Nocturne

by Heather McKenzie

  My mind raced for a reason that wouldn’t have Mrs. Carlson asking questions or thinking I was knocked up. “I’m saving up money for school. For college.”

  Her face relaxed. “Ah, that’s admirable. Still, I’m surprised Ben would hire someone like you.”

  “Like me?”

  She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “Yes. You know…someone who can’t cook.”

  “Huh,” was all I could think of for a response.

  “Well, ya must be real darn good at cleanin’.” She pulled a knife from the kitchen drawer and approached me a little too fast. I froze in terror at the shiny blade heading in my direction.

  “Whoa… I’m not that upset you ruined the pie dough.” Mrs. Carlson laughed. “Lord thunderin’ Jesus, you’re a skittish filly. I just want to get the mess off your hands and the counter.”

  My past had made me irrational, and justifiably so. Obviously, this woman didn’t want to kill me. Still, I trembled through a forced grin while she gently scraped over my scarred hand. Though she paused to give the bite mark a closer look, she brushed it off as nothing. But when her eyes caught and centered on the scar on my neck, she gasped and struggled to hold her tongue. Some story brewed in her head, which probably wasn’t nearly as awful as the actual truth.

  “Dog attack,” I said.

  “Uh-huh,” she said.

  Turning away, she pointed out the window, thankfully with no questions. “See that girl there, digging a hole? That’s my daughter Marlene. She prefers gardening over horses and cattle, and Lord knows she ain’t of any use in the kitchen, so you two will get along fine. I’ll make quiche with the pie dough, it’s too roughed up for fruit pies now, and try to save the chili you’ve managed to burn.” After pointing to a cooler by the door, she headed back to the stove. “Get Marlene to drive you and the sandwiches out to the boys in the field. Take ‘em lots of beer, too.”

  I felt like a putz. Cooking with Thomas had been a breeze compared to this. “I’m sorry. I’m sure I can figure out how to do this.”

  Mrs. Carlson regarded me with a motherly kindness. “My neighbor Bess is on her way over. She can chop and peel with lightning speed. So, get going now and don’t worry about a thing, all right?”

  Still digging pie dough out from under my nails, I headed outside and approached the young woman named Marlene. She was tall, probably close to six feet, and had the slim figure of a supermodel. She wore a black shirt tucked into a pair of tight jeans, and auburn hair grazed her shoulders in soft curls. She was singing as she drove the shovel into the earth. I paused and watched her for a moment. She seemed so… content.

  “Hi there,” I said.

  She froze. The singing stopped. But she didn’t raise her head or turn to look at me.

  “I’m Kate. Your mom wants you to help me take food out to the men in the field.”

  There was no reaction.

  I spoke a little louder. “She said you could drive me?”

  Still nothing. I stared at the side of Marlene’s face while she eyed the ground. I tried again.

  “If you’re busy, that’s fine. I can carry the food out there myself…”

  “Ha!” she said with a laugh. “You’ve got one useless arm, have no idea where to go, and by the looks of ya, an hour in the sun would turn you into nothing but a raging blister.”

  How would she know? She hadn’t even looked up from her shovel.

  I was about to protest, but she straightened up and turned toward me. My breath caught; one side of her face was pretty with lightly tanned unblemished skin over a high cheekbone and a piercing hazel eye, but the other side was disfigured. The skin covering the right side of her face was dark purple, as if a football-sized blueberry had hit her hard and left a stain.

  “Nice, eh?” she said bitterly, holding the shovel like she wanted to drive it through my face. “It’s a birthmark. I was born with it,” she said with a growl. “God gave me a punch to the face. I’ve lived with it now for eighteen years and don’t care what you think of it. So go ahead and stare. I don’t give a shit.”

  I gulped hard, feeling sorry for her, and knowing that was exactly what she wouldn’t want. I kept my eyes level, not shying away. “All right then,” I said, hoping my voice sounded firm but friendly. “Thanks for the info. So… will you help me out? I don’t want to get in trouble with your mom. I already ruined the dessert and burned the chili.”

  Marlene’s eyes lit up. “On purpose?” She seemed hopeful.

