Copperfield (version 1 - small titles)
By Kelli Dianne Rule
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025
Arcadia, Florida, 1975
Part I: Them
Ethel Kelly Copperfield was letting herself go. We all thought so.
It was subtle at first and remained so for a while but anyone who knew her even a little bit could easy tell. Her skin was the first to betray her - the usual well-scrubbed sheen had gone dull and pasty. Then one day there was no more color in her cheeks. Like a rose that done seen a ghost, she went all white. The white spread next to her hair. First just the wispy parts at her temples, then all of it. And due to it being the same color as her skin, it kindly widened out her face. Made it look like her head was growing wings.
She wasn’t any older than any of us. She’d just stopped trying to color it. Only a handful of years ago it was naturally this wholly uncommon red-brown that glowed like coals in the sun. When it started going sandy she’d try and paint it back to what it used to be but you can’t bottle a redhead. It never looked quite right and after all those years of being able to tell people her color was natural I imagine it hurt her pride to have to start saying it wasn’t when she was asked. Which they always did. People want to know everything about what’s different.
You might say all that happened is that she learned to embrace the fact of aging, that it’s a good and honest thing, but that’s because you don’t know her like we do. Her clothes had changed as well. She used to wear the most beautiful dresses on Sundays and her clothes always had flowers on them. So much so that little kids in the neighborhood took to calling her Auntie Flower. She wore all black now and those same kids called her Auntie Witch.
I wondered where she got all those black clothes all of the sudden because she stopped going to Alice’s little boutique. There weren’t any other stores for ladies in town and she didn’t have a car to get to none in the city. One day though, I got close enough to her to see a faint pattern of little daisies trying to hide underneath the black. That’s when I realized she had gone and dyed her clothes. All those pretty things.
When I got close that day I noticed she smelled different. It was a sour smell, something I don’t recall ever smelling on a human body before directly. The best thing I can relate it to is how Earl’s underwear smells when he comes back from a weekend of hunting. The smell of ropy old sweat that gets clogged all up in those hairy pores before pushing out like syrup to settle in its white cotton hammock. On Ethel it wasn’t as strong, it was subtle like perfume, but I promise that’s what it smelled like and that was when I realized she must have quit bathing.
She dead stopped going to church. Usually when people stop going they have sense to taper. They’ll miss one week and then go back for three, then miss one and go back for two, then you never see them again. You can sort of slip out that way without getting the pastor in a tizzy. You do not want a phone call from that man. I wondered if he tried to call Ethel and I suspect he had. I wondered what she said or if she even answered the phone.
Yes, in fact the only time I or anyone else did see her was at the grocer’s. Ironically, that used to be the place we never much saw her at all because she had had a nice garden and was always outside tending it. It was so generous that she always had more than she could eat or can so she made a habit of bringing totes around to the neighbors. Squash, peas, potatoes, corn, you name it. Miss Martha Jean passed it by last week and said it was all overgrown and the squash looked bad and the tomatoes had fallen.
It was there at the grocer’s that I got the nerve to get close to her, her smell, and her black daisies. She was bagging some carrots. I rolled my cart up next to hers and pretended to want carrots myself.
“Why, hello Miss Ethel,” I said, and she said nothing in reply. I waited a few seconds because she was making me nervous and then I said, “What a coincidence, I was just about to get some carrots myself. Planning a cake for when Earl and the boys get back. Carrot’s his favorite as you may recall. Say Miss Ethel, we were all wondering when we might see you at a service? You haven’t been in a long while. We were all saying, we miss those times we used to visit with you afterwards for coffee and bridge…”
She still wasn’t saying anything and she had quit with the carrots but she wasn’t moving and that made me even more nervous, and when I was nervous I had a bad habit of not being able to keep my mouth shut. So I kept going.
