Chapter 3
August 2, 1959
Early Morning
Adultery. All the way home from church, Kelly turned that word over in her mind. It had to be something that only grown-ups did. You could tell that by the way it was spelled. Spelled! Of course, why didn't she think of it before? The dictionary would tell her everything she needed to know.
She pedaled faster, foregoing her usual detour along the ridge overlooking the river where you could see the Mississippi laying broad and flat and brown, happy in the sun, or green and angry when the thunderclouds rolled in on it. She sped past the colored peoples' shoebox shacks and the white peoples' houses built long after The War, with their porches and railings, turrets and gingerbread trim, past the houses with names like Twin Oaks that had been built, or at least started, before The War, where the same families had lived for a hundred years, passing down the houses and furnishings, clothes and letters and diaries, silver and china, useful relics of their past lives and daily reminders of The War that had taken almost everything there was to give, the fathers, sons, brothers, cousins, and husbands of the women of the South, leaving them shaken but stronger, alone but not lonely, cautious but unafraid, and proud, of their men, of their own new strengths and of the land that was still theirs, if only a garden plot behind the house where they used to own hundreds of acres rolling down and along the Mississippi laying broad and flat and brown, happy in the sun, or green and angry when the thunderclouds rolled in on it.
Racing up the front steps, the young girl took no notice of the house that so often filled her with pride as she took her friends through the grand hallway past its massive staircase to her many-windowed room with the magnificent four-poster bed, the same house that filled her with shame as she thought of Nellie Mae and little Prudence living out back in three rooms, owning nothing and asking nothing. Today she thought only of the library across from her room and the huge dictionary always open on its spindly rosewood stand.
Carefully, so as not to tip it over, she lifted a fistful of pages from their usual resting place on the "lawyer" page. Her daddy, who had lots of lawyer friends, always said they could be found between "laugh" and "laxative" but were generally of less use than either. Grown-ups always thought that was funny, but Kelly didn't think about it today. Her fingers fumbled nervously through the first twenty-five pages of the book.
Adultery. "a-dul-ter-y … n., voluntary sexual intercourse between a married man and a woman not his wife, or between a married woman and a man not her husband."
That would be it. Mr. Boudreaux was "a married man" and he must have had "sexual intercourse" with "a woman not his wife." Now Kelly had to look up "sexual intercourse." Another fistful of pages got her back to the "S's."
Disappointed that there was no entry for "sexual intercourse," she read all the "sex" words, including those that seemed irrelevant like "sexagenarian" because Mr. Boudreaux was only thirty-six and "sextile" because that was only about the position of two heavenly bodies.
"Sexual" referred to "reproduction by the union of male and female germ cells," which sounded more like what happens when you get a cold and Kelly knew you didn't have to confess that so she looked up "intercourse," whose second definition was about the sexual joining of two individuals (Mr. Boudreaux and somebody other than Mrs. Boudreaux who was in Savannah this week); "coitus; copulation;" and now Kelly was a puppy chasing her own tail because the dictionary said that "coitus" and "copulation" were both words for "sexual intercourse."
Kelly turned back to the "lawyer" page in frustration. One thing was clear to her from all this searching. "Adultery," "sexual intercourse," "coitus" or "copulation," whatever you called it, it must be something worth hiding.
"Good morning, young lady!"
"Oh, Daddy! You scared me! I didn't hear you come in."
"I imagine not, busy as you were with that book. Find everything you needed?"
"Yes, sir," Kelly lied, blushing from the lie and the truth. "Sure did."
"That's 'surely did,' Kelly. 'Surely' is an adverb and must be used in its proper form to modify the verb 'did.' Using 'sure' in that instance is colloquial and you surely wouldn't want to grow up speaking colloquial English, now would you?"
"Oh, no sir, not me. Not I."
"Why don't we have a little chat, while things are quiet around here? I'm sure you have a lot to tell me, don't you, baby?"
"No, sir, I mean, not really. Unless you mean about last night."
"Of course. Isn't that what's on your mind, my little Grand Champion?" He smiled encouragement, remembering his own trips to the dictionary so many years ago, "You can tell Daddy about it."
How could she? Last night "It" was Lefty Owens and this morning "It" was adultery.
"I'm too hungry to talk right now. What's for breakfast?"
"Soft boiled eggs, toast, and juice. Need some help? Mama's asleep."
"No, thanks. I'll take care of myself. Just relax and read the paper."
Clayton McCain watched his beautiful young daughter walk slowly from the room and ached to know what was wrong. This child was so much like him, but often difficult to understand. She was too young to be fighting that tenuous line between girlhood and womanhood, the line which is approached from the young side with such anticipation and apprehension, and then like a chalk mark across a sidewalk, becomes blurred throughout her lifetime as the female moves mysteriously back and forth across that line whenever it suits her needs.
With Kelly, it was as if her mind were vacillating across a more disparate line -- that of male and female. Notwithstanding the sexual homogeneity of the very young and the obvious tomboy stage most girls pass through on their way to maturity, there appeared to be a deeper dynamic operating here. The fundamental dichotomy between male and female is most patently exhibited in their thought processes, as exemplified by their approaches to problem solving and dealing with spatial or interpersonal relationships.
Clayton McCain reluctantly formulated the words and heard himself express sotto voce, "Kelly thinks like a boy." Having faced that truth, he delved deeper, searching systematically for its causes, and ultimately his mind sought the day of his first child's birth. Then, chastising himself for thinking like a superstitious old colored woman, the tall sturdy man abruptly stopped his pacing. He stared for a long time at the blue sky beyond his reach, dreaming of a son he would never know. Then he slumped into the overstuffed chair beside the fireplace and, silently, he cried.
