“Too right, you’re sorry. Now what happened to the plate?”
They all start to talk at the same time, and I close my eyes and sigh.
“Never mind,” I say. “It don’t matter. Just—just all of you, clear out and go wash up.”
The boys and Cath file out of the kitchen dejectedly while I turn back toward the door to pick up the largest pieces of broken pottery. Of course it would be one of our good plates, the ones my parents got for their wedding, and not the usual dented tin ones. There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn to see Sam holding the broom, sweeping the smaller pieces into a pile.
“Thank you.”
“Sorry,” Sam says with a guilty grin. “I shoulda been keeping a closer eye.”
“You just would’ve seen it break closer.”
“I guess y’all had a rough time this morning,” Sam says. “It’s enough to make anyone rowdy.”
“Micah told you about it?” I dump the shards of porcelain out the window, where no doubt I’ll step on them later.
“Yeah. That was a real low move of your pa, to skip town. It ain’t your fault he stole that money, and y’all shouldn’t have to pay for it.”
Anger bubbles up in my throat, scratchy and sour. He may come over every day, it may be the truth, but Sam isn’t kin; he hasn’t earned the right to talk about Pa like that. I know he’s a thief and a scoundrel, but he’s still my pa. He still sang songs to us and made Ma laugh, and when he came home drunk and flush he would pick up the twins, one in each arm, and dance them around the kitchen.
“Sam, I appreciate your concern, but this is a family affair and I’m not having this talk with you. Now I need to start dinner, and I hate to be rude, but I can’t feed any extra mouths.”
Sam hands me the broom quietly and gets his hat from the rack.
“I didn’t mean to offend. I’m sorry.”
The door closes softly, and I wince. Now I feel mean; I wish Sam had slammed the door, so I could be self-righteous in my anger, but that’s never been his way. I sit down heavily at the table, ashamed. Now I’m a bully as well as a liar; this has been a poor day for my character. Dinner doesn’t wait for self-pity, though, and I have to set the beans to soaking.
I find the sugar sack abandoned on the table and start to unpack it, putting the hominy and flour in the pantry and the dried apricots in a bowl. I pour out a good portion of the beans into a pot and cover them with water so they’ll soften before I cook them. I feel around the bottom of the sack and find Elsie has added a surprise: a small jar of sorghum molasses. I send out a silent thank you, hoping it makes its way to her. I save the twisted bit of paper for last, trying to guess what’s inside; with Bess, you never know. I unwrap the paper carefully and almost cry at the handful of peppermint drops. They’re sticky with age, but I can’t help myself: I immediately pop one in my mouth and let the cool sugar melt on my tongue. The rest I pour into my favorite chipped coffee cup that I hide on the top shelf of the pantry.
There’s still some meat left from the last snakes Micah and I killed, though it’s maybe a day away from turning. I cut the strips into smaller cubes, stretching it as far as it will go. I’ll throw it into the pot last, after the beans are all but done; snake is lean, and falls apart quickly. I turn to grab a rag to wipe my hands when a flash of brightness scurries across the wall and I jump back with a stifled screech.
“Calvin!” I yell, throwing my rag at the lizard now sunning in the window. “Get that yellow-bellied monster out of my kitchen or we’re having lizard for supper.”
Cal rushes in, crooning to his beloved pet. “Come here, Goldie,” he says, gently prying the lizard from the glass and cradling it to his chest. I’ll never understand his attachment to that scaly thing, but he loves it more than anything. Cal has always been like that with animals, and I guess you take what you can get when there’s nothing soft and furry to hold. I doubt that lizard even wants to be here, but it hasn’t found its way out of the house yet.
I drain the beans and start them cooking, adding a pinch of salt and some of the molasses for a touch of sweetness. This past year I’ve managed to become a half-decent cook. I would be better if I had more to work with, but like Calvin and Goldie, you do the best with what you’re given.
14.