“And we’ve been noticing you got a new style there. All the black. It sure is interesting, tell me, where’d you get the idea to start dressing like that? It must be all the rage somewhere outside of town, am I right? I only think so because you’ve always been so fashion-forward. I recall when you convinced Miss Alice to start carrying those dresses with the shiny fabric and it ended up she couldn’t keep them on the rack to save her life. I have to say we do miss your flower prints. Those were kindly your signature. I think the one I liked the best was that dress with the bluebells. You always wore it with that wide blue belt with the rhinestone buckle and we were always jealous of how it made you look so thin. You’re still thin, of course, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
She still wasn’t talking. And I didn’t notice until I finally did shut it, but she wasn’t even looking at me. She was looking down at her hands and they were in a tight grip around the bag of carrots.
“Well, we just miss you is all.”
I said that a little quietly and surprised myself by putting a hand on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen up underneath it so I took it off but not before I said, “Ethel Kelly, if you want to talk about something--”
And that was when she let go the carrots. She tossed them in her cart and pushed herself on by me. I saw her go right to the checkout line with nothing but those carrots and I felt bad for interrupting her shopping. I imagined her eating just those carrots for dinner and I felt even worse.
It was subtle at first and remained so for a while but anyone who knew her even a little bit could easy tell. Her skin was the first to betray her - the usual well-scrubbed sheen had gone dull and pasty. Then one day there was no more color in her cheeks. Like a rose that done seen a ghost, she went all white. The white spread next to her hair. First just the wispy parts at her temples, then all of it. And due to it being the same color as her skin, it kindly widened out her face. Made it look like her head was growing wings.
She wasn’t any older than any of us. She’d just stopped trying to color it. Only a handful of years ago it was naturally this wholly uncommon red-brown that glowed like coals in the sun. When it started going sandy she’d try and paint it back to what it used to be but you can’t bottle a redhead. It never looked quite right and after all those years of being able to tell people her color was natural I imagine it hurt her pride to have to start saying it wasn’t when she was asked. Which they always did. People want to know everything about what’s different.
You might say all that happened is that she learned to embrace the fact of aging, that it’s a good and honest thing, but that’s because you don’t know her like we do. Her clothes had changed as well. She used to wear the most beautiful dresses on Sundays and her clothes always had flowers on them. So much so that little kids in the neighborhood took to calling her Auntie Flower. She wore all black now and those same kids called her Auntie Witch.
I wondered where she got all those black clothes all of the sudden because she stopped going to Alice’s little boutique. There weren’t any other stores for ladies in town and she didn’t have a car to get to none in the city. One day though, I got close enough to her to see a faint pattern of little daisies trying to hide underneath the black. That’s when I realized she had gone and dyed her clothes. All those pretty things.
When I got close that day I noticed she smelled different. It was a sour smell, something I don’t recall ever smelling on a human body before directly. The best thing I can relate it to is how Earl’s underwear smells when he comes back from a weekend of hunting. The smell of ropy old sweat that gets clogged all up in those hairy pores before pushing out like syrup to settle in its white cotton hammock. On Ethel it wasn’t as strong, it was subtle like perfume, but I promise that’s what it smelled like and that was when I realized she must have quit bathing.
She dead stopped going to church. Usually when people stop going they have sense to taper. They’ll miss one week and then go back for three, then miss one and go back for two, then you never see them again. You can sort of slip out that way without getting the pastor in a tizzy. You do not want a phone call from that man. I wondered if he tried to call Ethel and I suspect he had. I wondered what she said or if she even answered the phone.
Yes, in fact the only time I or anyone else did see her was at the grocer’s. Ironically, that used to be the place we never much saw her at all because she had had a nice garden and was always outside tending it. It was so generous that she always had more than she could eat or can so she made a habit of bringing totes around to the neighbors. Squash, peas, potatoes, corn, you name it. Miss Martha Jean passed it by last week and said it was all overgrown and the squash looked bad and the tomatoes had fallen.
It was there at the grocer’s that I got the nerve to get close to her, her smell, and her black daisies. She was bagging some carrots. I rolled my cart up next to hers and pretended to want carrots myself.
