The Cherry Robbers

by Sarai Walker

Women are raised to be accommodating, so I suppose a woman who draws clear lines that others are not allowed to cross becomes remarkable for that fact alone.

When you live in defiance of yourself, you can adapt to your circumstances, but remnants of who you are at your core remain. A bit of wildness that can’t be tamed.

didn’t think this was fair, that Daphne should become a tree. It was Apollo who deserved to have his greedy hands frozen into scaly branches that would never know the embrace of true love. But even at that age, I knew that it was often women who suffered the consequences of men’s actions.

She’d produced six of them, and they all hung on her, wanted things from her she was unable to give.

Zelie described the moment our father gave Aster away—he gave her away; she was so matter-of-fact, I imagined a bag of old clothes being handed over to a charity drive.

Are we all going to pretend that Mrs. Chapel didn’t predict this whole thing? Yes, Matthew. We are.

The end of March was balmy that year, heading out like the gentlest of lambs and leading us into the most intoxicating time of the year, with the days growing longer, and pale blossoms overtaking the trees, the torment of the winter months melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West. Surviving a New England winter was always an accomplishment; that year it felt even more so than most.

Was Belinda actually sick? I didn’t think so; it was more that she couldn’t be tamed—that’s what they didn’t like, and since they couldn’t tame her, they sedated her.

“Roddy has helped me understand just how much everyone in this house has a distorted way of thinking,” Rosalind said. “And as for our mother—she isn’t clairvoyant. The truth of the matter is that she hates men. She thinks every married woman is as miserable as she is, but it’s simply not true, and she’s not going to prevent me from having the life I want to have.”

She's driven crazy by the oppression of males and the patriarchal society. As most women historical and currently are.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she finally asked. I didn’t know how to answer that question, having never been asked it before. I didn’t know it could be a question.

“You better listen to Sister Grimm, girls,” Daphne said. “A prick from a rose won’t send you to sleep, but a man’s prick will.” Daphne laughed darkly and fell over into her nest of blankets.

She’d been a goddess; she wasn’t designed for ironing and mopping floors and changing baby’s diapers—that, to me, was all wrong.

There’s far too much grief here, and I fear that continuing to write about it cheapens it in some way, as if it can be described, as if the twenty-six letters of the alphabet can contain it, make it presentable for consumption.

“Our mother had a troubled history, she and the women before her. Marriage, children—it killed them, either literally or, in my mother’s case, figuratively. My sisters thought she’d passed that to us somehow. But it wasn’t my mother’s fault. It’s the men. I admit I can’t explain exactly how these men killed my sisters, but they did.”

Yesterday I’d told him that no one believes women and that everyone prefers to think we’re crazy; now he was doing that exact thing to me without apparently seeing the irony.

“But you know what happened to my sisters.” I needed her to confirm it. “I certainly do, and don’t trouble yourself too much. My mother always said doctors don’t know much about the lives of women.”

I’d never made much space for men in my life, but they’re useful to have around when heavy lifting is required.

He often says this, assuming I find comfort in the protection inherent in his maleness. I’ve never had the heart to tell him that men have never been the ones to protect me.

When I’d run away, I thought New Mexico was my destination, but it had been her. I’d finally found my place.