Ink and Bone(21)

She sat and squeezed the udders in her hand, they were soft and warm and malleable as clay. She was getting good at it and soon the creamy liquid shot in sharp streams, hitting the side of the bucket with a zing.

The work was hard, and it used to be that she had to take a lot of breaks—her fingers and arms burning with effort. But she was getting stronger. The other girl had showed her how to do it, the same one who told her to stay away from the pigs. She’d never told Penny her name, even when she’d asked. I don’t have a name, she’d said. Everyone has a name, Penny said. But the girl just shook her head and looked so sad that Penny dropped the subject.

“The trick is not to squeeze too hard. And don’t yank,” the girl said. “You have to hold the teat in your whole hand, thumb and forefinger closed around the top to keep the milk from going back up into the udder. Pull and let go. Pull and let go.”

But the other girl was gone now. Bobo said that there had been more girls, too. But they made Momma angry. They thought too much of themselves, or they made too much noise, complained, weren’t helpful. They were too pretty, made Momma jealous. Not ugly like you.

Penny slowed down toward the end, because she didn’t want to bring the bucket up to the house. She rested her forehead against the velvety brown cow, enjoying every squeeze. But eventually the job was done. So she kissed Cow and lifted the heavy bucket by the handle and carried it to the door that stood open. Her stomach bottomed out when she saw the two upstairs lights on, glowing like two staring monster eyes. All around the clearing was a thick, dark stand of trees.

Those woods are haunted, Bobo had said. Full of demons and ghosts. She didn’t believe him at first, but she knew now that it was true. In the night, when she lay sleepless, thinking of that faraway place, crying, she’d heard all kinds of things—screaming, weeping, angry voices yelling. Sometimes there was howling. Worse than all of that, on certain nights there seemed to be a strange whispering coming from the trees themselves. The sound was nowhere and everywhere. Even if she covered her ears, she could still hear it, the sound of a million voices talking ever so softly.

Still every night, she wondered if she shouldn’t just take her chances in those woods. Don’t bother trying to run. He’ll get you. And anyway you have nowhere to go. Bobo was right; her family was gone, she had no idea where in the world she was. In the end, she just lay there praying. We can talk to God, her daddy had always told her. He listens.

She wasn’t sure that was true. Because she had been talking every night, but the answers that came didn’t seem like they were coming from God.

With the woods dark around the clearing, and the light breaking, the moon fading, Penny hauled the bucket toward the big house.





SIX


Squeak-clink. Squeak-clink. Squeeeaaak-clink.

“Oh. My. God,” said Finley, pulling the pillow pointlessly over her head.

Squeak-clink. Squeak—clink.

When she finally yanked the pillow away, the light in her room was too bright, too golden. She’d overslept.

“Seriously?” she groaned to no one.

Her back ached like the worst sunburn or like someone had repeatedly punched her there. And she had a Rainer hangover—head pounding with regret, stomach queasy with self-recrimination. Even though nothing happened, she shouldn’t have gone to see him. Wasn’t it just really leading him on? Why was she so weak when it came to him? She reached for her phone and checked the time. If she hustled, she could go for a run, then make class. But she had no hustle that morning. None.

Instead, she got out of bed and went downstairs, still in her pajamas, still with the sound in her head. She smelled coffee. Caffeine and sugar, the answer to many of life’s problems—that’s what she needed.

“I’m still hearing it,” she called out.

When she pushed into the kitchen, Eloise was sitting at the table with Jones Cooper.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, pausing in the doorway for a second.

She thought about beating a hasty retreat to change. But then she just didn’t and continued walking over to the coffee pot instead.

She figured that Jones Cooper, retired cop turned private investigator, had probably seen a few people in their pajamas before—which in her case consisted of a black, long-sleeve tee-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. And Finley wasn’t exactly shy. Even though she didn’t know Jones that well, there was something safe and familiar about him, like he belonged in the kitchen. He had big energy, took up a lot of space. He filled the chair he sat in and made the table look small. She felt like he could get away with wearing a cowboy hat and she wished he would.

“How was your night?” asked Eloise. She rose and came to give Finley a kiss, and to get the milk for her coffee.

“Okay,” Finley said.

Her grandmother would never ask anything further like where had she gone and whom had she seen—not like Amanda, who would already have her cornered with a hundred questions. Eloise didn’t have to; even if she didn’t know precisely where Finley had gone, she knew the nature of the encounter—good or bad, healthy or unhealthy, safe or unsafe.

“Good morning, Mr. Cooper,” said Finley, glancing over at him. She could tell it wasn’t a social call. There was a seriousness to him, a gravity, as well as a manila folder in front of him.

“Good morning, Finley,” he said. “And call me Jones.”