“Why, hello Miss Ethel,” I said, and she said nothing in reply. I waited a few seconds because she was making me nervous and then I said, “What a coincidence, I was just about to get some carrots myself. Planning a cake for when Earl and the boys get back. Carrot’s his favorite as you may recall. Say Miss Ethel, we were all wondering when we might see you at a service? You haven’t been in a long while. We were all saying, we miss those times we used to visit with you afterwards for coffee and bridge…”
She still wasn’t saying anything and she had quit with the carrots but she wasn’t moving and that made me even more nervous, and when I was nervous I had a bad habit of not being able to keep my mouth shut. So I kept going.
“And we’ve been noticing you got a new style there. All the black. It sure is interesting, tell me, where’d you get the idea to start dressing like that? It must be all the rage somewhere outside of town, am I right? I only think so because you’ve always been so fashion-forward. I recall when you convinced Miss Alice to start carrying those dresses with the shiny fabric and it ended up she couldn’t keep them on the rack to save her life. I have to say we do miss your flower prints. Those were kindly your signature. I think the one I liked the best was that dress with the bluebells. You always wore it with that wide blue belt with the rhinestone buckle and we were always jealous of how it made you look so thin. You’re still thin, of course, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
She still wasn’t talking. And I didn’t notice until I finally did shut it, but she wasn’t even looking at me. She was looking down at her hands and they were in a tight grip around the bag of carrots.
“Well, we just miss you is all.”
I said that a little quietly and surprised myself by putting a hand on her shoulder. I felt her stiffen up underneath it so I took it off but not before I said, “Ethel Kelly, if you want to talk about something--”
And that was when she let go the carrots. She tossed them in her cart and pushed herself on by me. I saw her go right to the checkout line with nothing but those carrots and I felt bad for interrupting her shopping. I imagined her eating just those carrots for dinner and I felt even worse.
Part II: Ethel
I got right the hell out of there.
I never had the stomach for people being in my business and my whole digestive system went when folks touched me without my consent. Her putting her hand on me was like someone taking a feather duster to clean up a hundred year-old abandoned plantation house. Ill-conceived and ineffective. And now my cooking plans were ruined. Saturdays was when I made my stew for the week. Well, I guess this week I’m having carrot stew. Maybe some of the tomatoes are salvageable, I’d have to check.
I hated this town and I’ve always hated it. No one knew that because I didn’t think I could get away with showing it but something just snapped in me one day and I realized I had no heart to give anymore as far as keeping up appearances was concerned. The black clothes were a happy accident. I was dyeing some faded socks and forgot I had thrown a couple of my flower shirts in the washer a few days before and when they came up black I realized I liked how they looked. So I went and bought a case of dye and set about dumping my whole closet in it. Anything that didn’t take the dye--mostly my nice things - I threw out. I could have given them to the church closet but everyone in town would know they were mine and I didn’t need that kind of attention.
Later on the city shut off my water for missing a few bills. The old house still had a well but it hadn’t been rigged up in a while. I figured it out but the water only came out in a trickle and I had to boil it before I could use it so I mostly gave up on washing myself. I guess I could have settled my bill with the city and got it turned back on but after only a few days I learned not to miss it. Better things to spend money on than things you stop missing.
I knew I smelled. But it was such a curious scent and I grew to like it. Every day it became more dense, more pungent, like my roses used to during the time they unfolded until just after the height of their bloom. It alarmed me. I didn’t know a human body could smell like that. At a certain point though, once about every four weeks, it got so bad that I couldn’t stand it and that’s when I filled a little bucket and gave my hairy parts a wash with a bar of lye.
I stopped washing my hair altogether except when it rained. When the drops came down hard I went out behind the greenhouse, took off my clothes, scrubbed my hair with that same bar of lye and let the rain wash it down. The first time I stood naked in the rain, that was when I made peace with my decision to quit church. The rain washed my feet. Jesus never did. It was sunny and I saw a rainbow and I thought that’s God enough for me.
I didn’t have to go out to check the tomatoes. I could see through the window that they weren’t any good. They had all dropped off and withered and that meant the bugs had got to them. I chopped the carrots and brought the stock to boil and threw them in with a little salt and a few sprigs of rosemary. It didn’t look like a fun meal but I wouldn’t go hungry from it. And there was a certain satisfaction in eating this paltry food and thinking I had no choice but to eat it and that it was all that dizzy busybody’s fault. I had come to find a certain satisfaction in being spiteful even though I knew I was hurting no one with it but myself. Indulging spite is like a tongue bothering a mouth sore. It makes that raw pain linger but you just can’t help it.
