The Soured Earth

by Sophie Weeks

  “I feel like hell,” he said. “I close my eyes at night, and I can see the slides dancing across my eyelids. Carla's furious, and my family wants to know why I don't just fix it, like I'm God or Louis Pasteur.”

  “I'm pretty sure your family thinks you're both.”

  Christopher shrugged. “Hell, I'm still not allowed to come to the council of elders except by special invitation to update them on the situation. They sit almost every day now, arguing about how we're going to get through this, and don't get me started about the other stuff.”

  But Margaret said, “Other stuff?”

  “I hate it,” Christopher snapped. “When things go wrong, people get irrational. The old people are doing spirit walks, trying to seek out the sickness.”

  “That's not irrational.”

  “It's completely irrational to imagine that you can fix some disease by sitting very still for a few hours. I—” Christopher was perturbed enough that he had trouble getting his words out. “I don't disrespect the ways of my ancestors, but I'll take penicillin over prayers of any kind.”

  “Have they given the cows penicillin?”

  “Sure. Not that any of the cows are responding to antibiotics. I still think it's a prion.”

  “What about the Snyders?”

  “Doing better. They're out of danger now, but they're being kept under observation. The kids too.”

  “Good.” Margaret fixed him with a steady gaze. “Christopher, why is it irrational? You don't have answers to give them.”

  “I may not have the answer, but there is an answer. There's an answer in those cows, in the chickens, in the Snyders and in the organic rot. And I'm going to find it.”

  “I believe you,” Margaret said. “But you needn't despise them.”

  “And you needn't do your stupid white girl impression,” he said irritably.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Carla does it too, keeps trying to get me to be more open to my culture. First it's smallpox, then it's boarding schools, and then you tell me how I should be more respectful of my culture. Talk about adding insult to injury.”

  Margaret wanted to argue with that—after all, she hadn't infected his ancestors or put them in boarding schools. But he did have a point, so she kept her mouth shut. Instead she nudged a box of bear claws toward him apologetically.

  “Thanks,” he said, biting into one. “Sorry. It's just, in Ottawa, everyone I work with has to hear what tribe I'm from. Sometimes my coworkers ask me about their dreams. Do you know how weird that is?”

  “My friends think I'm a cowgirl,” Margaret said. “But yes, that's extremely weird. What do you say to them?”

  “I tell them they need to see a therapist. But I'm supposed to have some kind of deeper wisdom about their bullshit dreams.”

  “What do they dream about?”

  “Nothing interesting. But if they dream about a dog, they want to know does that mean wolf is their spirit animal. No, it means they should get a damn dog and leave me alone.”

  Margaret didn't know what to say to that. Christopher was always prickly about his heritage, but Margaret also understood that he had to be the way he was—had to dress sharply and sound scholarly so that people would take him seriously.

  Finally, he stood up. “I should get back to work,” he said, and he stretched. “How's your family holding up?”

  “Okay, I think. No one's happy about what's going on, but we're managing.”

  “Good.” Christopher hugged her. “I'll call you soon. Thanks for the coffee.”

  When Christopher was gone, Margaret sat down at the kitchen table. She felt a little lonely sometimes when the girls were at school and her father was out working. Perusing social networks was a melancholy pleasure: her friends were out and about, the whole world was busy and happy except for her. She was at home because her father needed her, and though that made her feel proud on good days, on her worst days it became just another piece of duty that she used to whip herself up to the work of the house.

  That morning, with little to do, Margaret began sketching. At first her hands made fanciful creations; she liked to imagine an occasion and then draw exactly the perfect dress for it. Sometimes her occasions were elaborate or improbable: she imagined a dress for a Martian ball and designed gowns for a grand wedding in Prague. But soon her pencil turned to more homely subjects—first, new winter hats for the girls, but soon little cowboys were prancing across the page with unsettlingly familiar grins.

  Margaret put down her pencil and groaned. She was acting like a stupid schoolgirl, not a grown-up. If her father ever found out, he would have a heart attack. Perhaps literally. Then again, she mused, as Jon came stomping in the back door and tracking muddy snow all over the floor, maybe he had it coming. She stood up and threw a towel at him, but instead of taking the hint, he began using the towel to brush more snow off his coat. “Dad!”