  “Ha. No. I’m a complete wreck in the kitchen. I mean, what the heck is a ladle? And why does it matter what temperature your hands are when you’re ‘turning the dough into pea-sized crumbles’? And what on earth does simmering even mean?”

  Marlene marched across the potatoes to stand before me, startling me out of my kitchen nightmare reverie. She rubbed her palms on her jeans, which didn’t do a thing to remove the dirt, then stuck out her hand.

  “I hate cooking,” she said, her serious tone an invitation for a handshake.

  I stifled a giggle, mostly to cover my discomfort at her proximity and intense grip around my fingers. “But eating is good,” I said, giving her hand a pump.

  A genuine smile brought a blush to the white side of her face. I met her eyes fully and took in her features. A perfectly straight and tiny nose, full mouth, and high cheekbones… the birthmark that covered her eyelid and reached far down her neck was the only disfigurement. She was waiting for me to be bothered by it, but I wasn’t.

  “Sandwiches. Can’t go wrong,” she said.

  “Damn straight,” I agreed.

  “Pickles and mustard on rye with pastrami.”

  “Plain old cheese and lettuce for me.”

  “Mayo is gross.”

  I nodded. “Yep. Eggs sitting in a jar on a shelf that can last for years? It's just not logical.”

  She nodded. I motioned to the cooler of food and cases of beer Mrs. Carlson was now putting on the porch. “So, whadya say?”

  Marlene was eager to help. She tackled the heavy items, shrugging me off when I tried to help. It became obvious she hid whatever insecurities she had about her face behind brute strength. With the truck loaded and her at the wheel, we ambled across a freshly cut field with the food and booze. Minutes into the bumpy drive with the heat of the sun filling the cab of an ancient green truck, she decided to talk.

  “Where ya from?” she asked.

  “A small town out west,” I said, bracing myself as we went through a rough patch.

  The truck jolted, and Marlene swore under her breath. “Stupid gophers…. I keep shootin’ em but they keep coming back and digging their holes. I like the cute little buggers, but they wreck everything,” she said angrily. “So… boyfriend?”

  Thinking of Luke, I gulped. “Not anymore.”

  “Parents?”

  I liked that she was satisfied with short answers. “Dead,” I said, wishing Henry and Rayna actually were.

  “Mine, too,” she said without sadness.

  “Oh, I thought Mrs. Carlson was your mom?”

  The field stretched out flatter now with only the odd strip of skinny trees obstructing the view. Cattle started to be visible just over a small ridge, and Marlene slowed the truck for a stray cow being urged back to the herd by a speckled dog. “My mom died giving birth to me and my dad died of a heroin overdose soon after, so I never knew them. Mrs. Carlson—Kay—took me in when no one else wanted the baby with the purple face.”

  I had a jealous pang at the thought of growing up in Mrs. Carlson’s care. “You’re lucky you have a mom.”

  “Yeah. But the insufferable woman thinks cooking and cleaning and sewing are the only things a ‘God-fearing Christian woman’ should do. The church has her brainwashed into believing all sorts of archaic bullshit. They’ve lured her and all the women around here into their lair, filled their heads full of stories, taken their money, and then sent them home to pass judgement and be jerks to all the ‘non-believers’ under th
e pretense of being forgiven for their actions on Sundays. So, while I’m home looking after the animals and making sure the garden doesn’t get overtaken with weeds and bugs, she’s spending hours praying for whatever sins I did to get myself this ugly face.”

  She inhaled deeply, now seeming embarrassed of the rant I suspected she’d been holding in for a long time. I studied her as she drove, the disfigured side of her face plain to see. “You’re not ugly, Marlene,” I said, “just lovely shades of purple and cream.”

  She bristled. “How can you say I’m not ugly? Look at me.”

  “I am. And what one person thinks is ugly, another might find beautiful. I see a strong, vibrant person who is intensely passionate about the things she believes in. To me, that’s just as beautiful as your physical appearance. Ugly is such a stupid word anyway. It means nothing. I’ve seen art worth millions I think sucks, and stones at the water’s edge of a lake that are more stunning than diamonds. Beauty is subjective.”

