A Woman Named Damaris Read Free Page B

the worn dresses that belonged to her daughter.
    “Did you have pretty dresses?” Damaris asked, looking at her own faded dress hanging limply on the line.
    Her mama looked at the shabby garment and sighed. “Yes,” she admitted softly, “I had pretty dresses.”
    Damaris was about to ask another question, but her mama gave her hand a little wave to dismiss the conversation and spoke almost sharply, “Now off with you. The hens are waiting for fresh water.” Damaris ran to care for the hens, but her thoughts were still on the little white church, the black book with her name in it and pretty dresses.
    She never again asked her mother about church, but she still wished she could join the carefree girls with their pretty frocks and discover for herself just what church was all about. But Damaris had no choice.
    Are there really choices? Damaris wondered as she lay in the darkness. She had never known her mama to lie to her. What had she meant? Damaris shifted in her bed again. In the distance she heard her pa’s snoring turn to groans. Was he waking already? Wouldn’t they get the sleep they so badly needed? Damaris shut her eyes tightly against the blackness and willed herself to quit her troubled thinking and go to sleep while she had the opportunity.
    But her thoughts would not be stilled.
    Choices. Choices. Her brain kept hammering the word at her. What choices did she have? What choices did her mama have? They were trapped. Both of them. There was nothing they could do to free themselves.
    If I had a choice, thought Damaris, I wouldn’t stay here. I’d go some place far away and—and work like mama said and—and buy a new dress and—and go to church and—and find my name in the Bible and read the story for myself.
    The sudden train of thought surprised Damaris. Never before had she even dared to think of going away. Now she couldn’t dismiss the idea.
    “I could,” she admitted to herself in a shaky whisper. “I could. I really don’t have to stay here. I—I am big enough to—to—”
    The thought made Damaris shiver.
    “I could. I could run away—to town. No, farther than that. Pa would find me there—for sure. I’d go—I’d go off down the road somewhere—somewhere far away—and I’d work for somebody. Hoeing gardens and milking cows or—doing the washing or something. I’d work hard. Then—” Damaris checked her thoughts. She must be careful. Extremely careful. If her pa had any idea that she was fostering such a wild and foolish notion, he would thrash her within an inch of her life. Damaris glanced at the stairs that led down from her little loft room, separating her from the living quarters and the bedroom below. She feared that her pa might even now be reading her thoughts—and spoiling her plan.
    She must move carefully. She possessed very little, but she would need to bundle her few clothes. She would have to take her blanket. She might need to sleep in the open until she reached the far-off town. She would need to take a few slices of her mama’s bread and perhaps a boiled egg or two—or a few pieces of cooked salted pork. She would need a bottle of some kind with some well water. She wouldn’t be able to stop at farm homes on the way to ask for water because her pa would be able to track her if she dared to show herself. She needed to fix her worn shoes—somehow. They would never do for a long walk with the soles as worn as they were. And she must—must take the watch and brooch. She would sew them inside her garments or pin them in a pocket so that no thief would ever find them. Then, when she got where she was going, she would put the watch under glass on blue velvet, just as her mama had dreamed, and she would pin the brooch to the front of her dress and wear it to church every Sunday.
    ———
    The next few days passed without incident. There was no money for a trip to town, so Mr. Withers spent his days working on the harness and puttering around the farmyard. He