“So what now?” Micah asks, setting bowls out on the table. “Does Elsie have extra work for us? I can do repairs at the Homestead if she’ll let me. We won’t come up with four hundred selling skins.”
I stir the beans, making sure they don’t stick to the bottom.
“Will? What are we gonna do about the money?”
I fish a bean out of the pot with my spoon and blow on it. “I took care of it,” I say, half under my breath.
“What? What does that mean?”
The bean is hot and doesn’t put up any resistance as I chew. I take longer than I need to swallow, delaying my answer.
“Willie, what did you do?” Micah’s voice is thick with distrust.
I steel myself and turn to face him. “I hired a hunter. I’m going after Pa.”
“You hired a hunter.” Micah stares at me dumbly. I take advantage of his momentary silence and shout for the twins.
“Catherine, Calvin, come sit down. Dinner’s almost ready.” Micah’s still staring at me, so I keep going. “I’m leaving for Best first thing tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving for Best.”
“Please stop repeating everything I say,” I tell him crossly.
“A hunter? Will, he’s likely to take you halfway and leave you for dead.”
“What other choice do we got? We need four hundred dollars, and I don’t know how else to get it.”
“You really think you can find him?”
“He’s only a day ahead—if I catch up, maybe I can get to him before he loses all of it.”
“He could’ve spent it already, Will, you know how Pa is with money.”
“I know. And if I have to, I’ll drag him back to Glory. We’re not taking the blame, not this time.” My voice is steady, but inside I’m shrinking; I hope it doesn’t come to that. I can feel Micah’s eyes on me, feel the judgment coming off him. “I know he’s our pa, but if it will keep us safe—”
“To hell with Pa,” Micah interrupts. “He don’t deserve any kindness from us. What about you? Do you know how many people die on the road? How many just disappear?”
“You got a better plan, I’m all ears.” Micah looks down. “That’s what I thought. Look, I’ll have two hunters with me. That’s as safe as I can make it.”
“Two? How’d you wrangle that?”
“They’re brothers, they work together.”
“Willie,” Micah says slowly, “how can we afford two hunters?”
Damn. I was hoping he wouldn’t catch on. “We can’t,” I say, shrugging. “But they don’t know that.”
Micah makes a strangled sound in his throat. “They’ll kill you when they find out.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. And I ain’t so easy to kill, you know.” I smile, but Micah won’t budge.
“I’m going with you,” he says.
“Like hell you are.”
“I’m serious, Willie. You want to go on the road with two hunters who have reason to kill you? If something happens, what are the twins and me gonna do? Did you even think about that?”
I sigh. “Micah, please. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Don’t do that,” Micah says, his face screwed up in frustration. “Don’t act like this is only up to you.”
“It is,” I snap at him. “I’m the one responsible for everyone. You don’t have to point out how risky this is, Micah, believe me, I know. But until something happens to me, I am in charge of this family, and I will decide how to take care of it. So you are staying here and watching the twins and that’s final.”
Micah glares at me and I glare back.
“Now sit down and eat your damn beans. Cath, Calvin!”
“Hands,” I order, and it comes out harsher than I mean it. I take a deep breath and swallow my anger as the twins hold up their hands. Filthy; I doubt they used any soap at all.
“Those are the opposite of clean,” I tell them. “Just sit down.”
It’s not a pleasant meal; Micah shoots daggers at me, but when I look up he refuses to meet my eyes. I don’t have much appetite, so I push my beans around in my bowl until the twins are almost finished.
“I gotta talk to you about something important,” I tell them, setting down my spoon. “You remember what happened this morning.”
“Of course we do,” Cath says.
“It was only this morning,” Calvin adds.
“Hush,” I tell them, “and let me finish. You heard what that man said; we’re in trouble unless we do what he wants. So I went to the Homestead today and I hired a hunter. I’m going to be leaving for a few days, but I’ll be back soon.”
I’m greeted with silence as the twins stare at me, stunned. Micah just looks bored, examining his beans closely.
“Micah will take care of everything while I’m gone. Make sure you mind him, now.”
