Delia

by Jason LaVelle

  “She’s just my friend.”

  “Pssft, you don’t have any friends, boy.” Larry rocked back and forth on his feet. “And you’ve got chores. Ya need to clean out the killin' room; the flies are getting bad in there.”

  “Pa said I can do it later.” His voice was getting even more distressed now, and the quiet whirring of the wind that Delia heard was becoming louder and more urgent. Her legs twitched a little and she felt like running, but she wasn’t about to ditch Francis.

  “You’ll do it now, dammit!” Larry shouted. He reached out and grabbed Francis by the hair. “Cause I told you to!”

  “Buster!” Francis shouted.

  Delia was confused until a large golden-colored dog came bounding around the side of the house. When he saw Francis and Larry, the dog started barking, tucked its head down, and sprinted toward them, growling as he came. Larry sneered as the dog approached and Delia was a little frightened by the animal. The barking got louder and louder and the rushing in her head was dizzying. Larry threw Francis onto the ground just before the dog got to them. Buster nuzzled Francis and Larry spat at them both.

  “I ought to bury you and that stupid dog together.”

  “You couldn’t bury nothin’! And Pa said you ain't supposed to be drinkin' no more.”

  Larry’s eyes flitted around a little. Then he turned to Delia and leaned his face close to hers. She reflexively leaned away. “You come back anytime you want, now. You can come see me.”

  As the words dripped from his mouth, Larry reached around Delia and squeezed her bottom. Then he walked away, back toward the messy back porch of the house. He did not turn around and Delia was thankful. She did not want him to see her cry.

  Francis, too, was wiping away his tears. He ruffled the fur of his dog’s head and hugged it tightly. “Okay, let’s go fishing.”

  The fishing hole was only a few hundred yards from Francis’s house. It was, however, in the opposite direction of her home, and she was mindful of the distance she would have to cover later in order to get back in time for dinner. Lunch seemed hopeless at this point. She walked behind as they neared the little pond. It was quiet and she could hear the light swooshing of her pink floral dress as is rustled around her. It was one of only two dresses she owned, but she washed it every day so that it would be clean whenever she wore it. Delia noticed that she had not seen Francis in shoes once since they had met, and wondered if he had any. She had always been lucky enough to have a pair, though oftentimes she didn’t even wear them.

  “Well, here it is,” Francis said, and nodded at the little pond they had come upon.

  Delia thought it was delightful. It was a small pond ringed by trees, and although Delia was not as good about figuring area as her father had been, she thought the pond was maybe two acres. A gentle slope led from the tree line down to the edge of the water.

  “I really don’t catch too much in here, but it’s fun anyway. Have you ever gone fishing before?”

  Delia shook her head that she had not. After that, Francis started to narrate what he was doing. First, they went to his favorite section of open earth to dig worms.

  “Just dig in there, like this,” Francis said, illustrating how to find the slick little creatures. He had a small silver pocketknife that he pulled from the back of his trousers and began to scoop and scrape away dirt with the little blade.

  “You can just use your fingers, too, if you want.”

  It would be several more days before she could have a bath, though, so Delia found a short stick to scrape through the black dirt. It was all very fun and it was entertaining to Delia. She kept waiting for Francis to bring up what happened with his brother. He brushed it off thoroughly, though, and she got the impression it was a regular thing. Delia watched and participated a little, as Francis showed her how to bait the hook, cast the line, and wait for a fish to bite. They stayed there for quite some time, not catching fish. When there was no more teaching to be done, Francis just stopped talking and held the pole silently. Delia was content to spend time with him, and it was enjoyable for her. She was thankful not to be pressured into speaking. Francis gave her the space she needed to be comfortable.

  Unfortunately, the comfort did not last long. As they sat out by the pond letting the warm afternoon blossom around them, Delia started to hear the faint rushing in her head that she had begun to associate with danger. At first, she tried to ignore it, since she was not ready to leave. However, the sound grew louder, and the rustling wind turned into whispers, whispers about anger, about hurt. They were bouncing around in the walls of her mind, colliding with each other and amplifying as they did so.

