The Angry Woman Suite by Lee Fullbright Page B

shoulder. “Go on with you.” He’d already shooed the other children into the schoolhouse.
    “Go on where?” I asked miserably. I pointed at my crotch. “I think I’m wet.”
    “If you are, it doesn’t show. Now go inside.”
    “I can’t.”
    Aidan Madsen went down on his haunches. “I know how you feel. The same thing happened to me once.” His voice was deep, his words measured: “But if you go home now, it’ll be worse for you tomorrow, trust me.”
    I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.
    “Trust me,” he repeated.
    I didn’t really have an alternative, so I followed Mr. Madsen into the schoolhouse, past the cloakroom and piano, sitting where he pointed, in the front row. And somehow I made it through the rest of that day, although none of my classmates spoke to me again, not even the girl with the dark, sad eyes; Elena, Mr. Madsen called her. When class was dismissed I trudged back through town alone, into the open fields, crossing two pastures, taking no notice of the natural beauty surrounding me: the tall, gray-green field grasses, the occasional stately oak, the poplar and sycamore. Forty minutes later, reaching the road going up Grayson Hill, I simmered with anger at Earl. He’d sicced Billy on me, then left me to walk home alone. I kicked up small stones, not caring if I scuffed my shoes. I thought about what I’d tell the women of my first day and determined the truth would not be worth the cost. I wondered if Earl the pissant would tell them of my humiliation. I hummed loudly, concentrating on the stones, pretending each was Earl's head, my fury growing with each vicious kick.
    I rounded a narrow bend in the road going up Grayson Hill. The road flattened at the top, a long, wide expanse in front of Grayson House, then wound back down the other side of the hill. I looked up at the house, which at one time had been a real showplace, so the women said, and, granted, Grayson House was obscenely enormous, but no more a showplace than we were rich anymore. I hated it. Built by my grandfather, who’d blown his head off after the crash of ‘29, Grayson House was a monument to stupidity. Not only did ugly things happen inside, but it wasn’t built of stone or brick like other grand houses, that’s how stupid it was. The wood-framed three-storied main building and its two wings and all its numerous gables were a mix of architectural styles. There were hundreds of windows and too many doors, and exterior stairs on the sides of the house that looked like railroad track, and an improbable number of chimneys studded its roof, like tumors. Without concentrated, unending maintenance, which it didn’t get, seeing as how Earl was a slow pissant, and Grayson House would’ve required a team of men anyhow, it had been ripe for the damage caused by our hard Pennsylvania winters. The paint was peeling, where you could see paint, that is, the outside of Grayson House was so covered by vines, all the way up to the second story, and the white-columned portico, which ran three sides of the main building, had become an ugly screened-in affair. The screening had been put up the year I’d been born, and it sagged in places, dirty with rusty holes all over, where good-sized squares had been cut out.
    Grayson House and its occupants were the worst things possible: pretenders gone to seed.
    “Francis! Don't you be roughing up those shoes! Those've got to last you, what? You think money grows on trees? You get in the house and put your old shoes on!”
    Stella was in her garden, the only beautiful thing left on Grayson Hill, on her hands and knees most likely, which was why I hadn’t seen her. But I should’ve known. Weather permitting, Stella was always in her garden, that square of land below and to the side of Grayson House, west of the vast, unkept groves of apple, peach, and cherry trees. Stella stood up and took off a glove, pushing pale hair back under her hat.
    “Go on with you,” she said.
    Stella