  She pursed her lips and gave me the oddest glance. Then, as if I hadn’t even spoken, she cleared her throat and pointed ahead. “There they are.”

  We drove into a mass of cattle. When the truck stopped, the first thing I noticed was the sound of restless animals; it was a loud drone. A hum like nothing I’d ever heard before. Men on horseback had separated the calves from the cows, and an elaborate system of fences and riders were keeping them organized. The animals didn’t seem upset. It was as if they were ‘talking’ to each other as the humans kept them calm. The smell was rank—grass, crap, and burning hair. I followed Marlene toward a makeshift pen, seeing two men holding down a calf and another pressing a scalding iron to its rump. The calf barely struggled as its hair and skin smoked, but I instinctively clutched my wounded arm. Luke had done the same thing to me, cauterizing my wound.

  “It doesn’t hurt them,” Marlene said, misunderstanding my discomfort. “I mean, they don’t love it, but they’re fine.

  “Why do they do it?”

  “Lots of cattle roaming around out here. No one wants to argue over whose animal is whose. Every cow marked with CC is Carlson’s property.”

  In the middle of the pen, Ben rode Zander. He perched majestically atop the shining black horse. He rode in a wide circle, rope in hand, and when a calf was let in to the pen, he maneuvered Zander into a gallop behind it before tossing his rope and catching the calf by the hind legs. Thomas was on another horse and swiftly roped the calf’s neck. In unison, they pulled their rope taut and brought the animal to the ground. Within seconds, two other wiry cowboys were wrestling the calf onto its side and holding it down while Mr. Carlson applied the hot branding iron. Vaccinations were administered by identical blond women moving perfectly with each other, and then the animal was castrated. There was no one yelling, issuing orders, or any sort of chitchat. This was efficiency at its best, and it was mesmerizing.

  I got lost in the action. Entranced, my body glued to the fence and all senses captivated as I watched Ben and Thomas, their movements a predictable dance for my mind to surrender to. The repetition, the animals, the people, the pen, the pasture beyond it, and the expanse of blue sky so blindingly bright…

  And a familiar figure off in the distance…

  My mind caught, as if snagged on a hook. I zeroed in on the shape of a thin female with dark skin, hazy in the field. The pit of my stomach danced; I knew that person.

  Marlene tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a sandwich. “Cheese and lettuce. No mayo.”

  “Do you see that person over there?” I asked, ignoring her outstretched hand and pointing to the lithe shape now moving toward a truck.

  Marlene spun around in the direction of my finger. “Kind of…”

  “Do you know who that is?” I asked, feeling the blood drain from my face.

  “Uh, nope. There are all kinds of people here today. Neighbors and friends of pals, and who the heck knows who else. Lots of peeps I don’t recognize. Why?”

  It couldn’t be. There’s no way. Not in a million years would Sindra know where I was. It was impossible… but I sensed her. My hand instinctively flew to my chest to make sure the necklace was still there; the familiar pendant was safe and warm against my skin.

  I jumped when a hand tapped my shoulder.

  “Kate? Everything all right?”

  I turned to face Ben. Face glowing, hair slicked with sweat and flat to his head. I noticed Marlene’s shoulders slump at the sight of him, and I caught the sandwich she’d been holding out to me before it hit the dirt.

  “I’m fine. It’s all good,” I said a little too quickly, then tried to be casual by taking a bite of gummy white bread and trying not to gag. My stomach was churning as my gaze wandered back to the truck in the distance with the familiar figure getting inside.

  “Is she bothering you?” Ben asked.

  The question caught me off guard. “Is who bothering me?”

  It pained him to acknowledge Marlene, who was doing her best to ignore him, too.

  “Her. Marlene. Is she—”

  I stopped him. “What? No, of course not. Not at all.”

  “Good.” His voice lowered into a whisper. “Why aren’t you in the house? I told you to stay there.”

  The truck was moving away. The hazy field swallowed whoever was at the wheel. I had to be imagining things. That was the only explanation. No way was that Sindra.

  “Kate?” Ben said, becoming irritated. “Why are you out here?”

  I tried to get the bread down my throat to speak. “Oh. Mrs. Carlson had some neighbor named Bess coming over to help her. They wanted rid of me. So I offered to help Marlene instead.”

