For nearly a minute, there was nothing—only the sound of Anne’s breathing.
And then it came again, three sharp raps against the door, the sound echoing throughout the wooden house.
“Anne? Anne, I know you are in there. Answer the door, Anne.”
Anne stopped breathing entirely. She recognized the voice.
It was Veronica Thomas.
“Mom?” Terry asked in a small voice. Anne sucked in a fresh breath, her lungs burning as they re-inflated. Now, in addition to her gulps of air, she could also hear her heart pounding away in her ears.
“You ‘kay?” Terry whispered. Her bright blue eyes, so full of joy and humor but a few minutes ago, were now filled with fear. “Mom?”
Anne couldn’t respond, couldn’t even move. It was as if she were back in the swamp behind the Thomases’ garden again, but now when she tried to raise her feet, she couldn’t. The mud was unrelenting, wet black fingers holding her heel to the warm muck.
“Anne?”
Another glance at Terry’s face and Anne snapped out of her frozen state.
“Coming!” she croaked. And then she made hand gestures to Terry, indicating for her to hurry, to finish the last of the tomato. The girl obliged, swallowing what remained in one bite. “Now go to your room, okay, sweetie? Just play with your imaginary friends again, or play with one of the wooden scarecrows, if you want.”
The girl still looked frightened, but she pushed back from the table nonetheless. Before she left the kitchen, she held up her plate, which was smeared with the remnants of the tomato.
“Sink, Mommy?”
Anne shook her head and hurried over to the table, taking it from her.
“Just go to your room, Terry.”
She patted the girl’s head to reassure her that everything was going to be okay, but it was a forced gesture, her hand moving robotically. Unlike the day prior on the lawn, she didn’t think that having Terry present inside the house when Veronica confronted her would be a good idea.
“Anne?” Veronica asked again from behind the closed door.
“Coming! One second!”
Anne hurried to the basin and dipped the plate in the stagnant water that she had pulled from the well a few days ago. The water was dirty, and the tomato seeds seemed to float to the top for a second. In her mind, they were the most obvious things in the world, and she knew that if Veronica even so much as glanced in the general direction of the sink, she would know.
That is, if she didn’t know already.
With a pale finger, Anne swirled the basin, trying desperately to make the seeds sink to the bottom. Then she finally went to the door.
A deep breath, remembering that her daughter was here and that whatever happened she would have to protect her, and then Anne made her entire face go slack. She used the finger that she had swirled the water in the basin to put a few drops of the dirty liquid on her forehead. Then she pulled the door open a few inches.
A dark hazel eye stared back at her.
“Veronica?” Anne said, intentionally making her voice crack.
“Anne,” the woman responded. Her lips were a tight line on her face—not a good sign. “Can I come in?”
Anne braced the door with her shoulder.
“Oh, no. I think I’m coming down with something, I—I wouldn’t want you to catch it,” she replied. Anne followed this up with a small cough into her curled hand.
Too far; don’t be fake.
“That’s alright, I’ll only be a minute.”
Veronica put a hand on the door and gently applied pressure to it. Anne resisted.
“No, really, Veronica. I wouldn’t want you to catch this.”
There was a moment of silence.
Go home, please, just go home.
But Veronica had other ideas. The woman’s shoulders relaxed.
“Anne, please, I have to ask you something—you wouldn’t want me to come back with Ken, would you?”
An image came to mind of the last time she had seen the man, his hairy barrel chest glistening in the hot sun, his face red with the ‘shine. He had snickered at her then, and she even thought that he had thrust his britches in her direction.
She hadn’t liked the way that he had looked at her, especially with Teresa at her side.
“Didn’t think so,” Veronica said, and this time when she pushed the door, Anne stepped out of the way.
Chapter 4
“Is Teresa napping?” Veronica asked as she took Anne’s seat at the head of the table.
“Yes,” Anne lied, hoping that her daughter was busy with her imaginary friends and didn’t overhear them. It wouldn’t go over well if she came roaring out of her room and proved Anne a liar.
If there were two things that the citizens of the swamp despised, it was liars and thieves.
And witches, of course, but everyone hated witches.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I am feeling rather ill. Is there something that I can help you with, Veronica?”
The woman pressed her lips together again and crossed her legs.
“Well,” Veronica began, making a duck face. “When I have company, I usually offer something to drink. Tea, perhaps?”
“Yes, of course,” Anne said quickly, turning to the stunted lantern beside the basin that contained the tomato seeds. She made her way towards it, trying not to draw Veronica’s gaze.
Despite her best efforts, Anne couldn’t help it and looked in anyway, hoping that the seeds were gone. It took all of her effort to suppress a sigh when she saw only a murky gray.
Better than seeds, but it was probably best if Veronica didn’t see the dirty water, either.
Anne lit a match and set fire to the small tin of kerosene. It ignited immediately, and she took an involuntary step backward. After what had happened to her husband, she didn’t much care for fire. Her eyes darting around the room, she found the container with less than a liter of well water left in it. She had meant to use it to soak some of Teresa’s more soiled clothing—specifically the clothes that she had dirtied while Anne had been on the porch swing dreading this exact moment—but Veronica Thomas was perhaps the most influential woman in the swamp. She and her husband Ken were of good stock, their families having been in Stumphole for more years than even the town historian—a tiny fellow by the name of Randall Mason—could recount.