  “For the love of God, young lady, do not use that tone with me after I had to look at pictures of every cat Alma Halford has ever owned. It took me an hour to get out of there.” Jon scowled and pulled off his coat.

  “Fine, but I did the floor this morning.” Margaret pointed to his muddy boot tracks.

  “You want to trade?”

  Margaret recollected the time she'd made the mistake of trying to sell Miss Halford Girl Guide cookies and had to hear about Marmalade and Princess Puss for a very, very long afternoon. “No.”

  “Damn right.” Jon poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down to pull off his heavy boots before chucking them at the basket by the door. Catching Margaret's glare, he said, “Well, do I have to get down on my hands and knees to clean it up, ma'am?” with feigned meekness.

  She rolled her eyes, threw the towel at him, and slouched back into her chair while he made a decent effort at pushing the towel around with his foot and smearing the dirt everywhere. “Really, Dad?” she demanded, her anger simmering now. Did he have to be such a stupid baby about basic chores? Even Sam would have done better than that.

  “Fine,” he growled out from between gritted teeth and got down to wipe it up again. The room was heavy with tension as he wiped the floor perfectly clean, then went to put the dirty towel in the hamper. “I'll be in my office when you decide to stop acting like your mother.”

  Margaret tried to count to ten, but at somewhere around five, she lost her temper entirely and stormed into the office after him. “What the hell, Dad? I've been working all morning while Bonne-maman sits up there with her frigging rosary beads, probably worrying herself to death, and now you lay this on me?”

  “It's a working ranch, young lady. Unless you want to start shoveling out stalls, you'll do your part.” Jon's voice was sharp, and he fixed her with an angry glare.

  Margaret had to fight very hard the feeling of being twelve years old again, and the almost atavistic fear she had of her father at times. “I don't even want to be here! I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.”

  “I'm sorry I thought you'd care about your own family!” he shouted. “You want to leave, get the hell out of here!”

  “And go where?” she demanded. “Two miles down the road? In case you haven't noticed, I can't leave.” Her voice was getting ragged with tears now.

  “Then shut the hell up and quit whining.” There was a beat, and then Jon closed his eyes. “Shit. Margaret …”

  But it was too late. She was flying out the door, with barely a pause to grab her coat. Her direction was the barn, but it wasn't Gene's comfort she was seeking. No, only one male knew all her secrets. Margaret slipped inside Whisper's stall, her sharp, sobbing breaths slowing quickly in the quiet warmth there. “He hates me,” she whispered against the horse's neck. “He hates me. He doesn't care about me at all.” The bitter words brought forth bitter tears, and Whisper nuzzled and licked at one of her cheeks for the salt.

  Margaret wasn't sure how long she stood there leaning against the stallion, letting herself be soothed by the animal comfort of
the place, enclosed and safe. She was free from expectations here, nurtured by her connection with Whisper. Here she could simply be.

  Gradually, her thoughts became more rational. Her father was older, and he'd been waited on hand and foot by mother, wife, and sister all his life. That wasn't his fault. Louise prided herself on her clean home and had always been the kind of woman who managed to make it all look effortless. He probably didn't even understand why she was so upset at having her work undone, didn't realize how long it took to redo. As for his hateful words … well, they were all under a lot of stress right now. She couldn't bear the sensation of being trapped here, away from the life she'd made for herself, reduced to a girl instead of a young woman. And she knew the helpless fury her father felt as he struggled to fill the void of his usual workday with anything at all to tamp down the fear that held them all.

  Still, Margaret didn't want to go back into the house, didn't want to see or talk to anyone. Part of her wanted to let them get their own lunch, but mostly she didn't want another argument, so she just went back into the kitchen and began assembling sandwiches. They were running out of bread, and Margaret made a mental note to ask for more flour instead of bread tomorrow—the bland, enriched bread that the government drops provided was disgusting to palates raised on Louise's crispy, fresh loaves.