After breakfast, Kelly aimlessly roamed through the neighborhood, taking no pleasure from it. Mary Margaret McCafferty was the only kid in sight and she was two years older than Kelly, so you could never be sure (surely?) sure whether she would speak or not. Kelly decided to take a chance.
"Your rabbit surely is getting fat and pretty," Kelly observed. "Could I pet her a minute?"
Mary Margaret deigned to acknowledge her, "Only if you're gentle so she won't hop out of my lap. She's almost asleep."
Kelly observed the rabbit's wide staring eyes but didn't mention it. She sat down on the expansive wooden step next to Mary Margaret and tentatively reached for the rabbit's head.
"No. I'm the only one who can pet her on the head and scratch behind her ears. You can pet her here," Mary Margaret pointed to a small spot on the rump. "Only right here," she prissed.
They sat in silence, petting the rabbit, having little else in common. Kelly decided she had nothing to lose.
"Do you know what sexual intercourse is?"
Mary Margaret stopped petting the rabbit and her eyes narrowed as she glared at Kelly.
"Of course I do, you little smart-aleck know-it-all! Don't go trying to impress me with your twenty-five cent words. I heard about you last night. 'Grand Champion of Vicksburg!' Humph! Well, you don't impress me one little bit."
Mary Margaret picked up her rabbit and cradled it in her arms as she stomped up the steps, across the wide verandah, and through the screen door. Her head reappeared.
"And just in case you're sitting there thinking I left because I don't know what 'sexual intercourse' means, it's when you fuck! Now why don't you go fuck yourself!"
Kelly was thrilled at the unexpected wealth of information she had received from Mary Margaret. First of all, she had a new word to look up in the dictionary. And now she knew that it was something you could do to yourself. She ran home.
Kelly saw her father still in the library so she glided noiselessly down the hall to her own room and her smaller dictionary. Such a short word as fuck should be in there. But it wasn't. She tried a different spelling. Fock. Nope. Fack. No, again. Feck. She even tried Fick, since none of the other vowel spellings worked, but didn't hold out much hope for it.
Fuck.
Then she brightened. Phuck! And then phock, phack, pheck, phick.
Another brainstorm. Fuque!
Disappointment compounded as she tried every combination of sounds and letters that could possibly spell the little word that rhymed with duck. She lay down on her bed and thought about things until she heard her father's tread on the staircase. Then the scene with the little dictionary was repeated with the larger one and Kelly still didn't have her answers. Fuck.
If Christi had been in town, they could have attacked this together, although Kelly swore to herself she'd never tell Christi what started it. Besides, she knew she "would die and burn in Hell for all eternity" if she ever "divulged the content of another person's confession." She shivered as the ominous words rang in her head.
Hearing the familiar singing of her father in the upstairs shower and not wanting to wait another minute, Kelly decided to take a chance and ask her mother who, from the sound of it, was in the kitchen.
"Hi, Mom. May I ask you a question?"
"Yes, of course, ask anything. How was six o'clock Mass? I'm going at noon today. Maybe I'll invite Mr. Boudreaux for dinner. He must be lonesome with his little family out of town. Oh, that reminds me. You got a postcard and a letter from Christi yesterday. Savannah looks like a beautiful town, although you can't be certain from just one postcard. I remember seeing pictures of Vicksburg when your father and I met. Then it seemed so different when we moved here. But I know you've heard that story before and probably don't want to hear it again. It's just that looks aren't everything anyway. It's the people…"
"Mom."
"who really make a place what it is and the people of Vicksburg are…"
"Mom, what's fuck?"
"so warm and friendly and, what did you say?"
"What's fuck?"
"Kelly Marie McCain, don't you let me hear you talk like that again! Where ever did you get such a word?"
Kelly thought about keeping still, but decided on a better course.
"Mary Margaret McCafferty told me to go fuck myself. Could you just tell me what it means without getting all upset?"
"I'm not upset! Just you wait until I call that girl's mother! Of all the low, white-trash words to say to my…"
"Mom,…"
"baby. What's her phone…"
"Mom, couldn't you…"
"number? I'm going to… "
"just tell me what…"
"call her right this minute and…"
"it means? Mom!"
Tears were forming in Kelly's eyes.
"Mom, please just tell me what it means. Don't get mad at Mary Margaret. She didn't say it. I just saw it on the sidewalk near her house. It said 'Go fuck yourself, M.M.M.' Somebody probably wrote it to Mary Margaret, so please don't call her mother. Just tell me what it means."
"Oh, baby, it's not something you need to know about yet. And it's a bad word for something adults do that isn't bad at all. Let's forget it now and wait until you're a little older."
"But, Mom, I've got to know now."
Mrs. McCain looked very seriously at her eleven-year-old daughter.
"Kelly, why do you have to know now?"
Kelly couldn't think of anything but the awful truth. She shrugged her shoulders.
"Never mind. I'll wait."
While Kelly was in her room mulling over the bits of information and wondering more than ever about the awesome power of this thing called adultery, or sexual intercourse, or fuck, she couldn't hear her parents upstairs talking quietly, concerned that their older daughter was growing up much too quickly. Maybe they were getting too old to be good parents, but they didn't feel old yet and, as if to prove it, they reached out to each other and broke their long-standing rule against making love while the children were awake.