  Soon another sound started to reach them. It was a high-pitched sound and Francis heard it, too, although neither of them could tell what it was at that point.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  She nodded, then the sound came again and it was much clearer. It sounded like yelping. Sort of like a dog yelping. Delia’s heart sank when she finally realized what the sound was. Francis realized it too because he jumped up and started running from the pond. Delia ran as well. She had to jump over the fishing pole that Francis dropped but she caught up with him in no time. Then she was running past him. Something told her she needed to get there first. Why, she had no idea. Francis shouted at her from behind.

  “Are you crazy? What are you doing? Wait for me!”

  But Delia did not wait. She had always been faster than the other kids. The whispers in her head were desperately loud now, and she could no longer hear the sound of her own feet crunching though the underbrush as she ran. The butcher’s house was up ahead. She could see the roof and she could smell the sweet stink of decay, from where the butcher poured the blood into the fertilizer pile. The dog’s pained yelping was the only sound she could hear, other than the noise in her own mind. When she burst out of the woods, she stopped dead in her tracks. She was looking into Francis’s back yard. The slimy brother, Larry, was there and he was working at something in the ground. Delia saw him throw a wooden baseball bat to the side and walk a few steps away toward the cluttered barn. She looked at the ground where he had been knelt over.

  Buried up to its neck, and badly bloodied, was Francis’s dog, Buster. He was still alive, though it looked like Larry had been beating him with the bat until his yelps had turned into whimpers.

  Suddenly a sound roared up from the direction of the barn, and to her horror, Delia saw Larry rumble into view on a lawn-cutting tractor. Her head was pounding with malicious voices. She did not want to see what he was going to do and she knew that she had to try to stop Francis before he got there to see it. She turned to run and find him but was too late; he had just come up alongside her.

  He took in the whole scene with wide, panicked eyes, and then he sprinted for the dog. Larry saw him coming, and with a nasty grin put the tractor into a higher gear. He activated the cutting blades that were in front of and beneath the tractor and directed the machine toward the buried dog’s head.

  Buster’s head exploded with a loud, wet thunk-thunk-thunk. Great big golden-haired chunks of bloody dog came shooting out of the side of the tractor along with a fine spray of blood. Delia could barely hear Francis screaming over the waves crashing in her own head. She pushed her hands against her temples, trying to drive out the sound with pressure, but it did not work. The tractor engine ground to a halt and Buster’s decapitated neck stuck out of the ground, still spurting the last little bits of blood from his body.

  Francis leapt at Larry, knocking him off the tractor and tackling him. He swung his fists furiously at him, driving his small hands into any piece of Larry that he could. His fury was magnificent, but he was just a small boy. Larry threw him off easily, grabbed Francis by the back of the neck, and stuck his foot out in front of him, running Francis into it so he would fall to the ground. Then Larry began beating Francis. He had swung twice when Delia started to move into action.

  “Stop it!” she screamed as she hurtle
d herself into Larry. Her voice came out so suddenly that it startled even her.

  “Stop it now!” Her voice was deep and loud. She smashed into the side of Larry’s body and was able to knock him off balance, at least temporarily. Larry fell over onto his side. Francis was on the ground bleeding from his mouth and nose.

  Delia advanced on Larry. “Get away from him you piece of dirt!” She was screaming at the top of her lungs, because it was the only way she could hear her voice over the racket in her head.

  “Why are you here? Why are you hurting him?” She stomped up to him. Larry scooted backwards then pulled his large body back to his feet.

  “Get out of here! Go to work like a real man! Everyone in town will know you're a dirt bag if you don’t leave him alone.”

  Larry puffed his chest up and got ready to swing at Delia.

  “Larry!”