“Is this because we broke the plate?” Catherine looks like she’s fighting back tears, and something inside me twists.
“No, Cath, it ain’t about the plate,” I say gently.
“We’re sorry. We won’t break things no more. Please don’t leave.”
“It was Micah’s fault!” Calvin says, glaring at Micah accusingly.
“I’m not trying to punish you. I’m leaving to find Pa,” I explain. “Don’t you want me to find him?”
“No,” Cath says, her face screwed up tight.
“You don’t mean that,” I tell her.
“Yes I do. He’s never here anyhows.”
“Micah, tell Willie she can’t go,” Calvin orders.
“Enough, both of you,” I tell them. “This is not up for discussion. I’m leaving tomorrow, and that’s the end of it.”
“I hate you,” Catherine says, and pushes her chair away from the table. She runs outside, slamming the door behind her. Calvin follows his twin loyally, his small shoulders hunched.
“They took it well,” Micah says from across the table.
I sigh and cover my face with my hands. “You gonna start in again?”
He shrugs stiffly, poking at the last of his beans.
“Why should I? It won’t make no difference. You’re going whether I like it or not, so I won’t waste my breath.”
“Micah, it ain’t like I planned this,” I say angrily. “I don’t want to leave.”
“Liar.”
“’Scuse me?”
“You do so want to leave.” Always the bone-truth. “Tell me you’re not happy it worked out like this. Tell me you’re not itching to leave.”
“Micah—” I don’t know what to say that won’t be a lie. “It’s not forever.”
“Sure it ain’t.”
“You think I’d do that? You think I’d leave you all behind?” And it cuts me, because I want to, I want to so badly that Micah can read it on my face.
“I think if I could I’d walk out of this life and never come back,” Micah says quietly. And I wish he was still angry, because the anger I can handle, not this; not this calm resignation, like he’s already seen all of the world and found nothing redeeming in it. He sighs mightily and shakes his head. “Just watch your back, big sister. I don’t trust anyone else to do it proper.”
“I will.” I force a lopsided smile. “Finish up, little brother, and help me with these dishes.”
15.
I can’t sleep. I try counting my heartbeats, but every noise and stray piece of straw poking through my mattress conspires to keep me awake. This is the last night I’ll have in my own bed for who knows how long, but there’s no comfort to be found. My eyes are wide open and staring into the darkness, weaving shapes out of nothingness. I hug my knees to my chest, folding myself up into the smallest form possible. The twins are sleeping in Micah’s bed tonight, a final act of punishment. I listen for their breathing; the silence is loud in my ears.
I wish Micah wasn’t so smart, or I was less easy for him to read. I do want out of Glory. I want all of us out. There must be somewhere better out there, somewhere we can breathe and stretch and dream, somewhere we could have a future. Ma tried to get us out, years ago, when things started going cross-eyed. But hunters cost money, and by the time she’d saved enough the twins were here and no hunter in his right mind would take four children into the desert. So the money got spent and Ma got sick, and it’s all I can do to keep us fed and inside the fence. We’re good and stuck in Glory for as long I can see, and this may be the only chance I get to leave. Maybe it’s selfish and greedy, but I’m going.
It’s no use; I won’t be sleeping tonight. I sit up and feel for the matches I keep on my nightstand. The stink of sulfur fills the air as I strike one and light the small stub of a candle by my bed. The flame flickers and holds, chasing back the shadows with one sharp, wavering point of brightness. I pick up the small pile of cloth on the floor and bring it to my lap, unfolding the corners of the rag to examine the items inside. A spool of thread and a needle, the penny knife Micah fixed, another set of matches, a spare shirt and drawers, wool socks, and a small mirror that my mother gave me. I don’t expect I’ll find much use for it, but I want something of hers to take with me. Funny how everything I own in life can fit into so small a bundle, seventeen years contained in my lap.
