Free The Devil on Her Tongue by Linda Holeman

“I’m sorry about your father,” I said.
    He made a sound in his throat. “Are you really?”
    I swallowed.
    “I’m not. I should have …” He stopped, and lifted his hand to push his hair from his forehead, and I saw that all his knuckles were bruised and scabbed. I had a vision of Abílio refusing to take any more of his father’s beatings.
    “You should have what?” I asked. No. He couldn’t have killed him, no matter what misery his father had brought upon him.
    “He should have died a long time ago,” Abílio said. “And I should have left a long time ago, like my brothers. But I couldn’t leave my mother.” He stood, and his jaw clenched. “Not that it did any good. I wasn’t able to help her.” He turned from me. “I’m notlike him, Diamantina. And I’m not like my brothers, willing to take whatever work they can just to feed themselves.”
    “Where are your brothers?”
    He shrugged. “I don’t know. We never heard from them after they left.”
    “So they don’t even know your mother died.” I felt a sudden shiver, imagining someone you loved dying, while all the while you thought them alive and well.
    “Do you believe that I’m not like them, Diamantina?” he asked.
    “I always thought you were like your mother,” I said with sincerity.
    “I learned to read, and will do more than work with my hands all my life. I’m not going to live the way my father did.” His voice was hard, angry. “I hated him.”
    Coughing and throat clearing came through the open door of the hut, then the sounds of spitting. Abílio frowned. “My uncle Rodrigo. He’s staying a few more days, and then he’ll go back to Madeira.”
    I didn’t know what else to say. I turned to leave.
    “I’ve heard you’re cleaning the church now,” Abílio said, and I looked back at him. “It must be hard for you to dress that way. You almost look like the other girls of Vila Baleira. Almost.” He still had that strange, rough tone, which maybe was grief, masquerading as anger.
    I ran my hands down my skirt.
    “You like being paid to go to your knees to clean the church you’re not allowed to attend?”
    My cheeks were hot. “It’s a way for us to eat, Abílio.”
    “I saw you, filing into the graveyard at the end of the procession. Will you always accept that you stand behind everyone else on Porto Santo? That you’re considered of little significance? Do you like it? Why don’t you have Father da Chagos baptize you and be done with being treated like an outsider in the community?”
    His uncle came to the open door to lean against the frame, watching us as he dug in one ear with a piece of wet flannel.
    “I don’t believe a few words uttered by Father da Chagos will change anything for me. And I don’t care. I am who I am,” I said, and turned and left.
    “Diamantina,” Abílio called after me. “I’m sorry.”

    That was the last time I saw Abílio for the next few months. His fishing boat remained on the beach, and the door and windows of the hut were tightly closed. I heard in town that he had gone to Madeira with his uncle. I wanted to ask if he was coming back, but didn’t want anyone to know I was interested.
    As drought had ruined our summer, now the rainy season, usually the most temperate time of year, abundant with plant and animal life, was worse than usual. Day after day clouds blew in from the ocean, catching on the cliffs above the beach, opening to rain down torrents, and the world took on a sodden and dark heaviness.
    My mother and I awoke shivering many mornings, our blankets smelling musty. Mildew grew on every surface, and the driftwood was perpetually damp. I couldn’t start a fire to cook or to dry out the hut. Within a few short weeks I feared that all our belongings would be ruined, including my beloved collection of foxed, warped books and passage charts.
    Our roof started to leak. When the weather was the most arid, cracks opened in the clay, letting in air. In the