better at fending off Wilma’s persistent advances. It was years later before she passed her driver’s test.
“Idiot!”
Bertha spun around to find a rather gruff looking old man with a dollar store hairpiece slapped upon his head. Her presence annoyed him. He stepped forward through the grey haze of rain and mist.
“Grass. You. Off. Now.”
Bertha slunk toward the sidewalk. She stumbled and fell. She found herself flat on her back with her legs spread wide for the world to see. The grizzled, old man laughed. He didn’t bother to help her back to her feet. The dirty old man enjoyed the view too much to assist the poor girl.
“Hello there, Mary, full of absolutely no Grace.”
Bertha got to her feet. She brushed the mud and grass from her yellow skirt. Bertha took one nervous step towards the sidewalk. She shivered in her drenched clothes as they clung to her curvy body. Bertha fixed her hair and wiped her face dry to no avail. She looked a mess.
“Sorry, I’m looking for Bud. Is he here?”
“Boy! Get out here! Some little sexy thing is out here a hollering for you.”
Bertha shuddered in disgust once more. This time it was not from the cold. Dirty old perverts were never her favorite thing. There were many around her hick town. She shook her head. Bertha turned to leave a second time when her ‘Moore’ anger got the best of her tongue.
“Hillbilly trash.”
“Bertha, why are you even here?”
It was Bud. His high-pitched drawl was unmistakable. He stood at the door in a tight, white t-shirt. Thick, black motor oil stains covered his faded blue jeans. A thin, long cigarette protruded from his slender lips.
The heavy, dark grey cigarette smoke rings around Bud’s head made it hard to see his face through the rain. Bud stepped down the stairs with a side to side shimmy. Bertha figured he was trying to be sexy. But he was not.
Bud drew his cigarette from his crooked mouth. He tossed the half-smoked remains to the ground. He crushed what remained of it with the heel of his knock off cowboy boots. The smoke from the smoldering butt wafted for a moment in the air before the rain snuffed it out.
“We need to talk.”
Bud knew Bertha was here for more than a social call. He walked towards her. This time he did so minus the sexy gait. Bertha was happy about that.
“What in the hell happened to you?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s more than nothing. Show me!”
Bertha shook her head and pulled up her shirt. A pat of her exposed belly with her trembling right hand was all the sign Bud needed. He realized why she was there, and the reason for the bruises on her pretty face. Bud put his big hands to his sides. He tugged on his old, thin, leather belt and adjusted his jeans.
“Shore ain’t mine!”
Bertha was many things. Nobody was going to label her a whore. She stepped towards Bud.
“It is! It is your baby.”
Bertha’s fit of rage frightened the old man who was taking this drama in from the sidelines. She shook her fist in the air. She glared at Bud and at the terrified, old man. She dared them to challenge her assertion. Neither man chose to test Helen or tempt her ‘Moore’ anger.
“Son, I’m going back to the house. You let me know how this all goes. You hear?”
“I got this, Pops. You let us be.”
“You got this? What you’ve got — What we’ve got is a situation.”
“What do you want from me? Money? Blood?”
Bertha held up her right hand. She shook the index finger of her right hand, and she pointed to her ring finger of her left hand. Bud fell to his knees in disbelief as Bertha lowered her head in shame.
“Married? You want to get married? To me?”
“Not really. But Pastor Andrew decided it was for the best. I thought that’s what you wanted, right?”
“Married. Yes. But I don’t know about all that.”
“The baby. You mean?”
“I wasn’t figuring on that part for a while.”
Bertha dropped to her knees and prayed. She had no idea what to do if Bud refused Pastor Andrew’s ultimatum. Bertha had nothing and nowhere to go.
“But again, my father thinks this is for the best.”
“And Pastor Andrew gets everything he wants. What does he own you or something?”
“You could say that.”
Bertha waited in silent prayer to God for Bud to answer. Bertha’s life was about to change. She prepared herself for the worst.
“I see.”
“Bud?”
“No.”
“But what am I supposed to do about this?”
“You can always, you know?”
“No, I’m not doing that.”
“I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
“How about yes?”
Bertha’s head sank as she pointed to her stomach. Bud shrugged. He lowered his head in shame. Bud turned toward his dilapidated house. He hoped to escape from Bertha. But the Invisible Man he was not.
“Don’t you walk away from me!”
“I was just gonna — ”
“Not so fast, mister.”
Bud froze. He had little experience with any real communication with women, especially with one who was furious. He had been more the ‘love ’em and leave ‘em’ type. The other girls before Bertha wanted to chastise Bud’s playboy behavior, but they didn’t. Bertha had no problem speaking her mind to a man.