I tie the corners back together and peel my blanket off my bed, then roll the bundle in the threadbare quilt and secure it with two pieces of twine; it should not be too heavy, though five pounds can feel like fifty a ways down the road. I take off my scratchy nightgown and dip my hands in the washbasin, bracing myself for the cold water. In the soft light I can just make out a bruise spreading across the knuckles of my left hand and I flex it, testing the soreness. I splash some water on my face, and when the worst of the shivers have passed I get the washrag and go to work on the rest of me.
The almost-morning air dries my damp skin while I let my hair out of its braid. I run my fingers through the worst of the tangles before I tightly plait it again. I get dressed, pulling on my worn britches and boots and my second-cleanest shirt. It started life as a bright white, but I’ve washed it so many times it’s turned gray. Still, it’s soft and I’ve only had to mend it twice. My heart hammers in my chest as I button my shirt, and my fingers are nervy as I secure my belt. I take a deep breath, trying to relax. I’ll never make it through the day at this rate.
I’m not hungry at all, but I know I’ll regret it later if I don’t eat. The leftover beans are cold and congealed, but I force myself to swallow a few bites. Some hominy goes into my trusty sugar sack, along with dried fruit and cornmeal. If I can find a way to boil water, I can make hoecakes. I fill a canteen with water, hoping the Garretts have more, or it’s going to be a long and thirsty day.
I can smell dawn coming, a subtle shift in the air. It’s time to go if I want to make it to the gate on time. I load my revolver, carefully slipping each round into the chamber. I holster the gun to my belt and fill up a small drawstring pouch with extra cartridges and fifty dollars, which I hang around my neck. This time I slide my long dirk knife into its sheath, reassured by the feel of a weapon on each hip. I get my hat and my duster coat, and put my blanket roll, canteen, and sugar sack by the door. I stare at my effects for a moment, certain that I’m forgetting something, but all that’s left is the leaving.
I hesitate at Micah’s bed, but I have to say good-bye, no matter how mad they are. A small body shifts in the darkness and sits up.
“Willie?”
“It’s time,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Cath. Love.”
I hold my breath until I hear her answer.
“Love,” she says softly.
“Love,” comes an identical voice.
“Will?”
“Yeah, Micah?”
“This time mean it.”
My smile trembles in the darkness. “I’ll be careful. Be good to each other. I’ll be home soon.”
16.
It’s cool out with the sun still hiding. My legs feel jumpy, like I want to run, and I give them a firm stamp to get the nerves out. I can’t be wasting my energy this early in the day. Picturing the look on Benjamin Garrett’s face if I start to tire sobers me up plenty. I wish it were just his brother taking me to Best, but I suppose he wishes the same thing.
Sam’s house is dark as I pass by. The doc is almost never home, he’s too busy patching up the knife wounds and bullet holes the hunters like to hand out. I have a feeling Sam will be staying at our house for the next few days; he hates to be alone. I hope he and Micah don’t ignore the twins for too long, or they’re bound to set fire to the place. I’ll make it up to them when I get back, I promise myself. I’ll teach them how to sing “The Lonely Cowpoke,” with all the dirty words. They’ll like that, and it will annoy Micah to boot.
When I get to the fork in the road, I go left, instead of right to the Homestead. The gate is up ahead, a small break in the looming barbed wire. It’s made of thick planks of wood as tall as a man and only opens from the inside. There’re two guards on it at all times, bored hunters the Judge rotates through, and it’s my luck that today one of them is Amos Porter. He’s kin to Old Bess, a great nephew or second cousin or some such thing, and for all he’s a hunter, he’s never been anything but kind to me.
“Good morning to you, Miss Wilcox,” Amos calls to me, his rifle cradled across his wide chest.
“Good morning, Mr. Porter.”
“Where’s your brother at? You goin’ out snake hunting alone?”
“Not today,” I tell him. “I’m headed to Best. My guides will be along shortly.”
Amos whistles. “Well now. Ain’t that something, first time on the Low Road. You know I see ’em all go out, don’t always see ’em come back in.”
“You’ll see me, Amos.”
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