  Ben shook his head angrily. “That girl doesn’t need any help.”

  Marlene continued to stand there, staring at her feet. “Uh, do you have a problem with her?” I asked quietly.

  Ben spoke with venom. “She’s tough as an ox, stubborn as a mule, and nothing but trouble. Stay away from her.”

  I felt I needed to defend my newfound friend. “She’s been very kind to me.”

  “Kind? Not sure that’s in her nature,” Ben said, loud enough for Marlene to hear. “Anyway, get her to take you back to the house and stay there. Make yourself useful with the women somehow. You’ll only be in the way out here, and I don’t need the distraction of worrying about you.”

  Marlene’s head snapped up. “You’re a chauvinistic asshole, Ben,” she spat.

  And before I could agree, her hand latched onto my mine and she pulled me away.

  Marching alongside Marlene, I watched the truck with the familiar figure become a dot in the distance.

  As Marlene and I pulled up the last of the carrots from her precious garden, the men started to trickle back in. Soon, the farmhouse doors were flung open and tables of food were set up outside next to three massive barbecues smoking with thick slabs of red meat. I avoided the chili and the quiche and was teased about the lack of animal on my plate by a loud-mouthed man attacking an almost-raw portion of cow. I proudly told him it was my decision, my choice—one I’d made after looking into the eyes of an animal like the one on the barbecue—to follow a vegetarian diet whenever possible. Then the teasing began. I ignored it. Thomas ended it by firmly telling the man that only an asshole or someone with a guilty conscience about what he himself was eating would make an issue about what someone wasn't eating. Loudmouth had no reply to that.

  Conversations swirled, the beer flowed, and when the sun went down, a massive bonfire was brought to life. Loudmouth became too drunk to talk. Hank entertained us with a song he’d written. Mick told lame jokes, and I often glanced up to see Thomas’s eyes settled on me. There was something about his self-assured, blatant stare that was infuriating. It made me want to slap him and made my spine tingle at the same time. I kept telling myself I didn’t like him. But every time I allowed myself to stare back to glare, or at least make him feel uncomfortable, he smiled and made me forget why I’d ogled him in the first place. So I did my best
to avoid giving my attention to anything or anyone in his direction.

  As the heat of the bonfire increased, so did the drunkenness. The twin sisters who had been administering vaccinations were arguing with Mrs. Carlson and her neighbor about carrot cake. Mr. Carlson and Ben, along with the wrestling cowboys and a veterinarian so skinny he looked like he’d break in a breeze, talked about ranching—of which I barely understood a word. When the Hericksons, the Greys, and the Franklins showed up with more food and booze than was humanely necessary, the laughter escalated. Everyone seemed happy.

  Except Marlene.

  She never said a word. She barely looked at anyone—and no one paid attention to her. I felt Ben’s eyes burrow into my back when I left his side to sit next to her by the fire.

  “Is it always like this?” I asked, referring to the increasingly intoxicated state of the group of people around us. Loudmouth was now out cold on the grass with a mini-pig curled up next to him.

  Marlene tucked an auburn curl behind her ear. “Yep. My family loves any excuse to party,” she said dismally.

  Ben stared. Although the heat from the bonfire blurred his image, his gaze was intense and unavoidable. Mr. Carlson was leaning in to him, re-counting some horse tale, but it was obvious Ben’s full focus was on Marlene and me.

  “Your dad looks like Santa Claus,” I said to Marlene, pretending not to be bothered by Ben.

  Whatever she’d taken a sip of shot out her nose with a laugh. “I love Santa Claus. But I hate Christmas.”

  Oddly, I agreed.

  She perked up, turning with a lopsided smile and a gleam in her eye. She was about to say something when she realized Ben’s glare was now solely focused on her. Suddenly, she bolted from the bench.

  “This is bullshit. I’m out of here,” she said, storming off.

  I leapt to my feet and Ben stood, too, his back rigid. Thomas sprang upward as well—they were way too concerned with what I was doing. Marlene was right; this was bullshit. I cast a warning glance at both to leave me alone.

  “Wait up,” I called after Marlene.