There was Pastor Andrew’s ‘Moore’ anger inside Bertha after all. She stepped towards Bud. Bertha pointed her long red-painted finger in his face. Bud turned his head to the side to avoid getting poked in the eye. Bertha settled for scratching his left cheek.
“Ow! Come on now, simmer down, woman. You hear?”
He regretted his words. Bertha slapped him across the face. Bud’s cheek turned bright shades of pink and red.
“Stop it! That hurts!”
“Be glad that little scratch is all you got.”
Bertha watched the tears welling up in Bud’s eyes. She realized this was no man who stood before her in the rain. Bud was a boy trapped in a man’s body. She pulled a soft, blue handkerchief from the small pocket of her jacket.
“Here. Take this. It looks like you need it more than me.”
Bud paused. He was unsure if Bertha was sincere. She could have been setting him up for round two. A quick look into her soft, brown eyes, and Bud knew she meant him no harm.
“Thanks, Bertha.”
Bud dabbed his eyes with the handkerchief. It took him a minute to pull himself together. Bertha patted him on the shoulder. Bud looked at Bertha. She could see he was lost in his thoughts. She could not blame him.
“What should I tell Pastor Andrew?”
Bud let out a big sigh. He shrugged once more. Bertha again saw this was a confused boy in the body of a man. She realized her anger no matter its intensity was going to change nothing.
Bertha knew this was her best chance to escape Pastor Andrew. There was no turning back. She went all in to get the young man.
“Why don’t you and me go out to the old quarry for a little while?”
Bud stood with a puzzled look on his face. It was just minutes before Bertha was ready to beat him within an inch of his life. Now, she was suggesting they go to the old quarry. They knew that meant sex.
“You sure, Bertha?”
“You and me out there for a little while, okay?”
Bertha gave Bud the best little sexy smile she could muster up. Bertha grabbed the keys to his rusted sports car. They drove to the old stone quarry.
“Pops, I’m going out for a bit. Don’t wait up. We are going to be awhile.”
“You watch yourself with her. You hear? Women’s got ways, you know?”
“Don’t worry, I know.”
The pair didn’t say anything during the long drive. The silence was not intentional. They had a lot on their minds. The troubled couple arrived at the old stone quarry at three in the afternoon.
There was not a soul around them. Bertha did her best to please Bud that afternoon and into the late evening. They say “money can’t buy love,” but on that Saturday Bertha turned her feminine wiles against a naive man-child. And they worked.
Bud and Bertha drove to Bertha’s house. She didn’t want to be late for curfew. Pastor Andrew had no tolerance for his daughters being late. Bertha came to the door at 10:57 p.m. Her father stood at the lime green and white door as he had a thousand times before that night.
“Well? What did he say? Speak up, now, girl.”
Bertha looked at Bud’s idling car. She saw him slumped low in the driver’s seat. Bud wished he was invisible. Bertha turned and looked at Pastor Andrew.
“He understands what he has to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Andrew.”
“Andrew?”
“Sorry, father.”
“That’s better.”
Pastor Andrew nodded. Bertha gave Bud a sign things were fine. Bud sped from the house in a fog of black and grey exhaust smoke. And Bertha came into the house.
She spent the night packing her clothes and what little she had to call hers in life. The next morning Bud came by the house early to pick up Bertha. They drove downtown to the courthouse. Bertha paid $5.25 to a clerk for a blood test.
Bertha and Bud signed the marriage license two hours later. Bertha was a new wife with a child on the way. The newlyweds walked to the local diner for lunch.
It was not the grand wedding reception Bertha dreamed about as a girl. An older gentleman, who she knew from Pastor Andrew’s church, saw the newlyweds. He was more excited about the marriage than they were.
“Best of luck to the two of you, young kids.”
The wedding budget is usually split in three ways. The bride’s family, the groom’s family, and the couple each pay for a third of the wedding’s cost. Bertha and Bud’s affair was unfunded by all. Bud’s wallet was empty, save for his last ten dollars.
“Dang it, I’m short. How much you got?”
Bertha rummaged through her purse for extra change to pay their tab. She found none. The man saw the problem, and he paid for the newlywed’s entire meal on his way out of the diner, much to the relief of the penniless pair.
“Thank you, Mr. Williams. We sure appreciate that.”
Bertha and Bud drove to Bud’s house. Bud told his father, Earl Jay, about Bertha’s condition. Earl Jay saw no point in marrying a “little knocked up whore.” But he allowed the new couple to move into the house.
The truth was Earl Jay lived on his meager disability and Social Security income. He needed Bud’s money if he wanted to keep from starving. Bertha was polite to Earl Jay when Bud introduced her.