  Larry spun around. The butcher was there. He was an older man, very tall with a shock of white hair on the top of his head. He wore a long bloodstained apron over a ratty gray t-shirt. Even from a distance, Delia could see large muscles ripple through his arms, probably from years of hauling and cutting and processing huge hunks of beef and pork.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” the butcher demanded.

  None of them spoke as he approached. His gait was slow but he covered a lot of ground when he walked. The rushing in Delia’s head was changing as the butcher approached. The voices did not quiet, but they slowed. They stuck to the edges of her mind, still there, still audible, but motionlessly waiting, as if they were frightened.

  The butcher took it all in. He looked at the tractor and the bloody remains of Francis’s pet dog. He noticed Francis bleeding on the lawn and Larry looking like a mix of defiance and shame. Then there was Delia. She had been screaming like a maniac, a tall girl with rough hair and a dress that was covered with mud and burrs from running madly through the woods. Her face wore a thin coat of Buster’s blood where she had been sprayed when the tractor ran over him.

  “I told you not to let me catch you killin' on animals that ain't food.” He advanced on Larry and stood with his chest just inches away from him. “I told you when your mother died that you better not pull any more of your shit or you’d be out of this house. That woman babied you too much, and look what it did to you.”

  “Pa-”Larry began.

  “Quiet! Clean up this mess in the yard!”

  “I’ll clean it up,” Francis said. “He’s my dog.”

  “Who the hell is this?” he asked, pointing to Delia.

  “She’s the girl from the house. The one whose father tried to kill her.”

  Delia felt a little sting hearing it aloud again.

  “Aye, I knew your father. He seemed like a good man to me.”

  Delia nodded. “He was.”

  “You’re a bit of a giant, aren’t you?”

  Delia nodded again.

  “I think you’d better be getting home now, don’t you?”

  “I’d like to stay and help Francis.”

  “Fine. The boy doesn’t have many prospects, just to let you know.” The butcher turned away from them, and Larry followed behind him.

  Digging the dog out was a terrible business. Its bloody fur was everywhere, along with bits of its skull. Francis was not able to speak right then, so Delia did it for him. She sang to him, “You are my sunshine,” then “This Little Light of Mine,” while they worked. Delia did not have an abundance of emotion left in her after the ordeal with her own father, so she tried to act like the people had acted with her. Lilly had sung to her at night and it had always been comforting.

  They carried Buster’s body to the woods and began digging a proper grave for him. Delia told Francis about her new home while they dug the hole for Buster. She did not know what else to talk about, and she hadn’t spoken in a long time, so she just let the words spill out. She told Francis about the night her father tried to kill her. He slowed his digging while he listened but still did not say anything. At last, they had a hole big enough to slide Buster into. Delia recited the “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” nighttime prayer, mostly because it was the only thing she could think of.

  Francis stood looking down at the mound of dirt they had made. The roaring that had pounded through her head during the altercation had subsided. Delia now was certain the sound was a warning, that she was somehow sensing when maliciousness was in the air. The sound was almost gone now, almost. Faintly, from Francis’s direction, she thought she could still hear faint whispers.

  He looked at her and smiled, then hugged her. “Thanks for helping.”

  Delia could hear the whispers a little louder when Francis squeezed against her, but she refused to believe that he was a threat to her. As he pulled away she could see his eyes still burning with anger and sadness. They weren’t the warm chocolate they usually were, but fiery.

  The sun had traveled a great distance in the sky above by the time Delia noticed that it was suppertime. She knew she would be in trouble, too. Her dress was filthy and her hands, face and feet were black with dirt and blood. That meant another bath tonight, and she would have to explain what had happened to her aunt. Perhaps she would be so happy Delia was speaking that she would not tan her hide.

  Francis walked Delia all the way back to her house, even though that would probably mean he would miss his dinner.

  “What made you decide to talk today?”

  “It just seemed like the right time. Did you like me better when I didn’t talk?”