There was one person in town--or who used to be--that I did like. I was walking into the grocer’s one day and I heard a squeaky little voice calling, “Hey Miss Ethel! Wait up! I like those clothes!”
That got my attention so I turned around and saw little Melody. I had known of her when she was small, when her family lived closer to me, but I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I thought she must be about fourteen now. I remember her being a homely kid and to tell you the truth she wasn’t objectively any prettier now all grown, but she had a spark to her, something that came naturally from the inside, and she was smiling at me real big. I decided maybe she was just a different kind of pretty. Her friendliness was eager and genuine, and that actually made me feel a little happy and more importantly comfortable, and I think that went a long way as far as my perception of her beauty went.
“Hang on, don’t go nowhere, Miss Ethel,” she said. I saw her jog to her daddy’s work truck. I decided to walk over myself and save her the jog back. She brought out a magazine and flipped until she came to a page with a black and white picture of a young lady in front of a microphone. She had long wavy hair that looked white in the photo and was wearing what I assumed were black clothes that hung on her just as wavy.
“Look at this,” Melody said. “You look just like Stevie Nicks in them clothes and she’s my number one favorite. Is that who you’re trying to look like? ‘Cause if so I’d have to give you a big ol’ gold star.”
I didn’t know who this lady singer was but Melody looked so pleased with herself for making the association and so admiring of me for being dressed up like her idol so I said, “You know what, you’re right Miss Melody. I do indeed look like your Stevie. How about that.”
“Here, you can have this,” she said, and she gave it to me and I took it. There were a few more pictures of this Stevie on the next couple of pages. Color ones. I could see now that her hair wasn’t white like mine. Her clothes though were definitely black. I don’t know how to exactly describe my feelings as I looked at the pictures but I can say I did feel something like a kinship with this lady singer that stirred something deep in my heart. Especially in one picture where she was looking right into the camera with eyes that looked drowsy and sad. She did appear burdened, but I also thought she looked magical. Like she really might have honest-to-God magic powers.
I could hardly believe myself but I asked Melody if she might want to come over sometime and play me some of this Stevie’s music. Her smile didn’t leave but it went a little cock-eyed and she said, “That sounds just lovely and I would, Miss Ethel, but I cain’t. I’ll tell you why but you have to please promise you won’t say anything…”
I promised.
“I figured out a ride into the city with one of Mr. Al’s watermelon truckers and once I get there I’m gonna start hitchin’ myself west until I get to California. Miss Ethel, please don’t say anything to anyone, not ever. They’ll come lookin’ for me and I don’t never want to be found. Not by no one. I decided it. I wasn’t gonna tell no one at all but everyone says you don’t talk with no one no more and, well, I guess I’m too excited to keep it to myself. And when I saw you here lookin’ like Stevie I thought it might be some kind of sign that I should tell you. I know that sounds corny but I do believe in things like signs and such. Promise me again, now that you’ve heard it.”
So that was that. I knew what it was like to be determined beyond all sense. I myself had fantasized about running away, about getting myself lost and never found. I made my promise again and watched her go. I never saw her again and I never told anyone what she said she was fixing to do, even when I saw her red-eyed momma hanging the missing posters.
One night when I was feeling lonely I got the idea to tear out the full-page picture of Stevie and put it in a frame on my supper table because that’s where I figured I’d get to spend the most time with it. I wasn’t about to show my old face at any record store so I imagined in my head what her singing might have sounded like. First I thought, because of her clothes, maybe she sounded a little cackly like a witch in a bog. Or at the very least a little rough around the edges. Then I remembered the picture with her eyes and got a sense her voice might instead be soft and dreamy. I tried my hand at singing in all the different ways I thought she might. I only really knew the lyrics to church songs by heart so that’s what I sang. I heard my voice crack when I went loud and I heard it disappear like clouds in the wind when I went soft.
