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sacrifice for a modicum of coexistent pleasure, and of course Sammy didn’t refuse. He never said he loved her—or even that he liked her—and Mae Helen never asked. His presence alone, especially inside her, allowed her to believe that someone at least
could
love her. So when Sammy disappeared without ever saying good-bye, she celebrated the two daughters and the precious memories he left behind.
    Claude Lovejoy, Emma Jean’s daddy, was a shade yellower than Sammy. Mae Helen lay with him in hopes of being used, once again, by a man every other woman wanted. Yet when Emma Jean emerged with Mae Helen’s navy blue complexion, Mae Helen swore she’d never sleep with the son of a bitch again. She told him to pack his shit and get out and that Emma Jean would never carry the Lovejoy name. She would be a Hurt, like her sisters, so others would at least associate her with beauty. When Claude chuckled and told Mae Helen, “She looks jes’ like you!” Mae Helen said, “Fuck you, nigga. Get the hell outta my house.”
    Claude left. Emma Jean would wonder, years later, if he had offered to take her with him.

     
    Pearlie sat on the edge of the bed, brushing Gracie’s hair. Both sisters turned when Emma Jean entered.
    “Ugh! Why you so dirty, girl?” Pearlie asked. Gracie pursed her lips sadly.
    “Momma hit me, then I fell out in the chicken coop.” Emma Jean began to disrobe.
    “You sho smell like it!” Pearlie screeched, and resumed stroking Gracie’s hair.
    “Leave her alone,” Gracie admonished sympathetically, staring into Emma Jean’s transparent eyes.
    “I wunnit pickin’ on her! I was jes’ sayin’ that she smell like—”
    “Shut up, Pearlie!” Gracie leapt up. “Just shut up. You don’t know what happened so just shut your big, fat mouth.”
    “What’s wrong with you?” Pearlie asked, unable to explain Gracie’s newfound compassion.
    “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me. You just ain’t gotta be so mean. That’s all.”
    Pearlie frowned.
    “It don’t make no sense to laugh at Emma Jean. You know Momma don’t like her.”
    Pearlie shrugged and walked out. Emma Jean stood naked in the middle of the room and wept with her face buried in her palms.
    “Don’t cry, Emma,” Gracie soothed, patting her shoulder. “It’s gonna be all right. I’ll take care o’ you. Just try to stay out o’ Momma’s way.”
    “But I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!” Emma Jean protested. “All I done was ask Momma for a birthday party and she hit me with the skillet.”
    Gracie blinked slowly. “Don’t ask Momma for nothin’. Just do whatever she say.”
    Together, the sisters wiped Emma Jean’s face, hands, and feet with moist washcloths. Gracie noticed the fresh wound, circling from Emma Jean’s forehead around to her right temple. In years to come, Emma Jean would try to hide the C-shaped mark with strands of straightened hair, only to be disappointed that it never quite reached far enough. When people inquired as to the origin of the scar, she would say, “It’s my birthmark.” Most left it at that although they knew better. What child had ever been born with a rough, raisedkeloid blemish like that? Yet, not wishing to pry, they let Emma Jean construct whatever truth she needed.
    Sliding a clean cotton sack dress over her little sister’s head, Gracie said, “Don’t say nothin’ else ’bout yo’ birthday. You can have a party when you get grown if you want to.”
    “But what’s so wrong about havin’ a party now? I ain’t neva had no party befo’.”
    “I said forgit about it! You ain’t gon’ do nothin’ but make Momma madder, and this time ain’t no tellin’ what she might do to you. Jes’ be quiet.”
    “Okay,” Emma Jean said as the image of the pretty lemon cake dissolved in her head.

Chapter 3
     
    The Peaces lived in a rather large A-framed house in the backwoods of Swamp Creek. No one ever stumbled upon their dwelling because it would’ve been impossible to do so.