The Vanishing Point Read Free Page A

old woman's piss-stained sheets, enduring the old woman's insults and her brother-in-law's slights. She would hide her hair beneath a housewife's cap, keep her husband's house, bear his children. Her loins clenched at the memory of her mother's racked body on the blood-drenched bed. She almost fancied that her mother's ghost was warning her to save herself before it was too late.
Darling, you can see that this is no life for you.
    When she stepped away, she expected her fiancé to follow, take her hand, ask what vexed her. He still had the power to draw her back, charm away her doubts. But neither he nor his brother paid her any mind. With heavy feet, she marched into the thick of the dancers. They whirled around her, beat their feet into the earth, kicked up clouds of dust that shone like gold in the evening sun. A barefoot tinker stood on his own. His waving hair fell to his shoulders. His shirt, made of parti-colored rags stitched together, was open in the heat, baring his collarbone and smooth chest. His eyes were clouded hazel, full of mirth. Those eyes undid her. He winked, his face open and shining. When he held out his hand, she felt the overpowering tug, the intoxication sweeter than mead. Stepping forward, she squeezed his hand and let him pull her body against his as if they were already lovers. Then all was a blur of the dust they raised with their wild dance. When the music stopped she kissed him. His mouth tasted of wild blackberries.
    Her fiancé and his brother left her there, in the tinker's arms. Rushing back to the village, her fiancé tore down the banns announcing their marriage. Meanwhile the tinker led May to his makeshift tent at the edge of the woods. When he pushed up her skirts and stroked the insides of her thighs, she felt so light, as though she had left her body and earthly existence behind. She kissed him fiercely and drew him inside her. Afterward they sat by the campfire and shared a supper of streaky bacon and bread. Then, despite his entreaties, May pulled herself away. She walked alone and unclaimed to her father's house.
    Father could hardly look at her. Even Hannah appeared bruised and betrayed. Joan cornered May in the kitchen. "You have brought dishonor on us all. Your poor sister is ashamed to show her face in public. Did you ever stop to think about your father? Wherever he goes, people laugh behind his back."
    May wept, but the shaming was nothing in the face of her desire, that pull on her that set her pulse racing. Within a fortnight she took up with a young weaver.
    By the time she turned twenty-one, her pond had run dry. From the rich crop of boys she had once loved had grown a field of jaded men, most of them now married. They warned their wives what would happen to them if they ever started taking after May Powers. One morning she awoke with the taste of too much cider in her mouth, bruises on her arms and thighs. Boys followed her down alleys, singing not sweet songs but obscene ditties.
Cherry-red, cherry-red, like a slut's own bed.
At village dances, disgusting old men took liberties, pawing her bosom and rump, then laughing at her outraged protests. Joan told her she should have thought of the consequences earlier.
    In the eyes of her village, she had become something much worse than an old maid. Joan said she was a fool for not marrying the innkeeper's son when she had the chance. He was a fine man these days, with money in his purse and a baby boy. His wife was a mild-faced, yellow-haired woman who never raised her voice. She had come with a dowry of two milk cows and eight pounds in sterling.
    ***
    When Nathan Washbrook's summons arrived, May reminded herself that she had loved many men. Odds were that she could find something to love in young Gabriel. But in those final days, her bridegroom was far from her mind. At every opportunity she stole into Father's study to examine his celestial globe and maps of the heavens. In her dreams, she was not earthbound but flew