  Since it was a cold lunch, Margaret felt no compunction in grabbing a cheese sandwich and fleeing up the stairs. It was chilly in her bedroom, and Margaret grabbed a blanket to wrap around her while she sat cross-legged on the small loveseat and ate. She felt juvenile, like a little kid hiding from her father's anger, but she still had no desire to deal with him. She might understand his behavior, but that didn't mean she had to enjoy it.

  But a knock on the door surprised her, and she called out, “Come in,” through a mouthful of crumbs.

  Jon had a sandwich on a plate and an apologetic expression. When he saw the sandwich in Margaret's hand, his face fell further. She hated to see that and jumped up, reaching for the plate in a moment of compassion that cleared the air between them more than any apologies from either could have done. “Thanks.”

  Jon nodded and looked like he wanted to leave, but he stood his ground more or less, turning to look at the pictures on Margaret's bureau. Most of them were of the family, and many were made bittersweet by time's changes. A small photograph of Lorraine, Margaret's mother, dreaming in a rose garden on her Victoria honeymoon, stood alone; in the center of the surface was a picture of Penny, laughing and flour covered as she taught Margaret to make biscuits; there was a photograph of Jeff, holding Sam in his arms just after she was born.

  Margaret sat back down and continued eating, not sure what else to say. After a long period of quiet, Jon said, “I'm sorry, honey. I shouldn't have lost my temper. Mom told me a thousand times to wipe my damn boots, and Penny too.”

  “I'm just really tired of mopping that floor,” Margaret said apologetically.

  Jon jerked his thumb in the direction of Louise's bedroom. “Has she come out this morning?”

  “Nope. I tried to bring her up a tray earlier, but she said she was fasting.”

  Jon made a frustrated sound. “It's not healthy, what she's doing.”

  “She … doesn't know what else to do, Dad.”

  “I'm not saying she shouldn't pray, I'm saying she shouldn't starve herself.”

  “Well, what are we supposed to do, pin her down and shove sandwiches in her mouth?”

  Jon ran a hand through his hair, eyes troubled. “I'll go and talk to her,” he said reluctantly, making no move to leave.

  Margaret struggled with herself a little, drained her glass of milk, and finally said, “I'll come with you.”

  There was no answer to Margaret's light knock, and when they pushed the door open, Louise was on her knees, back ramrod straight, praying before the heavy cross on the wall. The room was dim and shrine-like. Candles burned on a little table set up with a figure of Mary. She didn't turn or stop whispering her prayers as they entered. Jon looked at Margaret helplessly.

  “Bonne-maman,” Margaret said softly. “Please come downstairs. I'll make you something to eat.”

  Louise finally stopped and looked up. “I am fasting, Daisy.”

  “I know. I do. But if you faint, I'm really scared you'll break a hip and have to go to the hospital,” Margaret replied.

  Louise's nostrils flared with annoyance. “I am not weak, whatever you may think.”

  “No one thinks that, Mom,” Jon said, stepping forward. “We're just worried.”

  “Worry about your own sins, Jon,” his mother said sharply.

  Margaret pinched the bridge of her nose. This was horrible. Religion had never been an easy topic in their family; long ago, Louise and Carl had decided, in interests of fairness, that their daughter would be raised a Catholic, their son a Presbyterian. As a result, Louise found Jon's attitude towards her faith disrespectful even at the best of times. “Bonne-maman, please.”

  “Be quiet, Daisy,” Louise snapped, standing up. “Now may I please be left alone, or are you going to drag me downstairs and pour milk down my throat?”

  Jon ground his teeth. “How long is this fasting going to last? Because if you haven't eaten by sundown, that's exactly what's going to happen.”

  Margaret wanted to curse him for his stupidity in threatening her, but in truth, she shared his irritation. “Why don't you come downstairs and make us some soup, Bonne-maman?” she tried more tactfully. “My potato soup never tastes as good as yours.”

  “Man does not live by bread alone, Daisy,” Louise replied, ignoring her son.

  “No, but bread is pretty necessary, and I need to make a fresh starter.” Margaret tugged at her grandmother's hand hopefully, but the old woman was already turning away. Jon looked ready to murder someone, but Margaret shook her head. More threats would only make Louise more stubborn. “Please, let me bring you up something?” she said quietly. “You should keep up your strength.”