  “No. I was just surprised.”

  Delia nodded. “I was a little surprised, too. Is your brother always like that?”

  “Yeah. Pa says there’s something not right in his head. That’s why he’s not supposed to drink; the doc said it makes him worse.”

  “That must be scary for you.”

  “I’m not scared.” Francis walked a few steps before speaking again. “I try to stay away from him as much as I can.”

  “Don’t you go to school?”

  Francis shook his head. “Do you?”

  “I do. Well, I will next school year again.”

  “Maybe I can go then, too.”

  “I think that would be nice. And then you wouldn’t have to be around your brother as much.”

  Francis nodded. “That’s a good idea. Not because I’m scared, though.”

  “I know.”

  “Where did your scar come from? Francis looked down. After burying the dog, he had stripped off his filthy shirt and now the long white scar that led from just below his ribcage to somewhere beneath his belly button was visible.

  “It was pretty stupid. I almost died.”

  “Tell me please.”

  Francis looked embarrassed to tell about it, but he did.

  “We were playing in the hay loft when I was six. Just my brother and me. That’s when we still got along. We were jumping off the bales in the top loft. Then we got the idea to take the pitchfork and toss a few bales down to the ground below so we could jump from the top loft down to the bottom.”

  He paused and shrugged at Delia as they walked. “It was all a little confusing. My brother was trying to pick up one of the bales. It was damp, so it was heavy. I came over to help and just then, he jerked up with the pitchfork. It tore through the bale and stuck me through the gut. He was pulling so hard it ripped all the way up my side.”

  “Wow,” was all Delia could say.

  “Yeah, it was really, really bad. My mother was hysterical and my father was furious at Larry. The doc got me stitched up inside and out. Afterwards, I got a real bad fever and they didn’t think I was gonna live because of the pitchfork being so dirty or something. I don’t remember that part so much; I guess my brain must have been pretty hot.”

  Delia nodded. It made sense to her.

  “After I got better, things were never the same with me and Larry. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I think my father put some real bad beatings on him. They blamed him, you kn
ow, 'cause he was the older one and should have known better. There wasn’t anything I could say about it. After that, as he got older, he started drinking real bad. No one wants him to work for them on account of him being so mean.”

  “So you’re stuck at home with him.”

  “That’s about it. I won’t always be stuck there, though. Pa says I don’t have a lot of prospects 'cause I don’t know how to read or anything, but someday I’m gonna get out of here.”

  “Me, too.” Delia took his hand in hers as they walked.

  When they finally reached her aunt and uncle’s house, Delia expected Francis to turn away and head home, but instead, he took one of her hands and walked with her up to the porch. Aunt Deb was in the kitchen and saw them coming so she came out onto the porch to meet them.

  She took one look at Delia then hollered into the house for Uncle Don. Don burst out onto the porch.

  “What the hell is going on here? Why are you so late?”

  He sized Francis up and down. “Why does my niece look like this, young man? You answer me now, 'cause I know your pa.”

  “Sir, there was an accident at my house and a dog was hit by a lawnmower. Delia helped me bury the dog, as he was my dear friend. That’s why she’s a mess, and that’s why she’s late. It’s on account of me, sir.”

  Don was quiet for a moment. “All right, then. Get on out of here. I’m sure you're supposed to be home by now.”

  “Yes, sir. There’s one more thing, though.”

  Deb, Don and Delia looked at him curiously.

  “I’d like your permission to be her boyfriend.”

  Aunt Deb gasped behind them.

  “What?” Delia yelled.

  Don did a double take and looked at Delia. “You spoke?”

  “That’s something you should be asking me,” Delia continued, “not my uncle.” She stared him down with such ferocity that Francis didn’t say a word.

  Finally, Don broke the silence. “All right, boy, time for you to go. Just be careful around my niece.” He said it with a chuckle and a stern look in Francis’s direction.