“Hello. I’m most happy to meet you, Mr. Jones.”
Earl Jay gave her a big hug. He squeezed his arms hard around Bertha. It was too tight for her liking, but Bertha endured it. Early Jay slapped his new daughter-in-law on her butt. Bertha faked a smile and laughed.
“Sweet thang, you can call me Earl Jay. We are family now, you know?”
“Pops, don’t go starting that. You hear?”
“It’s okay, Bud. He’s being friendly.”
It had been a rough few days. Bertha was not looking to start another war. She had no energy for new battles in her condition. It mattered little as Earl Jay had other things on his mind besides molesting a pregnant, young woman.
“What’s she going to make for supper?”
“She just got here. You let her be now.”
“No, it’s okay. I can fix you up something.”
Bud showed Bertha around the small kitchen. It was a mess. There were mountains of unwashed dishes. Inch thick grease and disgusting grime of all manner covered the gas stove. The stench of the dirty sink left Bertha holding her breath as she grabbed a scorched, unwashed frying pan.
“We ain’t got a lot in the icebox. Pops ain’t much for cooking. Me neither. I rustle up something when I can.”
Bud was right. There was little inside the dirty old icebox. The small light bulb was burned out. Bertha turned on the kitchen lights. She pulled out moldy-looking bread and expired imitation pork bacon.
“That’s it?”
“Sorry. There might be something in the cupboards. The local food bank dropped off some canned goods last Christmas for us.”
Bertha waddled towards the filthy, grey-colored cabinets. The cupboard door broke as she opened it. She found an old can of cream of mushroom soup and a tin of Alaskan salmon.
Bertha washed pots and pans with a dirty, old sponge. She did what she could with the limited ingredients, but like Roberta, she was no master chef. She called her new family.
“It’s ready. You boys come and sit down at the table.”
“No, I’m gonna eat in front of the TV. My favorite show is coming on.”
“Me too. Besides that old card table’s been broken for ages. We never use it anymore.”
Bertha thought about getting angry. But she didn’t. She slapped the food on white paper plates. She took the food into the living room, and Bertha gave it to Bud and Earl Jay. Her culinary skills didn’t impress Earl Jay.
“A shame she don’t cook as good as she looks. A real shame.”
“I’m warning you Pops. You stop that, you hear?”
“What? It’s true ain’t it?”
“Pops! That’s enough.”
Despite Earl Jay’s criticism of Bertha’s cooking, he gobbled it. Bertha never saw a man eat that fast or as messy. Bud was no better. Bertha’s tongue got the best of her.
“Like father, like son.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I’m a little tired. I’m going to go up to bed.”
“You ain’t gonna eat anything?”
Bertha shook her head. She put her uneaten dinner into the icebox, and she went upstairs. She thought about calling home. It had been a day, but she wanted to leave Bud. She cried herself to sleep. Bertha had not escaped. She had found a new trap. Her real problems were only beginning.
“Can I get my receipt? Or are you going to stand there looking stupid?”
“Sorry, here you go. And thank you for shopping at our Little K.”
“Idiot. Where do they get these people? From the circus?”
“You keep your mind on your job, Mary, if you want to keep working here. Are we clear?”
“As a crystal bell, sir.”
Mary finished her shift late the same evening. She turned in her cash drawer. It was 35 dollars short. Mary knew she would hear about it tomorrow. She didn’t care. Mary wanted to get home.
The parking lot of the store was dark. Several of the lights were broken. They were like that for months. The company was too cheap to replace them. As Mary put the key into the lock of her car, she heard ominous voices in the darkness.
“Look what we have here.”
Several masked figures moved into the light. They surrounded Mary, and she ran. The men caught her quickly. One of the men pulled out a knife, and Mary gave up. That was her first mistake.
“Okay, what do you want, money or the car?”
The largest of the group moved towards Mary. He went nose to nose with Mary, and he grabbed her by the arm. Out of reflex, she smacked the man across his face. That was her second mistake.
“You! What say you, pretty britches?”
“No!”
“Hold her!”
“Seems only fair after what you did, don’t you think?”
The man pointed down to Mary’s most intimate parts. She looked for help, but it was late. There was no knight in shining armor coming to save her this evening. The group closed in around her. Mary didn’t bother to scream. She knew that would make it worse.
The men took turns beating Mary. She put up a good fight for a moment. That was her third mistake.
She found herself face down on the cold, grey asphalt. Three of the men got to know her far too intimately by Mary’s count. As she lost consciousness, Mary thought of her other sister, Helen.