Just as I am - without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee
O Lamb of God, I come.
Just as I am - and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot
To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot
O Lamb of God, I come.
Every night during supper I sang different songs in different voices until what was left of my stew congealed in the bottom of the bowl. I didn’t think about Melody at all until a couple of months later when the whole town started talking about how the police found her body in Texas.
It was troubling to think about how a person could be lost and found at the same time.
I never had the stomach for people being in my business and my whole digestive system went when folks touched me without my consent. Her putting her hand on me was like someone taking a feather duster to clean up a hundred year-old abandoned plantation house. Ill-conceived and ineffective. And now my cooking plans were ruined. Saturdays was when I made my stew for the week. Well, I guess this week I’m having carrot stew. Maybe some of the tomatoes are salvageable, I’d have to check.
I hated this town and I’ve always hated it. No one knew that because I didn’t think I could get away with showing it but something just snapped in me one day and I realized I had no heart to give anymore as far as keeping up appearances was concerned. The black clothes were a happy accident. I was dyeing some faded socks and forgot I had thrown a couple of my flower shirts in the washer a few days before and when they came up black I realized I liked how they looked. So I went and bought a case of dye and set about dumping my whole closet in it. Anything that didn’t take the dye--mostly my nice things - I threw out. I could have given them to the church closet but everyone in town would know they were mine and I didn’t need that kind of attention.
Later on the city shut off my water for missing a few bills. The old house still had a well but it hadn’t been rigged up in a while. I figured it out but the water only came out in a trickle and I had to boil it before I could use it so I mostly gave up on washing myself. I guess I could have settled my bill with the city and got it turned back on but after only a few days I learned not to miss it. Better things to spend money on than things you stop missing.
I knew I smelled. But it was such a curious scent and I grew to like it. Every day it became more dense, more pungent, like my roses used to during the time they unfolded until just after the height of their bloom. It alarmed me. I didn’t know a human body could smell like that. At a certain point though, once about every four weeks, it got so bad that I couldn’t stand it and that’s when I filled a little bucket and gave my hairy parts a wash with a bar of lye.
I stopped washing my hair altogether except when it rained. When the drops came down hard I went out behind the greenhouse, took off my clothes, scrubbed my hair with that same bar of lye and let the rain wash it down. The first time I stood naked in the rain, that was when I made peace with my decision to quit church. The rain washed my feet. Jesus never did. It was sunny and I saw a rainbow and I thought that’s God enough for me.
I didn’t have to go out to check the tomatoes. I could see through the window that they weren’t any good. They had all dropped off and withered and that meant the bugs had got to them. I chopped the carrots and brought the stock to boil and threw them in with a little salt and a few sprigs of rosemary. It didn’t look like a fun meal but I wouldn’t go hungry from it. And there was a certain satisfaction in eating this paltry food and thinking I had no choice but to eat it and that it was all that dizzy busybody’s fault. I had come to find a certain satisfaction in being spiteful even though I knew I was hurting no one with it but myself. Indulging spite is like a tongue bothering a mouth sore. It makes that raw pain linger but you just can’t help it.
There was one person in town--or who used to be--that I did like. I was walking into the grocer’s one day and I heard a squeaky little voice calling, “Hey Miss Ethel! Wait up! I like those clothes!”
That got my attention so I turned around and saw little Melody. I had known of her when she was small, when her family lived closer to me, but I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I thought she must be about fourteen now. I remember her being a homely kid and to tell you the truth she wasn’t objectively any prettier now all grown, but she had a spark to her, something that came naturally from the inside, and she was smiling at me real big. I decided maybe she was just a different kind of pretty. Her friendliness was eager and genuine, and that actually made me feel a little happy and more importantly comfortable, and I think that went a long way as far as my perception of her beauty went.
“Hang on, don’t go nowhere, Miss Ethel,” she said. I saw her jog to her daddy’s work truck. I decided to walk over myself and save her the jog back. She brought out a magazine and flipped until she came to a page with a black and white picture of a young lady in front of a microphone. She had long wavy hair that looked white in the photo and was wearing what I assumed were black clothes that hung on her just as wavy.
