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.

My own thoughts were dark. I thought of Ophelia as painted by Millais. Calla floating faceup in a river, her dark green dress with the pale green netting, the moon-kissed pallor. But no, that was too romantic. Painters imagined the deaths of young women as beautiful, but I knew otherwise.

I was only twenty years old, but I’d known for years how little it took for a woman to shock a man.

I screamed loudly for as long as I could, letting the awful sound scrape my throat and strain my muscles. It was a scream worthy of my mother, of my sisters in their final moments. It was the scream of the Chapel women.

I knew the relationship she’d had with Daphne was forbidden, but it hadn’t occurred to me that most women like Veronica married eventually. Daphne wouldn’t have, but Veronica, I could see, was different. She was more willing to wear a mask.

“Women aren’t always believed.” “That’s true.” “It’s easier to say that women like my mother are crazy. Then you don’t have to listen to them. And so maybe in a way she became crazy. Maybe she could communicate only by screaming.”