Dance With Me

-The White Dress-

I suppose I understood now why people were afraid of the Bondurants.

Forrest walked back to the car as calmly as when he stepped out of it, carrying my shoes with him. He'd washed his hands off in the ocean, but blood stained the sleeves of his shirt, especially deep around the cuffs, splatters and smears along his pants. I felt myself stiffen when he climbed in the cab, taking his place behind the wheel.

I'd witnessed murder. At least I thought it was murder. Sure didn't look like they were living, after the damage Forrest had done. That red-haired man, my assaulter, Forrest spent a lot of time on him. I couldn't much see from the car, but when I was still on the beach, he went and crushed his nose right in and kept stomping. Blood ran from his eyes to his chin and everywhere in between, dripping off his beard and absorbing in the sand. I never seen anything like that. Not even little Henry's disfigurations last night had been so gruesome.

Those men would've killed us. They would've shot Forrest. Then they would've violated and shot me too. They deserved what Forrest dealt them. But nothing would've prepared me for the sight of it.

I could smell the sweat and saltwater on Forrest, and it was likely to identify that misplaced coppery scent as blood. He didn't start the motor of the car immediately, sitting and staring at the steering wheel instead. "You hurt?" he asked, after awhile.

"No," I whispered, but even my breath shook. I inhaled deeply, willing myself strength and composure. "Forrest, those men-"

"Drifters, Edna," he interrupted, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. His head eventually followed his gaze. "Nobody gonna miss 'em."

I turned away, glancing quickly out the window at the two lumps on the beach. "Did you kill 'em?" I asked.

"No," he said, and I believed him. "They'll live long enough to regret every mistake they ever made." I believed that, too. I heard that before you're about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Some deaths happen pretty quickly, so I guess it was a speedy process, running through everything. Those men didn't look all that old, either. They'd die there, on that beach. That little stretch of paradise we'd called ours for a day. It amazed me how quickly and easily the evils of the world could come and snuff the light out of anything. Forrest was no stranger to this. He'd adapted a long time ago.

I didn't. I was cherishing my naivety more than ever, and I'd hold onto my damn light as long as I possibly could. Even if that'd make for a challenging task, while being romantic with a bootlegger notorious for his brutal violence and inability to die. The only thought that kept running through my head was whether or not Forrest was worth it. What we had was blooming, in its early stages where things was new and exciting. I didn't yet know what I was looking for out of Forrest, and I don't think he knew what he wanted out of me. It wasn't too late to get out, and while the hurt of leaving him would be rough, it would be short-lived.

Forrest had a number on him. I was a law-abiding citizen. He was a fighter. I was a healer. He lived and led a whole life I knew nothing about, except for what I was told by others. The more I knew, the more I didn't want to. He had blood on his hands, blood on his name, and he didn't seem the least bit concerned or remorseful for it. It was just the way of living in Franklin County.

I should've gone to Boston. The thought made me fidget in my seat as we drove, and I leaned against the door, keeping my eyes out the window. Should've blown right through Franklin and chanced finding employment up north. There was plenty businesses up there; I bet I could have found a low-wage seamstress job to keep me busy. Or maybe be a telephone operator. Instead I landed in a shady county and bided my time fixing criminals and corrupt law enforcement after they try to kill each other. This was not the life I was meant to lead. This place was not my home. The Doctor was adamant on getting me out of Franklin. I was beginning to see why. I ain't told him I was seeing Forrest. I bet if I did, he'd knock me asleep, tie me up, and send me on the first train out of there.

It was nearing the early hours of the morning when Forrest rolled into Blackwater Station. I'd been sleeping for a while, but the sudden quiet woke me and I shot up, looking around. Several cars were parked around the lot. Men waiting for Forrest to return, I reckoned. It was Saturday night, which usually meant business. More would be arriving soon.

I slipped into my shoes and walked myself on up into the station. A small group of strangers were immersed in a game of poker at a table near the furnace. They didn't acknowledge me with more than a quick glance. Jack and Howard sat at the bar in front of the grill, heads dropped and eyes squinted like they'd been concentrating hard on the details of the wood.

Forrest came up from behind and took me by the shoulder, guiding me over to the empty stool beside Howard. "The hell happened?" Howard asked, eyeing the blood on Forrest's shirt.