“Look at this,” Melody said. “You look just like Stevie Nicks in them clothes and she’s my number one favorite. Is that who you’re trying to look like? ‘Cause if so I’d have to give you a big ol’ gold star.”
I didn’t know who this lady singer was but Melody looked so pleased with herself for making the association and so admiring of me for being dressed up like her idol so I said, “You know what, you’re right Miss Melody. I do indeed look like your Stevie. How about that.”
“Here, you can have this,” she said, and she gave it to me and I took it. There were a few more pictures of this Stevie on the next couple of pages. Color ones. I could see now that her hair wasn’t white like mine. Her clothes though were definitely black. I don’t know how to exactly describe my feelings as I looked at the pictures but I can say I did feel something like a kinship with this lady singer that stirred something deep in my heart. Especially in one picture where she was looking right into the camera with eyes that looked drowsy and sad. She did appear burdened, but I also thought she looked magical. Like she really might have honest-to-God magic powers.
I could hardly believe myself but I asked Melody if she might want to come over sometime and play me some of this Stevie’s music. Her smile didn’t leave but it went a little cock-eyed and she said, “That sounds just lovely and I would, Miss Ethel, but I cain’t. I’ll tell you why but you have to please promise you won’t say anything…”
I promised.
“I figured out a ride into the city with one of Mr. Al’s watermelon truckers and once I get there I’m gonna start hitchin’ myself west until I get to California. Miss Ethel, please don’t say anything to anyone, not ever. They’ll come lookin’ for me and I don’t never want to be found. Not by no one. I decided it. I wasn’t gonna tell no one at all but everyone says you don’t talk with no one no more and, well, I guess I’m too excited to keep it to myself. And when I saw you here lookin’ like Stevie I thought it might be some kind of sign that I should tell you. I know that sounds corny but I do believe in things like signs and such. Promise me again, now that you’ve heard it.”
So that was that. I knew what it was like to be determined beyond all sense. I myself had fantasized about running away, about getting myself lost and never found. I made my promise again and watched her go. I never saw her again and I never told anyone what she said she was fixing to do, even when I saw her red-eyed momma hanging the missing posters.
One night when I was feeling lonely I got the idea to tear out the full-page picture of Stevie and put it in a frame on my supper table because that’s where I figured I’d get to spend the most time with it. I wasn’t about to show my old face at any record store so I imagined in my head what her singing might have sounded like. First I thought, because of her clothes, maybe she sounded a little cackly like a witch in a bog. Or at the very least a little rough around the edges. Then I remembered the picture with her eyes and got a sense her voice might instead be soft and dreamy. I tried my hand at singing in all the different ways I thought she might. I only really knew the lyrics to church songs by heart so that’s what I sang. I heard my voice crack when I went loud and I heard it disappear like clouds in the wind when I went soft.
Just as I am - without one plea,
But that Thy blood was shed for me
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee
O Lamb of God, I come.
Just as I am - and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot
To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot
O Lamb of God, I come.
Every night during supper I sang different songs in different voices until what was left of my stew congealed in the bottom of the bowl. I didn’t think about Melody at all until a couple of months later when the whole town started talking about how the police found her body in Texas.
It was troubling to think about how a person could be lost and found at the same time.
*This piece was first published in JMWW.
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Kelli Dianne Rule is an author of dark fiction who claims roots in the backwoods of Florida. You may find her work in Heavy Feather Review, Whale Road Review, Luna Station Quarterly, and JMWW, and in upcoming publications from Moonday Mag, BULL, Bridge Eight Press and Graveside Press, among others. Her work has been dramatized on Creepy Podcast. Her short story anthology, Florida, Deep and Dark, is currently in the works.
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Author’s Note:
I consider this piece an exploration of solitude. And the perils of going one’s own way. For women in general, but for poor, small-town women in particular. The characters are modeled off of women that existed in the periphery of my small-town rural Florida upbringing, but there’s a lot of myself in Ethel Kelly. I’m unsure she’ll be able to healthily process her regrets. Let alone face them. I’m rooting for her, though.