Black-Eyed Susan

Scrub, scrub, scrub. Scrub and scrub again. Ansell Rubber Co. Pty. Ltd “Marigold gloves” are great, but this rug’ll never be clean. It ain’t been since Missy were born. I never could get them stains out. Always a constant reminder of the pain and ignominy of her birth. Samson never got it, of course. He was off with his buddies, tossing horseshoes or whatever it was he got up to when she was born. And when he got home, drunk, as usual, he never even looked at her. Just patted me on the head like I was some barnyard animal to be petted and congratulated for a job well done. I’d calved my foal, and so now, I was simply required to nurture his spawn -my own daughter, let us not forget, until she was old enough to fly the coop and further his cursed bloodline through whatever means necessary. His ma may have been a whore, but in my mind, there was no way that Missy would be following in her footsteps. Poor Missy – she never deserved what she was dealt. Ironic really, I think, as I scrub away at this blood-stained rug. The last real gift he ever gave me was that pot of marigolds which are currently straining towards any light which this godforsaken kitchen may offer, and here I am, garbed in yellow Marigold gloves and a blood-flecked apron, attempting to eradicate any signs of his crimes.

Still, cleanliness is next to godliness, as my own ma used to say. I’d usually have some clever answer like “Only if you look in ‘em up in one of them cheap dictionaries Mr Hakim peddles”, which would generally earn me a clip round the ear for my “sass”. Not that Samson ever notices the hours I’d spent keeping everything spick and span while he’s off doing whatever it is that he does. It sure as hell ain’t working or anything useful. The Lord alone knows why I am cleaning up after him now. This ain’t like the times he’d come back with some catfish or deer carcass to deal with. I’d gut them and slice them up without leaving a trace of anything. I’ll say this for Hakim, he sure sold some pretty cheap tat, but he sure knew how to sharpen up a blade so as it’ll slice through bones as if they was nothing tougher than taffy.

Course, if Hakim ain’t have come round, none of this would’ve happened and I wouldn’t be on my hands and knees scrubbing with one of those cheap brushes he sold. I’d swear them bristles ain’t nothing more than pig hair, and they don’t last more than a week if you uses them properly, but beggars can’t be choosers, and Samson kept us as close to beggars as to make no difference, so there you have it. It’ll be his loss if I can’t get this rug clean and the sheriff comes knocking asking what happened last night. Despite everything, I can still hear him in the back of my aching head “A bad workman blames his tools, Susan. That applies double to women who should know better.”

“Workman?” What the hell does Samson Fuller know about work? He ain’t never done an honest day’s work in his life. If Hakim hadn’t sold him that moonshine, he might’ve been sober enough to at least scratch some sort of hole in the bag yard to cover up this mess. What am I kidding myself about? Fat chance I have of getting him to do anything useful the state he’s in now. So where’s Missy? She at least could lend a hand and get them marigolds off the windowsill. Horrible smell, enough to wake the dead. They at least keep the bugs and other critters away, so I guess they have their uses.

C’mon Samson, let’s clean up your mess. Lord, you’re heavy. Don’t think I can drag you out by myself. Still, if I do this right, no-one will ever find you and your godforsaken corpse.

I’ll say this for Hakim, even if I’ve said it before. He sure knows how to sharpen a knife. Went straight through his ribcage and into that black heart of his. ‘Course, if I’d throttled him like he threatened to do to me so many times, there wouldn’t have been all this blood, but “Needs must as the Devil drives”, as ma used to say. Lord, my head is throbbing from that last blow he dealt me. If I didn’t have a better use for them, I’d whip up a tincture with them marigolds and bring down these black eyes. I must look like one of them panadas you’d see in Missy’s picture books. I’m glad she knows her letters, at least. Means that if she applies herself, she can raise herself out of this town, maybe even get a job in Cleveland. Who am I kidding? Who’s gonna give a kid like her a chance? Specially after this. Which is why I’ve got to scrub, scrub, scrub.

Make some excuse – I’ll say he was off gambling on the river – probably got hisself killed for cheating. Samson were a terrible cheat. And I mean terrible. You could see him stacking the deck and bottom-dealing from a mile off. Same way as I could see him carrying on with that young schoolteacher. Thinking I didn’t know when he came back stinking of lavender and whatnot at all hours.

No more, Samson Fisher. You’ve done your last little gardening favour for that Miss high-n-mighty. She’ll have to find someone else to tend that clematis round her door now. Ha! Is that what they calls a youformism? See, I ain’t as dumb as you liked to make out when you was whipping me with that belt of yours, Samson Fisher. I always was smarter than you, and it turns out, your daughter was stronger than you too. Not that the knife needed much strength to use. His chest might’ve well been butter, the ease with which she pushed it in as he struck me one last blow.

You finished that bath out there yet Missy? Good girl. Lend us a hand will you? No I ain’t mad at you. Like I said, he had it coming anyway. If he ever laid a finger on you the way he did me, I swore from the day you was born that I’d have done just what you did. It’s the “fickle finger of fate” is all.

Four feet’ll have to be deep enough in this dirt.

Just grab me them marigolds above the sink will you? Their stink’ll keep all the critters away and no-one will know any different. No-one ‘cept us two girls together. It’s just you and me now, Missy. It always has been really.