Shattered Trail

Dust from the road surrounds me and I choke on it, gagging and trying to cough as discreetly as I can. As quietly as I do it, though, I still earn myself some hard glares from the other pedestrians. If I were someone else, they’d probably keep their eyes downcast and offer a muttered “Excuse you,” before scurrying on about their business. But people ‘round here don’t take to me very much. Maybe it’s my now-dead drunken father, who started dozens of fights at the saloon. Or maybe it’s my runaway mother, or my sister, Rosalind, who maybe just worked one night too many at the whore house, so people started to hate her for that. Either way, Rosalind took off with some no-good lowlife, my momma disappeared a little while after that, and now my Poppa’s dead in the ground. Folks 'round here used to think I was the respectable one, when they compared me to my family. Now that they’ve got no else around to look at, they act like I’m dirt on their shoe.

Of course, I probably am. Ever since I was fifteen, I’ve been labeled the town whore, even though I just stay to myself and don’t fraternize with any men, no matter who it is. When something happens, even when you’re fifteen, you can’t go back in time and change it, no matter how much you wish you can.

People are starting to look at me oddly, and I realize I’m just standing in the middle of the road, so I walk forward quickly, trying not to drag the hems of my skirts in the mud. This dress is an old gown of Rosalind’s, one that she didn’t take with her when she ran. It’s a little tight on me in the middle, but I ignore it. I can’t afford a new one with my meager funds. I used to be just as thin as Rosalind, but my body changed drastically a few years ago. Now I’m quite a bit chubbier than the rest of the girls in the town, but I don’t care. They don’t talk to me, anyways.

I pick my skirts up a bit higher and step over a few more puddles before lightly leaping into the doorway of my favorite general store in Markersville, Emmerson’s Goods.

A few pieces of sawdust and a wonderful, distinct scent hit me as I step through the doorway. Mr. Emmerson whistles as he putters around behind the counter, stocking shelves and doing this and that. He tips his hat as soon as he notices me. “Afternoon, Miss Antonia,” he says, and continues wiping out the inside of a jar. “How are you today?”

I smile at him. He’s one of the few in Markersville that don’t judge me, don’t care about what I or my family have done. “Just fine, sir. I just need a small sack of sugar. Seems it disappears ‘fore I even know it’s there.”

He chuckles, and reaches back behind the counter to pull out a small bag. “Anything else today? Need some flour, or maybe a ribbon for that pretty head of hair?”

I shake my head, knowing that I scarcely have a penny to buy even the necessities, let alone a hair ribbon. Besides, I’ve been pinning my hair up since I was fourteen. No need for a ribbon now. “Thank you, but no, sir. I’ll just take my sugar.”

He nods, and tells me the price. I hand over my money, a little regretful of letting it go. But I know I need the sugar. As soon as my coins drop into his hand, I step away. I’m about to head out the door when Mr. Emmerson stops me. “How you been doing since your father’s passing, miss?” he calls, and I slowly force myself to turn around and give him a bleak smile.

“Why, just fine,” I say, “I’ve been doing alright. I’ve got enough money to last me a while, and I ain’t needing anything desperately. I’m plumb fine.”

“Is that so,” he mutters, and I can’t decide if I was supposed to hear that or not. I probably wasn’t, so I just keep my mouth shut. “Well, anytime, you feel like coming ‘round, I know the missus would be happy to cook you a warm meal, and just have a nice chat. I don’t know how much company you get these day’s, and ever since our youngest moved out, we’ve my dying for some chatter. Come along anytime you feel like it.”