Delia

by Jason LaVelle

  "That was your house, wasn't it?" He looked toward the home where she had grown up.

  Delia looked him in the eyes and nodded slowly.

  "We heard about what happened." The boy turned his eyes away from her, back toward the field. "I suppose after that you just don’t have anything to talk about at all, huh? Well, I have chores I have to do. I come out this way before dinner a lot. You can share my tree with me again if you want."

  Delia nodded to him again. His kindness was touching, even more so because he was a stranger to her. Delia glanced over the sea of wheat once more then clambered down out of the tree. It was a long walk back to the house from where she sat. Soon Aunt Deb would be serving dinner and she would wonder why Delia was not there to help. She set off through the field, mindful of the direction in which the combine was moving. She did not want to be caught in its path, as that would mean certain death.

  *****

  Delia made it just in time to help Aunt Deb get dinner on the table. Her face was flushed from running through the field by the time she reached the house. Aunt Deb gave her a questioning look when she came into the kitchen out of breath but Delia shrugged it off and started setting the table right away. As they sat down to eat, Uncle Don spoke to Delia.

  “I want you to be careful out in that field. The combine is running and those men are working long hours. Sometimes they don’t see everything. It would be a shame if there were an accident out there.”

  Delia nodded, and Lilly said, “Yes, father.”

  Don glanced over at Deb, who gave him a look full of meaning. “Your aunt received a call from a man who works for the bank. He said you were snooping around the house and that you attacked him when he told you they had to take the house away.”

  Delia shook her head vehemently, but her uncle held up his hand and continued, “Delia, I know that was your house. I’m not angry. Just stay out of there, okay? The bank man said he would call the police if he caught you over there again.

  Delia nodded her complicity but she was fuming within. That man from the bank had grabbed her, and somehow she had known he meant to do her harm. That was why she bit him.

  Chapter Four

  The next day found Delia back in the tree. She beat Francis there so she could see from which direction he came. Watching along the tree line, he eventually appeared. There was only one house in that direction and it was several miles away. It was the butcher’s house, she remembered. She had ridden there with her father once to have a cow processed. Delia’s mother always butchered the chickens herself, but insisted that her father use the butcher for their beef. Mother had always said that if it was not done right, it did not keep as long.

  Delia did not remember much about the butcher’s house, and she had never met anyone who lived there besides the old man who processed their meat. Francis looked up into the tree as he approached and smiled at her. He seemed happy that she was there.

  “You don’t go to school?” he asked.

  Delia shook her head.

  “Do you think you’ll ever talk again?”

  Delia nodded. She knew she could not stay mute forever. She did want to talk to people, but her head felt very messy lately and she could not seem to keep her thoughts straight. She wanted to have better control of herself before opening back up to the world.

  Francis carefully pulled a paper-wrapped parcel out of a sack he had slung over his shoulder and motioned for her to come down. Delia hopped out of the tree easily and stood next to him. She was at least an inch taller than he was.

  “I got a special treat for us.” His voice was excited and mischievous. He unwrapped the package and revealed a large piece of cornbread. It looked moist and it was as golden as the wheat in the field.

  Delia’s eyes lit up and she smiled broadly. Francis broke the piece of cornbread in half and held one piece out toward Delia. When she went to take it, he jerked his hand back playfully.

  “For a kiss,” he said.

  Delia just stared at him. She thought about hitting him in the stomach and then running away before he could catch her, but the cornbread looked so good. The last cornbread she had eaten was her mother’s. Delia stepped forward and leaned in to quickly peck him on the cheek. He immediately turned bright red but Delia did not notice as she sat down with the cornbread next to the tree. Francis sat down next to her, grinning wildly. He broke off bits of his cornbread and stuffed them into his mouth.

  They sat against the tree for a long time again. Occasionally, Francis would speak, but he had learned to ask questions that only required a nod or a shake of the head in response. Besides Lilly, Francis was Delia’s only friend. It was true; her parents had been her whole world. Even before all this happened, she played with the other kids at school but had always been a loner. She did not have a best friend or anything and she always walked home alone. Now, being alone had become her entire world.

  When Delia and Francis parted ways and headed home like they had the day before, the combine was silent in the field. There appeared to be some type of mechanical problem and it was left in the middle of a row. Delia veered toward the combine. It was a large, frightening looking machine and she could see why her mother and father had taught her to be so wary of it. She had heard stories of men being caught up in the combines and chewed to pieces.

  That night was bath night. Delia’s aunt and uncle were one of the few families in this part of Michigan who had indoor plumbing and electricity. Still, they only bathed twice a week to cut down on wear and tear on their well. The girls would bathe first, one after another, using the same water. Then the tub would be drained and refilled so her aunt and uncle could bathe. Lilly got into the tub first to scrub the last few days’ dust and grime from her little body. Delia waited in the hallway outside the bathroom just as her aunt had instructed her.

