Mrs. Sallow

  I remember when Mrs. Sallow welcomed me into her home with a pleasant smile, but no words. She sat me down at her lavish dining table with an expression that had hardened behind her smiling eyes.

      I have nothing against Mrs. Sallow anymore, I tell my brother. Mrs. Sallow is a splendid mother. Mrs. Sallow is simply wonderful. I am forever grateful to Mrs. Sallow.

      Today is the first snowy day of winter. I looked out my window wistfully earlier this morning, but such trivial things hardly move me anymore. I spend my days with my loving mother: tending to her needs and spending time with her. Today, I spent my time preparing for my brother's dinner guest -- a hardly subtle date night. Alas, I worked laboriously all afternoon for his long-awaited "friend," scrubbing the tables and floors, cooking food, and helping to dress Mrs. Sallow.

      I must say my mother is quite old, although she does not look her age; she can be forgetful, and at times her stricken demeanor is frightening. She snaps at people often in helpless anger; she often forgets herself and becomes contrary. This is my guess as to why my seclusive brother invited me to the dinner. I didn't mind, but I could have done without a hard Sunday's work.

      Now, as I sit to watch the clock strike eight, I hear my mother's footsteps trickle down the staircase behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand.

      "All is ready, Mrs. Sallow," I call pleasantly. My mother peers at the clock in front of me, and I can tell she is trying desperately not to rub her eyes. "Behold the clock," she says, straightening suddenly. Her shrunken vertebrae almost return to their former glory. "It is not meet you visit with our guest whilst dressed so sullenly."

      My face sours. I worked for hours on end, while she sat on her cushy pillows. "Yes, Mrs. Sallow," I say tightly.

       My mother's face draws to a distasteful glare. "Be not so formal with me, daughter, when our guest arrives. I doubt she will be as appreciative of your impish humor."

      I scurry up the stairs, pausing only to cast a mocking glance behind my mother. I have, since my memory began, disliked dresses and such frilly things as petticoats. It may have started when my brother and I had great fun in our early years traversing about in nothing but our trousers. Mrs. Sallow was unflinching with her proper rules, but I was grateful she allowed me to undress in my own quarters.

      I grumble to myself as I pick the most ridiculous cloth in my room: a corseted blue frock with white lacy frills and layers upon layers of darker blue petticoats. I pull on a pair of presentable brown boots and hurry once more downstairs, just as I hear a quiet knock on the front door. I pull the grand wooden thing open to reveal a petite little thing in a simple pink dress. Her face is sunken and unfed, but her presence carries an air of surety.

      I curtsy, as does she, and we kiss.

      "An immense pleasure to meet you, Miss Bella," I say courteously.

      "The same to you, Miss Caroline," the young woman replies. I am taken aback by her heavily french accent, but I remain smiling. "Won't you dine with us?" I ask pleadingly, as if I did not spend my day sweating for her benefit.

      "In fact, I must be going -- my father calls me back so soon, I'm afraid. I wish only to speak with Benjamin for a moment."

      My expression falls so incredibly down, but I hear Mrs. Sallow's voice behind me.

      "Nonsense," came the sharp, unfriendly cry. "Your father can eat the crumbs beneath my table if he wishes, but I say to you that you will stay. Come, and dine."

      When the pink dress disappears down the hallway, I turn abruptly toward my mother. "You are cruel and heartless today, Mother. Must I ask you why you torment our guest so?"

      "You must not, foolish girl, but I will not spare your ears. The house guest has the skin of overcooked meat. The despicable color will not stay long, but I shall tolerate her further for the sake of my son. Quick, now, slothful youth, entertain her before your brother comes down."

      I snarl at her inwardly, but attempt at humor for the pretty guest. I decide I will like her, to spite my mother.

      Miss Bella leaned across the intricate table to whisper to me. "Your mother seems not to have taken to me," she admits. "Be she a cold and ruthless woman?"

      I stifle a laugh, for Mrs. Sallow's ears are not as taken as her mind. "Although sometimes she is as heartless as a mother arachnid, you must forgive her insolence. Her mind is quite frayed, I fear."

      Miss Bella nods, and turns her head to the staircase. My brother descends dramatically, and I roll my eyes. He is not a handsome fellow, though his face could be described as regal of a sort. His deep, hard-set eyes were unforgiving and rigid, but they softened as they fell upon the lovely Miss Bella. I felt a twinge of remorse at his expression, but forced it away.

      As everyone sits and begins to eat, I allow my judgement to turn on myself. I am quite plain-featured as well, and it is not right of me to judge my equally-fairing kin so. I take pride in my humble attributes and decide to continue the dinner in none the less spirits.

       My mother calms her words as the evening stretches on, but I still see her not-so-subtle glances at Miss Bella's darkened skin. I am sure my expression is pained, but my brother and Miss Bella seem to be enjoying the company.

      As the dinner ends, I breathe a sigh of relief and begin to collect the dishes. Mrs. Sallow's arm snakes out and grabs mine.

      "Show our guest to her rooms, darling," she hissed. "Don't be rude."

      Miss Bella overhears. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Sallow," she said kindly, "I must be getting home. I am sure my father is sick with worry."

      I barely can hold back my tears, yet I understand not why. "It shan't take too long, Miss," I tell Miss Bella. "We would like to give a gift for taking the time to meet with us."

      Miss Bella bites her lip nervously. "Alright," she agrees at last. "Get thee hence, and quickly, for I shall follow you."

      I lead Miss Bella up my winding stairs and shut the door behind us. Her dark skin glows in the candle-light, and I know she can feel my teardrops upon her arm.

      "I'm free," I tell her, smiling sadly. My fingers clench her arm unflinchingly. "It has been so long since I was free."

       I let go of Mrs. Sallow's hold on my mind, and rush downstairs. I push from my head thoughts of Miss Bella's terrified expression. I ignore her pounding on the locked door. Downstairs, the lights have turned off, and I see Mrs. Sallow's hollow reflection in the mirror near the door. She stares emptily at me, and her cold, snake-like whisper descends on my ears as I flee her presence at last: 

       "A soul for a soul."

      I burst out into the snowy night, and I see lights in the distance. Gone is my poor, helpless, unrelated brother. Gone is the lamplight under which I wrote letters to my former self. Gone is myself, the version of me whom I so despised. I am free now.

      Part of me wants to forget Miss Bella and her dark skin: but I will always know there is a childless father a few streets down. He won't know.

      But I will. Maybe soon I will forget.

      Maybe soon I will remember.

Thirty-one years ago, I traded a soul for a soul. And today, I see her stand before my bedposts, reaching a gaunt hand to my cheek. I see her dark skin torment me, my eyes hating her color and my soul wishing for forgiveness.

Understand, I plead silently. I had no choice.

Alas, she takes me to her realm, a warm but empty smile plastered across her face. I can see no abnormality in her presence now.

I suppose I understand her. I suppose we are not so differennt. We are all the same in death, are we not?