"It's taken care of," was all Forrest said, before lighting a cigarette, taking a puff, and handing it off to me. I took it, not realizing my hands were shaking until I had to master grasping the thin roll between my fingers. He removed an empty glass from a cupboard, and filled it with a couple snorts worth of corn whiskey from the open jar in front of Howard. Forrest passed that off to me as well. I supposed it was his way of helping. "Jack, fix her something to eat," he said as he walked away, headed toward the table of card players.

I kept my eyes on the burning end of the cigarette, but could hear as Jack bounced off his stool, stepping over to the cooler to see what he had to work with. A late-night narrative broadcasted in low volume on the radio. After another moment, Howard stood with a sigh, picking his hat up off the bar and placed it on his head. When I looked up, he was headed to join Forrest and the other men. I learned that Howard was the bulking shadow that stood behind Forrest during transactions. A silent, watchful giant that made sure business was dealt smoothly and fairly.

Exhaling a stream of smoke, I turned away and focused my attention on Jack, who was in the process of opening a can of beans. I needed to go upstairs. My place wasn't in the presence of their business. I didn't want to see it, or hear a word they said. If the law ever connected me to the Bondurants, I wanted to honestly say I didn't know a damn thing about any operation.

I reached over and stopped Jack before he could dump the beans into a warming pot. "I ain't all that hungry, Jack," I told him.

Jack paused, his dark eyes shining as he regarded me. He set the can down, shut off the heat, and leaned into the counter, speaking lowly, "Miss Edie, what happened?"

My eyes shifted to Forrest. His back was turned and he was in quiet discussion with the card players. "We just ran into some folks lookin' for trouble, is all," I said lightly, forcing the corners of my mouth up in a small smile. Jack was so young, but he had perfected the Bondurant stare, and when they used it, it had an unnerving, exposing effect. My gaze dropped as I brought the cigarette back between my lips, wishing my hands would stop shaking.

The door to the station opened, catching our attention as more men stepped inside. I slid off the stool, taking the drink with me as I made my way back toward the staircase. I'd only been around for maybe three transactions, and I knew they were quick. These people didn't have any time to spare. They bought and sold from each other, handed Forrest their dues for either using his facility or purchasing his liquor, loaded up, and went on their merry way. Didn't know where they went; I assumed some of these men were part of the caravan that rolled through Rocky Mount toward the county line. An orderly line of vehicles would stretch around the perimeter of the lot, and would leave in a single succession. And things was still pretty slow, Jack once told me. People were still getting over their nerves and hesitations about doing business with the Bondurants again. I could've only imagined what Blackwater Station looked like before the commonwealth attorney put those sanctions on them.

I stopped at the top of the stairs and pulled on the chain that clicked on the small light overhead. I could already hear the chime of glass jars bumping into each other in crowded rows downstairs. There were three rooms upstairs, and I didn't know which one I wanted to be in. I didn't want to be in any of them. I wanted to be home, with my mama when she remembered who I was, in Union Parish. The sitting room sat over the porch, with a window looking over the lot, and I didn't much feel like witnessing any more illegal activity. There wasn't much more in Forrest's room than a stiff chair and a straw tick, and both were horribly uncomfortable.

There was a small lamp sitting atop a chest of drawers in the spare room, and I kicked off my shoes before turning it on. This had been Maggie's room before, and I suppose it would be mine too, if I ended taking Forrest up on his offer. I looked about the room, and then sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh, the frame squeaking underneath me. An oval-shaped mirror mounted on the back of the chest of drawers displayed my reflection, and I felt a numbness settle in as I took in the sight of me. Hardly felt the burn as I emptied the glass in my hand with several staccato chugs.

The pins in my hair were skewed and left useless, only clumping strands together at the ends while the rest fell loosely in a mess around my neck and shoulders. The bit of mascara I'd put on my eyelashes that morning now lay in a stained heap under the lower lids of my eyes. The material of my dress was wrinkled and stiff from the saltwater, and there were smears of dirt tainting the light color where that man had touched me with his filthy hands.

I hoped the memory of his scent would fade quickly. It came to me suddenly in a faint whiff, the musty, putrid scent of a human decomposing from the inside out. My stomach churned, and a gag forced its way up my throat and another followed it, eyes tearing up and spilling over with the awful feeling.

