Ink and Bone(20)

She was never sure what time it was now. Her room didn’t have a clock or a television. She didn’t have an iPod Touch. She’d had one once, though. She remembered it with its cover that looked like a penguin. She’d been angry because her brother accidentally smudged it with purple marker that wouldn’t come out. The ink made a little smear by the eye. It looks like he got in a fight with another penguin, her brother said. And lost. (That, for some reason, had made her really mad.) But all that, too, was gone. It was better not to think about the things from before; otherwise that feeling came up. That sad, angry twist like a tornado inside her that made her do things that got her into trouble.

She sat up now in her hard cot that squeaked and wobbled beneath her. There was only one too-thin wool blanket that scratched, no sheets. The blanket was so dirty it made her skin itch and crawl, like something you’d see in a homeless person’s cart. It had that dirty-body smell, the kind that got into your nose and stayed. Penny climbed out and straightened the blanket, put the flat, yellowed pillow right, so they wouldn’t get mad at her. Lazy, ungrateful, stupid thing.

Then she walked over to the little mirror and combed her hair, pulled it into a ponytail at the base of her neck. You’re so pretty. Your hair looks like spun gold. Her mommy used to tell her that. But her mommy was gone. Now, Penny’s hair looked like straw; she had to pull her hardest just to get the cheap plastic comb through. Her mom used to spray something that smelled like apples, and the tangles would just fall away. But no one did anything like that for her anymore.

Slowly, she pulled on the jeans that were too big for her, and the boots that were too big for her, and the coat with the sleeves rolled up. Then, pushing out the narrow door into the cool air, she shuffled over toward the old red water pump. It was dark outside and the moon hung low and wide like a sad face looking down on her. She had to use both her hands and all her strength to get the pump to work. But after a few tries, the water started spilling and filling the bucket that Poppa had left there for her.

You never tasted better water out there, I’ll bet. Right?

She’d agreed because she always agreed now. She used to argue with her daddy, and he’d roll his eyes and tell her to lose the attitude and was she planning on becoming a lawyer when she grew up. But her daddy was gone, too. And when she disagreed here, bad things happened. Really bad things.

She dragged the bucket over toward the barn where she could already hear the cow lowing. A little bird was singing a sweet song up in the trees, which meant that dawn wasn’t far off. That was something she had learned here. Birds start singing before the sun comes up, just before there’s even a lick of light in the sky. She’d read in a book once, The Bumper Book of Nature, that the quiet of dawn was the very best time to hear birdsong. She wanted to write to the author and tell him that really it was right before dawn. That’s when the songs were the prettiest, as if the best singers got up before everyone else.

When Penny pulled open the big barn door, the squeaking hinges let out a sound that cut through the night and seemed to vibrate in the silence that followed. All the birds went quiet, listening. It couldn’t be helped; it wasn’t her fault that the hinge squealed like that. No matter how slowly or quietly she tried to open it, that’s the sound it made.

Penny stopped and turned around to the big house, watching. Dreading the moment when the lights came on upstairs, she drew in one breath and released it. The windows stayed dark, the birds starting chirping again, and Penny went inside the barn. The chickens fussed cluck-cluck-clucking in their coop, and Cow called out for her.

She let the chickens out into their outdoor pen and spread their feed around as a milky light broke over the horizon. Out in back, she tipped the water bucket into the trough for the pigs. There were only three, but they were huge, brown and white, dirty, rutting. There was something mean about them, something ugly. They weren’t cute and pink, like she used to imagine them. In school, she and her friends used to draw little pig snouts on the notes they wrote to each other and imagine that they wanted to have pigs for pets. But the truth was, none of them had ever even seen a real pig. Maybe there were other kinds of pigs. Pigs that didn’t have beady, intelligent eyes. Or ones that didn’t make horrible grunting noises, that weren’t twice or maybe three times as large as a girl.

She was just glad she didn’t have to feed them. Poppa did that. It was disgusting to watch them eat. She didn’t like pigs anymore.

Stay away from the pigs, the other girl had told her. She’d been blonde like Penny, with sweet, smiling eyes.

Why? Penny wanted to know.

The other little girl, who was skinnier and dirtier than anyone Penny had ever seen, swallowed hard and looked like she didn’t want to say. They’re mean.

Cow was still calling, low and mournful, but more urgently. Penny pulled the stool over and put the other bucket under the big pink udder. Then Penny petted Cow on her big nose and gave her a kiss. She loved Cow, her muscular softness, her gentle presence. Penny wrapped her arms around the cow’s big head—even though the cow was a little smelly—and gave her a hug.

Cow was the only nice thing. Her mom always asked when they were having a snack after school: What was your favorite thing about today? But Penny tried not to think too much about her mom, because it just made her sick inside, opened a big wide hole in her belly. Anyway, the answer every day now was Cow. If her mommy had asked, that’s what Penny would have told her.