Devils Unto Dust(19)

“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.