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Shelby Wellborn stood in the doorway in rare form. Wearing her usual mantle of pious clothing that didn’t leave any skin showing, with her prematurely gray hair a wild nest sticking up all over her head, her eyes wide and steeped with rage.
“You unholy little whore.” She stalked into the room, making Birdie’s shoulders hunch at she drew nearer.
Pursing her lips and remaining quiet, she knew defending herself would only incite her mother more.
“Maisie tells me that you are an abomination to this family, defiling our good name with your loose morals.”
Birdie dared a glance at Maisie, who pretended not to hear from beneath her headphones as she sang to the tune of “Cry Me a River” by Justin Timberlake.
Shelby grabbed her roughly by the wrist. “Get on your knees and beg your savior for his forgiveness.”
Not taking her eyes off her mother, who appeared more unhinged than ever, she slowly bent her knees to the floor.
“Go on,” she screamed, pointing at her, making her body recoil. “Beg for forgiveness.”
She instantly bowed her head and rolled right into the Book of John, verse one, chapter nine. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and righteous to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.”
Shelby grabbed her by the hair and yanked until she saw stars. “Louder!” she yelled, spittle hitting Birdie’s face.
She continued reciting the verse, louder this time.
“You entice the boys at school with your nubile body and sinful hair…” She wrenched Birdie to standing, causing her to falter with her recitation.
“By all that is holy, I’m going to put a stop to this,” she wailed to herself. “It’s my responsibility as a God-fearing, Christian woman to protect others from the devil’s spawn.”
Dragging her by the hair out of the bedroom, Birdie had no choice but to follow. Trying to keep up to mitigate the stinging pain of her scalp.
Her mother descended the stairs, Birdie stumbling and flailing from behind, the tears streaming down her face. Tripping and rolling down the last few steps.
Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, Birdie managed to stand, and saw her father in his recliner reading the newspaper.
Just another day at the Wellborn house.
“Daddy,” she called out, praying, not for forgiveness as her mother had demanded, but that her father would see how Shelby had finally lost it and compelling him to protect his daughter.
To her surprise and vast relief, he did just that. Popping up from his chair, fully aware of his wife holding Birdie by the hair, wrapping her fist around the long mane for a tighter grasp, heaving and panting with rage.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Birdie said, for the first time with deep and genuine reverence.
Folding his newspaper with disturbing calm, he said, “I think I’ll check on some things in the basement.”
Tears turned to sobs as she watched her father make his escape from any sense of responsibility as her mother continued to drag her to the kitchen.
With the other hand, her mother lifted a bucket filled with dirty water and lye soap.
Other mothers broke out a bottle of Mr. Clean to scrub the floors, not Shelby Wellborn. She washed hers with the harsh substances and elbow grease of a martyred pioneer woman.
Dragging Birdie back to the staircase, she forced her to her knees again.
“Ask for forgiveness,” she said, taking her long mane of hair and dousing it into the bucket. “Ask!” she screamed, as Birdie watched her limp hair dripping in her mother’s hand. The strong smell of the lye making her dizzy.
Birdie mumbled the verse as her mother began to wash the first stair step, using her hair as if it were an old rag.
“Again,” her mother said, moving to the next step and going to work, getting into the corners, seemingly just as intent to irreparably damage her daughter’s hair as to clean the staircase to a pristine and godly shine.
“Mom…” she cried. “Pl…please.”
Once again, her mother submerged the hair back into the bucket. Birdie choking on the harsh fumes.
