Unto These Hills by Emily Sue Harvey

by an elusive dignity. Her breathy little voice was a cross between Jackie Kennedy’s and Marilyn Monroe’s. More like Jackie’s, I think, because there wasn’t a Monroe-sexy inclination in her entire framework.
    “Who’s Walter?” asked Emaline. I was too busy studying Daniel to add to the conversation, which was unusual since I usually had opinions on any and every topic under the sun.
    Without forethought, Doretha said, “He’s Tom’s boy,” then, by way of explanation, added, “Tom’s married to my mama.”
    Doretha’s refusal to label Tom ‘stepfather’ later spawned curious nuances to entertain Emaline’s and my imaginations. On the lighter side, her Walter-rebuffs provided much comical relief through those years.
    “Daniel!” roared a man’s voice from outside. “Git out here. You ain’t through.”
    “That’s Tom,” Doretha whispered solemnly then slid Daniel a contrite look. “I’m sorry, Daniel. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”
    “S’okay.” Daniel stood so abruptly I jumped. “Nice meetin’ y’all,” he said tersely and quickly disappeared through the kitchen door.
    Doretha smiled, a sad old-woman smile. “Daniel’s a good boy. He don’t want nobody to know he — that he’s treated like he is.” She dabbed at her mouth with the white linen napkin, her eyes downcast. “He tries hard to keep bad things from happening; don’t want to hurt nobody.”
    “What things?” asked Emaline before I had a chance.
    Doretha looked at us for long moments, her gaze faraway and infinitely sad. “You’ll find out.”
    ~~~~~
    I did in those following days. Tom Stone had lots of bones to pick, using Daniel’s carcass. His was a near silent rage that I observed while visiting the Stone’s residence, one that roiled and pulsated beneath empty eyes and hamlike hands whose thick fingers — I vividly envisioned — could roll into a fist in an eye’s blink. I shuddered to think what that fist could do to Daniel’s thin flesh and bone frame.
    Doretha intimated the beatings, her bottomless eyes welling as she told, in her whispery, breathy little voice, of Tom’s cruelties to the helpless boy.
    “Daniel just stands there a’starin’ straight ahead. He won’t cry. Just grinds his teeth and clenches his fists. Mama hates it. She tries to do what she can but she’s afraid to make Tom mad enough to turn on her.” She slowly shook her head. “Daniel tries hard not to get nobody else involved. Acts like Tom’s fists and words don’t hurt. He’s that way — good-hearted.”
    “What about Walter?” I’d referred to her stepbrother, who set many a girls’ hearts aflutter with his golden-blonde good looks. He’d graduated high school the year before they moved to the mill hill, giving him the distinction of being ‘older,’ a thing that enraptured many females. Not me. Once having glimpsed Daniel, my heart filled up with him.
    Doretha took her own good time to answer. “Walter’s not here much. But — to give credit where credit’s due, I have to say that when he is, he takes up for Daniel.”
    This she seemed to admit grudgingly, again puzzling me with her gentle complexities. And nuances. She shrugged. “Trouble is, Tom’s smart enough to pick on Daniel when nobody ain’t around to take up for ‘im.” She shook her head sadly. “Least ways, nobody who’s big enough to stand up to ‘im.”
    “Mama didn’t know about that side of Tom till after they’d been married awhile. Shoot, when they was dating, he treated me like a princess. That lasted till they got home from the notary’s house.” She snickered delicately then whispered, “A preacher had better sense than to marry ‘em.”
    More and more, I sought out Daniel, whose chin always lifted eloquently from whatever task engaged him to warmly greet me, whose voice conveyed no terror, who gave no indication of inhumane afflictions.
    Now, four years later, he’d courageously emancipated himself.

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