  Louise waved a hand dismissively, picking up her prayer book, and Margaret decided to take it as permission. She gestured urgently to her father and together they left. Neither said a word until they were downstairs, and then Jon groaned. “What the hell am I supposed to do about this?” he demanded.

  “Just let her—as long as she doesn't hurt herself,” Margaret suggested.

  “And if she does?”

  “Then … I have no idea.” Margaret began making tea and heating up some soup. Perhaps the smell would tempt Louise enough to eat. “We'll call Dr. Barton, I suppose.” She arranged the tray artfully. “It'll be okay, Dad. She's just trying to deal with this.”

  “At least someone understands her, because I never will,” Jon grumbled, stalking off to his office.

  Margaret rolled her eyes and took the tray upstairs. She set the tray down on the bedside table. “Please come eat, Bonne-maman,” she said softly.

  Louise ignored her for perhaps three minutes more, though Margaret was fairly sure that was out of stubbornness rather than devotion. Then she crossed herself, stood up, and came over to sit down on the bed. She moved slowly, stiffly, and Margaret noticed that the room was too cold for an old woman's joints. “It's too cold up here. I'd better turn up the furnace.”

  “Don't you dare,” Louise said, sitting down. “It was stifling in here this morning. Fuel costs money, Daisy.”

  “So do funerals,” Margaret said mutinously. “Even saints ate, Bonne-maman.”

  Louise dipped her head just slightly, and she began to eat the soup, much to Margaret's relief. “I know you think me a foolish old woman.”

  “Not foolish. But … I don't think we can just pray this away. I don't know.” Margaret was uncomfortable with the discussion. She had never been devout like her grandmother.

  “Neither do I,” Louise admitted, eating a piece of bread with more hunger than delicacy. “But Daisy, what else can we do?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE NEXT DAY, SAM CALLED after
school asking permission for Jess to come home with her, which Margaret readily allowed. But when the three girls came in that afternoon, something was obviously wrong. Emilie ran straight upstairs, her face red and swollen, and Margaret said, “What's wrong with her? Did something happen at school?”

  “I don't know,” Sam said. “I asked Lisa on the bus, but she just started giggling.”

  Jess was looking very uncomfortable and wouldn't lift her eyes from the cup of cocoa Margaret had given her. Margaret noticed and said, “Jess?”

  “Not my place to say, ma'am,” Jess murmured, but she looked troubled.

  Margaret sat down with the two girls. “Was it a boy? Em doesn't have a boyfriend …” At least not as far as she knew—she wouldn't dismiss the possibility that her rebellious cousin had a secret boyfriend.

  “You'd better ask Emilie,” Jess said stubbornly, and Margaret sighed. She didn't want to deal with this right now.

  But there wasn't really a choice. “Start your homework,” she said to the girls and went upstairs with a cup of cocoa and a peanut butter sandwich on a plate. She knocked on Emilie's door. “Em, I brought you a snack.”

  “Go away,” came a wailing sob from within.

  Margaret went inside anyway, and found Em face down on the bed, weeping. She put the food down on a table and sat beside Em. She reached out to try and rub Emilie's back, but the girl flinched away from her. “What's wrong, Emilie?” she asked gently. “Please tell me.” Her anxiety flared. “Is your stomach all right? Do you feel sick?”

  Emilie shook her head violently. “He's going to kill me,” she said in a muffled voice.

  “Who is?”

  “Uncle Jon …”

  “Why would Dad kill you?” Margaret shifted to sit closer. “Em, what's wrong? Please tell me, I want to help you.”

  “You'll tell …”

  Margaret hesitated for a moment, weighing that. “I might tell, but not if I don't have to. Em, whatever it is, whatever you've done, we'll figure it out, okay?”

  Emilie sobbed for a few moments more, but finally pulled out her phone, pressed a few buttons, and pulled up a web site. “Hot Barely Legal Girls” flashed at the top, and as Margaret scrolled down hesitantly, she saw with horror a picture of her cousin, entirely naked, posing in front of a mirror as she photographed herself. Margaret was speechless. She didn't want to look, but she tapped on the picture anyway and there found a full gallery of photos of her teenaged cousin and, worse yet, a short video. “Oh my God,” Margaret whispered.