  “I’m getting out now.” Delia heard Lilly call from the bath. She opened the door and let herself in to take her turn. Lilly was standing up in the bathtub looking at her curiously. Then she stepped over the tall edge of the tub and grabbed one of the rough brown towels her mother had laid out. Delia pulled off her orange feed sack dress and dingy underwear and tossed them onto the floor. They were dirty from sitting on tree branches and the ground earlier. Once she was stripped naked, she stepped over to the tub. Lilly was once again looking at her strangely. Delia paused and looked at her for an answer.

  “Usually we don’t change in front of people,” Lilly said softly.

  Delia felt Lilly’s eyes looking over her body. Lilly was a young child, while Delia was beginning to turn into a young woman. Lilly probably noticed the differences and had been intrigued. A little ashamed of not knowing the rules of bath time, Delia quickly popped into the large cast iron tub and sank down until the water covered her budding breasts.

  “It’s okay. I am going to be a big girl like you someday. I don’t mind that you came in the bathroom. It’s just not what we usually do.” Lilly gave her a quick but genuine smile then hurried out of the bathroom.

  Delia sighed and closed her eyes. The warm water was heavenly, and she felt like it was washing away more than just dirt. It felt like the cleansing was much deeper. A large block of stinky white soap was moving around the bottom of the tub where Lilly had left it; so Delia fished it out and scrubbed it all over her body. The smell of the soap was terrible, but she loved the clean feeling as it glided over her skin.

  Normalcy was beginning to seep into Delia once again, and that was good. She still felt like she was lost, but not without hope. Funny how a little thing like a bath could make such a difference. Delia was smiling at the ceiling and drifting off to sleep when her aunt knocked on the door.

  “Time to get out, Delia.”

  *****

  Francis was anxious yet remained still. He had spent two hours lying prone on the warm ground, nestled in the thick foliage. The sun was going down and he was starting to hear the scurrying of small creatures in the woods. With his tongue, Francis moved t
he small lump of chewing tobacco he had stolen from his brother around beneath his lip. He silently spit out a tarlike stream of tobacco-laced saliva onto the ground next to him. His gums and lips were numb where the course mass of chew had been stuffed. The tiny rush of nicotine helped to keep him awake and alert.

  Finally, he heard the rhythmic thumps he had been waiting for. He blinked hard to freshen his vision, then lowered his cheek down close to the rifle’s stock. Moments later a fluffy ball of gray appeared upwind of him. He observed the rabbit calmly. The rabbit’s run was directly in front of him, so all he had to do was wait and the rabbit would cross near enough for a guaranteed kill. Francis patiently waited for the small creature to make its way toward him, toward its den, which was in a thicket not far from where he lay.

  When the rabbit was only a dozen feet from him it stopped and raised its tiny twitching nose in the air. Francis was silent, but the rabbit then looked right at him. In his mind, with a smirk, Francis thought he could see the creature’s beady eyes widen as it saw the .22 pointed at it. Then he squeezed the trigger.

  His father was in the sitting room when he entered the house. The large wooden radio that sat atop an antique table was turned up loud and a gravelly voice purred out. It was the evening bible story hour, something his father never missed. Francis knew better than to disturb him at this time, not that he would have anyway. Since his mother died, the man known only as the Butcher had become withdrawn from his family.

  His father’s eyes followed Francis as he made his way through the foyer and over to the staircase, then he was walking up the wooden stairs in darkness. One hand absentmindedly trailed against the cream colored wallpaper adorned with roses and lilies that his mother had hung so long ago. In his other hand hung a canvas sack that sagged with the weight of the once living rabbit it contained.

  Francis walked into his room, and was greeted by the sweet musky odor that always resided there. His room didn’t consist of much. There was a twin size bed against one wall, a window, and a wooden stool with a flat-topped desk in front of it on the opposite wall from the bed. At the foot of his bed was a tall metal foot locker, the type utilized in army barracks where he kept his clothing. For decoration, he had hung objects of varying importance to him on the plaster walls around the room.

  Francis flung the sack he carried onto the desk, where it landed with a muted thud.

  His eyes burned with tiredness, but he stayed up anyway. There was work that needed to be done. Francis lit the kerosene lamp on his desk and a warm orange glow consumed his room. Their house had electricity, but not upstairs. Only the kitchen and sitting room had been wired for invisible power. Francis opened the metal footlocker that served as his dresser and foraged through the clothing until he found what he was looking for – a long and gnarled hunting knife. The blade didn’t look like much, but it was honed to a fine point. Francis made sure it was sharp by lightly tapping the blade against the end of his thumbnail, satisfied when it stuck slightly.

  He then sat astride his wooden stool and began to work, humming to himself as he did. It was a song that his mother used to sing to him and his brother on occasion. His hands moved deftly over the table. The long blade, circa 1905 was moving and glinting in the light. The rabbit began to come apart before him and as it did his humming turned into singing, his small treble voice was melodious and haunting in the warmly lit room.

  “Shades of night are creeping

  Willow trees are weeping

  Old folks and babies are sleeping

  Silver stars are gleaming

  All alone I'm scheming

  Scheming to get you out here

  My dear”

  He also thought of the girl he met, Delia. He smiled as he sang. Francis did not have friends, he felt it had been a blessing that he had met her – a gift from God, his mother would have said. He had gotten a kiss today, and he liked it. He already wanted to see her again, in fact he felt like he needed to see her.