If the woman wanted tea, she would be served tea.
Anne swallowed hard, her mind racing as she filled the metal kettle with the last of her water. It would mean another long hike to get more, but that was okay. If she went on the hike, it would mean that Veronica didn’t know that it was her who had stolen the produce.
“I only have Earl Gray,” she said, her back still to Veronica. “Is that okay?”
“Well, if that’s the only thing you have, I suppose that it has to be okay, doesn’t it?”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Anne stammered. “I just don’t have much anymore. After Wallace—”
“Earl Gray is fine,” Veronica interrupted. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
Anne froze again.
“Someone was in my garden the other night, Anne. They stole my vegetables.”
For the second time that day, Anne had a hard time breathing. Her mind flicked to the other night, when she had seen first the match in the window, then the light.
And then the eyes; Veronica’s eyes.
Is this a trick? Did she see me, and now she’s testing me?
Anne was at a loss of what to say or do.
Deny? Run? What?
Thankfully, Veronica spoke again, clearing some of the air.
“I know, I was shocked too. I thought I saw someone leaving with a bag full of vegetables, but I couldn’t tell who it was. Bastard stole a lot of food.”
Anne allowed herself another breath—just a small one.
“That’s—”
The kettle whistled and Anne jumped.
“You okay?”
Anne
took the kettle off the flame and then blew it out.
“Fine,” she said. “Just a little sensitive to noise, what with this illness and all. I’m sure it’s nothing, though.”
Veronica grunted.
“Anyway, I was just coming by to all the houses to let people know that there is a thief out there somewhere, stealing vegetables. And you know with the abnormally hot weather, the crops haven’t been growing that well this year.”
Anne pictured the massive tomatoes, the dark green cucumbers, pumpkins so large that they sunk into the mud.
Well, if there was any consolation to be gleaned from this conversation, it was that Anne wasn’t the only liar in the swamp.
“I know you don’t have any vegetables of your own, but I thought I would come by and let you know as well. Just in case... in case someone steals your—steals your...”
Anne didn’t let the silence become uncomfortable.
“Oh, I understand.” Anne took out the tea and filled the mesh basket. As she poured the hot water over the leaves, she added, “Thank you for coming by, and I’m sorry about your vegetables. Hopefully you have enough for the season.”
Anne turned to the table with the steeping teapot in her hand, and was taken by surprise when she saw that Veronica’s dark brown eyes were staring directly at her. The woman’s gaze was so powerful that she nearly stumbled.
“Oh, we’ll have enough. Always do,” she said. “And just in case someone comes by, tries to sell or trade you some vegetables, you’d be best served to decline and let me know right away. You understand, don’t you?”
Anne nodded as she came back to the table.
“Of course.”
She was about to place the teapot down when she noticed the squirt of dried tomato juice and seeds that had erupted from Teresa’s mouth when she had bitten into the tomato.
Had Veronica seen that? Was this all some sort of game? Does she know it was me?
There was no way of knowing. Just in case, Anne put the teapot directly on top of the smear, covering almost all of it. A quick glance revealed that Veronica had taken no interest in the pot; instead, she was still staring at Anne.
Looking for any reason to break the uncomfortable stare, Anne swiveled on her heels, intending to retrieve two mugs from the counter. Except she spun too quickly and her knees buckled, sending her awkwardly to the floor. The rough wood scraped her right knee, and Anne bit her lip to avoid calling out.
“Oh, Anne,” Veronica said, as she pulled herself to her feet. “You always were so clumsy.”
“Yeah,” Anne grumbled as she hobbled to the counter and grabbed the mugs.
Oh, Veronica, you’ve always been such a bitch.
Forcing a pained smile, Anne brought the two mugs over and was about to sit, when Veronica raised a hand.
“The milk?”
Again, Anne’s heart sank. She hadn’t had any cow’s milk in weeks. She was about to say as much, bookended with apologies, when Veronica spoke again.
“I can’t possibly have tea without milk. Be a dear and fetch me some.
Anne swallowed hard, her mind racing. Even though she her illness had been a ruse, real sweat started to form on her forehead.
“Oh, yes,” she said dryly.
Think, Anne. Think.
The last thing she wanted to do was upset Veronica Thomas. She could already imagine what the woman would say to the others, about how plain the inside of her house was, how she had embarrassed herself by falling, how she only had Earl Gray tea. Not having milk would definitely ruin Anne’s chances of ever becoming part of that society again.
It hadn’t always been this way, of course. Back when Wallace was still alive, the two of them would occasionally be invited to their dinner parties. Neither of them had a name, but because Wallace had been such a hard worker at the Mill, an exception was made. The parties themselves weren’t to either of their tastes—a little too much gossip, a little too many noses and chins aimed skyward—but they had always had fun.