There wasn't any understanding the ways of the world. No sense trying. Why did men have to disobey the law to make money? Why did violence define their power? Forrest and me, why did we choose that beach, on this particular day at that particular time? What drove those two men to justify their reason in committing ghastly acts of desperation? Only God knew.

The spare room was kitty-corner to a narrow water closet. I wiped my eyes as I tiptoed out through one door and into the other, clicking on the light as I went. I turned on the faucet and let the water run as I stripped my dress off. If I stayed, I'd make Forrest put in a tub. I didn't care where he put it, and I didn't mind filling it up with my own hot water. He may have been fine scrubbing himself down with well water in the yard, but I sure wasn't. I cupped my hands under the cold water and splashed it over my face, then removed the pins from my hair, setting them side by side on the sink beside the bar of soap.

I picked my dress up off the floor, held it under the water, and scrubbed the material together. I scrubbed hard. I scrubbed until my fingers went numb against the icy water, only stopping to assess the stains made by my assaulter. If there was even a hint of him left in the fabric, I rubbed soap over the area, and then scrubbed some more. I couldn't get it out. I couldn't get him out. And it was a damn shame because this dress was so pretty. I'd worn this dress because I knew Forrest would like it, even if he didn't say so. He always looked at me more when I wore white. Now it was stained and I couldn't ever wear it for him again.

The door swung open with a slow creak, and Forrest stood in the doorway. I looked up at him, and felt the heat in my face from labor and frustration. My hands ached, fingers throbbing, desperate for warmth and rest. I'd been at those stains for some time. Forrest didn't come upstairs until the customers were gone, the station was all closed up, and he'd counted the night's earnings, putting it in the books and tucking it away somewhere only he knew. I turned the faucet and stopped the stream of water, looking down at the dress, upper half piled and soaked through in the sink.

A heavy silence fell over us, and I rubbed my hands dry on the silk of my girdle, flexing my swollen fingers to get some feeling back into them. Forrest was a damn apparition in the corner of my eye as he leaned on the doorframe watching me. Couldn't even hear him breathe. After awhile he pushed himself off the frame and turned away, the steps of his boots against the floorboards echoing to some other part of the apartment. I was left standing, growing cold in my sudden conscious awareness of where I was and what I'd been doing, wondering if I was supposed to go to him.

But he returned, each progressive step growing louder and louder, and when he appeared again he held the quilt from his cot. Without a word, Forrest stretched the length of the quilt out behind me and folded it over my shoulders, cocooning my body in a welcomed warmth. He led me out of the water closet and down the stairs, over to the barstools where he sat me down and cooked me an omelet and didn't move until he'd seen me clear my plate.

I put my fork down and looked up at him as I swallowed the last bite. He nodded once and turned away.


"Forrest is a matriarch, not a patriarch...I have to play the mother role and yet manage the danger." -Tom Hardy

"[In heaven] All the stories, all of our lives, will be sung like hymns. That's how we'll remember them. That's why it all means something. The problem is that we have to live in this world first, we have to bear it." The Wettest County in the World, Matt Bondurant, pg. 279.

Everyone copes with the aftermath of a traumatic event differently. For Edna, I hoped to portray her in the early stages of "what the hell...?" She knows, and she understands what she experienced. The attackers were awful, and on top of that she watched Forrest pound two men to near death. She does not yet realize the effect it will have on her, and her relationship with Forrest. She adores him, but his lifestyle scares her. It's not an easy one to adapt to. I hope I was able to portray those emotions and that process of evaluating the decisions that have effected/will effect her present/future at least decently.

In response to the subject being brought up about what Forrest smokes! I appreciate that coming to attention. I do like to correct mistakes where they need correction. I realize that in the movie he smokes these fatty rolls. In the book it mentions cigarettes and cigarillos. It was a conscious decision on my part to have him smoke cigarillos, since it's somewhere in between a cigarette and a cigar. Hell, let's have him smoke all three! The man loves his tabacca. However, I WILL correct an unintentional mistake that I noticed myself. Forrest uses iron knuckles, not brass knuckles.

Alrighty, lovely readers. I love you all, and I anxiously await your feedback. Please, do let me know what you think about the story. You know how your opinions spark fierce inspiration which result in speedy updates. You just have that affect on me :)