  He paused what he was doing and sighed. Francis was exhausted. The blood-slick knife slipped out of his hand and clattered loudly onto the desk. He froze. It was dangerous to be making noise at this hour. His brother was awake, and even the slightest provocation would bring him out of his room and into Francis’s. After the last time, Francis had been sore for a week – he did not want to repeat that any time soon – or ever. After two minutes of breathing heavily and remaining as motionless as possible, Francis picked the knife back up. He made several more cuts, then gently set the knife down. Finished. That was good, he was so tired today.

  Francis wiped his long hands against the coarse sack on the desk and stood. He arched his back and stretched his arms above his head. He turned the lantern down low, but not off. It would burn itself out but he liked the light while he fell asleep, he liked knowing who and what was in his bedroom at all times. The sheets crinkled beneath him and Francis collapsed into bed, curling onto his side and letting his eyes slam shut.

  Sleep found him right away. As he slept, one hand crept up to his face and he slipped his thumb into his mouth – a habit he had developed as a toddler, one that resurfaced after his mother’s death. He didn’t notice the faint metallic taste from the remnants of blood still left on his hand. He would wash in the morning, anyhow.

  On the dimly lit desk were the remains of the one-year-old rabbit he had killed that day. There was no real order to the remains, not to anyone who might have observed its quartering. The rabbit had been flayed completely open so that its internal organs were exposed. The muscles had been carved off the bone and placed into three different bloody mounds. Francis had unraveled the tiny intestines and arranged the rope-like organ into the shape of a heart on the wooden desk. The lungs he had peeled open, then he used them as painting sponges and within the macabre heart he dabbed the letters F.M. + Delia. He had plucked he tiny eyeballs from the rabbit’s skull and then smushed them on the desk.

  The wick on the lantern burned out, casting the small room into darkness. The pelts of dozens of small animals that had been tacked up on the walls of his room stared down at Francis while he slept. He didn’t remember dreaming, only the blackness of night, and the encompassing darkness that erased each day.

  *****

  It was Saturday. Delia finished her chores and wandered off into the woods south of the house. The combine had not been started yet, so the air was filled with the sound of birds and the rushing of the wind. It was a beautiful day. She did not expect to see Francis, but was pleasantly surprised when he popped up in the woods.

  “Hey, you wanna go fishing?”

  Delia hesitated only a moment before nodding.

  “Come on, we’ll have to go to my house to get a fishing pole. It’s kind of a long walk.”

  Delia did not care and she happily followed Francis to the butcher’s house.

  It was easily two miles along the tree line before the house came into view. Delia judged this by time and footsteps. Since she never owned a timepiece, she had developed the habit of counting footsteps when she went places alone. She knew that she stepped a certain number of times in a mile and she was about double that now.

  The butcher’s house looked like many others throughout the Michigan countryside. It was a two-story square with wooden lap siding. It had a front porch and a back porch; the latter was piled high with tools and pieces of what she thought were broken machinery. There were several very rusty cars in the yard. Delia had never met anyone who owned more than one car, but neither of these looked like they had been moved in a decade. The steel hunks were more like lawn ornaments than anything else.

  The wooded path they had been walking along fell away and then they were in the yard. Delia noticed that Francis seemed to be more alert now. His head moved from side to side as if he were scanning the yard for some sort of danger. She heard the wind pick up and start to whirl around them. It rushed past the house with a whooshing sound. Delia looked up at the few trees around the house and noted, with confusion,
that their branches were not being disturbed by the wind at all. In fact, she could not feel it on her skin either. She could only hear it.

  Delia stopped short. There was something about that sound, something she should pay attention to. Unfortunately, she had not quite gotten a grip on what that was yet.

  “What are you waiting for? Come on! My fishing pole is in the shed over here.” Francis paused to wait for her.

  Delia stood still for a moment, looking at the slightly battered house and listening to the strange wind rushing through her mind. She was unsettled, but she saw nothing that should be worrying her so she did her best to shrug it off and follow Francis. The shed was just four poles and a slanted roof with sides tacked on. It was overflowing with junk and Francis dug through for a moment before emerging with a short rod and reel.

  “We’ve got to catch our own bait, of course, but that’s half the fun!”

  “Fun? You don’t need to be havin’ fun! You’ve got chores that need doing!” Delia and Francis both jumped at the sound of a voice behind them. A pale, portly man of perhaps twenty was advancing toward them in the yard.

  “Shit,” Francis murmured under his breath.

  “Yeah, shit, you shithead, what the hell are you doing out here?”

  “I’m just getting the fishing pole, Larry, gonna go catch some dinner. Just leave us be, okay?” Francis tried to sound tough but Delia noticed the pleading in his voice.

  “Leave you be…” Larry let his voice trail off. “And who’s this girl my idiot brother brought over here? She looks like she ain't right in the head.” Larry’s words literally spat out of his mouth. Now that he was closer, Delia could see how ashen and greasy-looking his face was, as if he never bathed or went out into the sun. The foul smell emanating from him reinforced that. His fat face had very small eyes with large pupils; so large they made his irises look black as well.