They’d had fun afterward, too, especially when Wallace traipsed around their house in one of Anne’s slips, imitating the other women.
Anne shook these thoughts away and tried to focus on the task at hand.
She didn’t have any cow’s milk... the only milk she had was—
No, Anne. You can’t serve her that. There’s no way you can serve her that.
“Anne? Milk, please. I need milk. I can’t possibly drink this”—she swirled the mug with a look of disgust on her face—“without milk.”
Anne, her back still to Veronica, hesitated.
Veronica sighed, long and loud.
“Anne, what happened to you? Ever since Wallace passed, you have completely lost your social graces. It’s no wonder the other women won’t have you around for cards anymore.”
Anne’s demeanor suddenly changed; she went from nervous and afraid to seeing red.
How dare she? How dare she even mention Wallace?
So what if she didn’t have any milk? With only one child—a girl, no less—and no husband, her options for making money were minimal bordering on nonexistent. The best she could manage was to trade the small scarecrow figures that she fashioned out of dried vines collected from the swamp. But that was a tiny market, one that was quickly nearing saturation.
It wasn’t her fault that Wallace was dead. In fact, if anyone was to blame, it was Veronica’s husband. Ken Thomas was the one who was supposed to be manning the fire extinguisher, instead of being passed out drunk on the job.
“Anne?”
“Yes, sorry,” she muttered.
Her mind turned to the milk that she had expressed for Teresa and put away in the rare case that she eventually did get sick.
You want milk so badly? Fine, I’ll give you milk.
She went back to the kitchen and opened one of the lower cabinets. It was still cool inside, which was a good sign.
Her milk was probably still good—probably still good.
She brought out the glass bottle. Like the air in the cabinet, it was cool to the touch. Then she turned and made her way back to the table, putting the bottle right next to the cup of tea that Veronica had filled—just her own, Anne noted.
The woman smiled a patronizing smile.
“That’s a good girl. Maybe there is hope to get you back in with the other women yet.”
But she was lying, Anne knew. There was no way she would ever be invited back.
The people of Stumphole hated thieves and witches. But they also hated single mothers. It didn’t matter that Teresa hadn’t been born out of wedlock. She had been labeled a single mother, and with this came a certain connotation, irrespective of the circumstances.
Anne watched as Veronica poured several ounces of milk into her mug of tea. The woman tilted the bottle toward Anne, but she shook her head.
“None for me, thanks.”
“Suit yourself,” Veronica said, and then took blew on the warm liquid. Satisfied that it wouldn’t burn her, she lowered her thin lips to the mug and took a sip.
“I hope it’s to your taste,” Anne added, no longer putting on a fake sick voice.
Veronica swallowed.
“Not bad, actually. Not bad at all... maybe there is hope for you yet, Anne LaForet.”
Chapter 5
The food didn’t last for nearly as long as Anne would have hoped. Part of it was that her rationing skills weren’t as good as she had thought—mainly because she and Teresa had gone for so long without food—real food, and not just dry oats—that she was unable to contain herself.
Two and a half weeks.
After two and a half weeks, they were left with half of a cucumber that had gotten soft on one side, and, of course, their dreaded oats.
Like the produce, their emotions are equally as fleeting.
Those two and a half weeks had been some of the best that Anne could remember, rivaling even when Wallace had been alive. She had heard somewhere that distance made the heart g
row fonder, but she was now realizing that hunger made everything fonder. But when the food was gone, Teresa went from rosy cheeks and smiling to pale and grumpy.
Anne didn’t blame her.
In the end, as they went another week without any fruits or vegetables, their recent gorging only served to remind them of what they were missing. They had gone so long without before she had stolen the produce that they had become accustomed to eating the bland oats and whatever bitter berries she could scavenge.
After all, you can’t miss what you can’t remember, right?
Part of her wished she had never wandered out that night to the Thomases’ when Teresa had been asleep. Part of her wished that she had taken more. And another part still wished she had wrangled Veronica’s long, pale neck when she had had the gall to sit at her table, in her seat, and comment about her social graces.
Anne LaForet sighed, and picked up the basin of water. It was dirty again, so dirty that it was nearly black. Dumping it meant that she would have to hike to get more, today, in the heat, but she had no choice. Everything she tried to wash just came out dirtier than when it went in.
“Terry, I’m just going to dump out the water, okay?”
Teresa was sitting in the middle of the floor, staring at the wall.
It pained Anne to see her this way, and even though the girl was only three, part of her knew that she was doing it on purpose.
“Why don’t you play with the scarecrows?” she asked, indicating the twig figurines that were piled on the small end table in the corner of the room. Trading the figurines had become a near impossible task, and it seemed that she was making them more to pass the time than for the dwindling prospect of actually turning them over. To Anne, what had once looked like cute, natural ornaments had become a painful reminder of what they went without. To her, they looked like a pile of twisted, gnarled driftwood.
Anne was careful not to light the lantern anywhere near the stack of them; they would go up in seconds, she knew. And without their house?
A shudder racked Anne, and it was all she could do not to spill the water from the basin on the floor.
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