Five Miles to Paradise

29

Early, once beautiful, was damned.

The hacking cough she'd developed just would not go away. She found her lighter and opened her fourth pack of cigarettes for the day. It was mid-afternoon. She was edgy and felt the need to do something.

Anything.

She began to fiddle with her rings, slipping them back and forth across her knuckles. It was as if her skin was on fire. 

Her necklaces and bracelets seemed to rub her raw. Suddenly, she couldn't stand the feel of the smooth metal and pearls. She took off all her jewelry. The racking cough kept shredding her lungs. She couldn't seem to make it stop.

It was funny, though. 

Here she was coughing her head off, yet, she felt so good. So elated. Even though the house was sparkling clean, Early couldn't help obsessively thinking it was filthy. 

The whole world was nothing but a cesspool of grime and muck. She had to do something about it. Anything. But what? What? What?

Other thoughts kept bombarding her brain in a non-stop barrage. She tried to stop them. Still, they came.

"God! If Sumter were only here," she said to her pet bird, "I'd tell him exactly how to manage the affairs of state. If I could only get Bennie to clean like she should! She tries her best, I know. But I can do it so much better. I know I can. I am the best. The greatest. The all-time bestest best.

Bennie is so lazy! She moves so slowly. So slow! She talks so slowly, too. I just want to finish her thoughts for her. Get it over with. Just say what you have to say, and stop wasting my time.

I tell her, you know, oh yes, I let her know. I give her a piece of my mind all the time. All the time. Constantly. But I can talk till the cows come home. I tell her and tell her and scold her and tell her. It does no good. Waste of time. That's what it is. Total waste.

Waste! Waste! They waste so much time at the Capitol. Sumter is as bad as all the rest. I tell him so, all the time. All the time! Time! Time! Time! Time is running out!

Don't they know that all they need is me to straighten things out and get this country back in good running order! I could fix this mess. I could! I know I could!

If only he were here! If only!"

The bird listened patiently, uttering not a sound. He was good that way, Early thought. It was also good that he was silent, for she had so much more to say. 

If that bird so much as peeped, so much as chirped, made any sound at all, her thoughts would be derailed! Her chaotic mind would explode! She knew it would. She knew it!

Why the words were practically exploding in her head before she could get them out, as it was!

She rattled on at a machine gun pace.

"Oh, Birdie! What a wonderful day! How lucky you are that you belong to me, my pet! How lucky! How lucky, indeed!"

Early began to clean her cottage, like a fanatic cyclone, a luxury liner barreling ahead full-steam, whose engines were stoked with fuel and running red hot. She was a blur of motion as she dusted and scrubbed the floors on her hands and knees. And still her energy never waned.

After several hours of frenzied cleaning, Early looked about. Everything shimmered. Not a speck of dust could be found anywhere. But, it was not good enough. She had failed. Everything was dirty still! Still! She must do better. She must! She must!

But she had failed! Failed! Oh god! She had failed!

Overcome with anger, Early picked up the first object nearby, a beautiful, old vase, and smashed it against the wall. The sound pierced through her like a gun shot. It felt good. So good. She had to experience that sensation, again. For that split second, she had felt alive!

She continued to race around the room, clearing the mantle, pulling books from the shelves, hearing them fall in a cascading waterfall of thunder and bedlam. Havoc and confusion! Rage and mayhem!

And still, her energy never waned.

She could not sleep.

Night had fallen.

Sumter would be home tomorrow. The 2:15 train. 2:15. 2:15. Soon, it would be 2:15. But not in the afternoon. No. No. No. No. No. In the night. The late hours of night. The wee hours of morning. 

Morning. Morning. Morning. 

Mourning. Mourning. Mourning.

Should she be in mourning?

Sumter was returning. Returning. Home. Home. Home. Sumter would be coming home. Home. If Sumter was coming home, her rule of the house would cease! Would end! Would be no more!

Oh, God! It was sooooo unfair! So unjust!

Why should it have to end so soon?

She was having so much fun. So much fun. By herself. Without Sumter. Without her older brother and his rules. His damnable rules. She must behave. Act like a lady. She did not feel like a lady.

She felt . . . She felt . . . She did not know how she felt.

She felt so many different things at once. But, wait! Wait!

Now, they were coming slower. Slower. Her emotions were shifting.

Like the earth, cracking and moving and . . . She felt an earthquake. That was it. An earthquake.

The earth was moving beneath her.

She could not stand.

She was going to be swallowed up.

Swallowed up as the earth broke open in a great fissure, and she was going to die!

To die!

Suddenly, a black curtain was falling from the ceiling, floating down to cover her, to smother her, to kill her!

How could she escape it?

Why did she want to?

When Sumter arrived on the 2:15 train, Erling was there to meet him. He took one look in the young man's eyes and knew that Early had broken bad, again.

"You don't have to tell me. I can see it in your face. Has she hurt herself?"

"No, suh. Not much. We gots her in da cell."

There really was a jail cell in the basement of the big house. 

It had been built when the house was erected, so many years ago. Some Sebastian ancestor, intent on sending a message to his slaves, or perhaps even his wife, had insisted this chamber be incorporated into his new dwelling.

The message was clear.

Any wrong doing or attempted escape would be dealt with harshly and immediately. Dark, damp, and distanced from the upper rooms where the cultured and civilized people mingled, the cell provided an excellent deterrent to anyone who might otherwise think of crossing the owner of the grand mansion.

It lay in a far, back corner of the great, cavernous underbelly of the main house. It was impossible to hear the screams and cries on the above-ground floors. It was impossible to escape the massive iron bars or the seemingly infinite earth that surrounded a captive on three sides.

A perfect cage of soil and iron, a dungeon hidden away in an ornate palace of splendor.