Devils Unto Dust(61)

Someone knocks on the door and I jerk violently.

“Willie,” Micah calls. “Dinner’s ready, come down.”

I open my eyes just a crack, afraid of what I’ll see, but my skin has grown back, clean and pink and whole. I lean back and gasp with relief, making a sound that’s half laughter and half groan.

“Willie?”

“I’m—I’m here,” I say, my voice breaking.

“Will? Are you all right?”

I get to my feet, trembling and exhausted. I’m really starting to lose it, but right now I don’t even care, thankful my arm is in one piece again. Whatever that was, that darkness inside of me, I never want to see it again.

Micah pounds on the door but I don’t answer. It’s time, long past time I told him. He’s going to be so angry with me. I don’t know which will upset him more, that I let myself get sick or that I lied to him. Knowing Micah, it will be the lie.

“Willie?” His voice is rising, loud through the wood. “Open up right now.”

I reach for the handle and slowly open the door. Micah stares at me, his brows a flat line of worry. And I look back at his eyes, my eyes, our father’s eyes, and my throat closes up.

“What the hell, Will?” he asks. “What’s going on?”

I open my mouth, but the words burn and die on my tongue. I can’t form the thoughts, can’t find my voice. I cradle my injured hand in the other and look away.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, and I am. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for failing, I’m sorry for lying, and I’m sorry for being weak. Because maybe Micah could take the truth, but I can’t take him hearing it. “I was asleep. Bad dream, I reckon.”

His lips curl down at the edges. “Why do you bother lying to me when you know I can tell?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

Micah looks over my face, my wet hair, and he takes a step forward. I throw my good hand out, blocking his path, and he stops.

“You can talk to me, you know,” Micah says. “I just—I wish you would trust me.”

“I do,” I say quietly. It’s me I don’t trust. “Go on and start without me. I’ll be down directly.”

Micah is still staring at me when I shut the door. I listen until I hear his footsteps fade and brace my head against the wood, as cold and heavy as all the words left unsaid.





49.


I don’t have a clean scrap of cloth for my hand, but I reckon the air might do it good now that it’s drained. My new shirt is too big and I let the sleeves hang down to my fingers, low enough to hide the cut. My dirty bandage and the washrag get stuffed into my pockets; they’re covered in blood and pus, and I don’t want anyone else to handle them. The rest I think is safe, the water will get dumped and the towel will get washed with harsh lye soap. It’s reckless and weak to let it go this long, but at least no one here will get sick because of me; I don’t want that on my conscience.

I head downstairs and through the empty parlor, following the sounds of chatter and the clink of forks. The parlor leads me to the entrance hall, and I go through the opposite door into the dining room.

I pause at the entrance, unsure of myself; there are unfamiliar faces sitting around the end of the table, two men and a woman, and they all turn to look at me. The woman has a scar cutting across one eyebrow, and I stare for a moment until she scowls at me.

“Down here,” Curtis calls, waving at me from the other end. I nod at the strangers and quickly make my way over to my group, which now includes Levi, the hunter from the gate. The table is long, almost the length of the room, and covered with steaming platters.

“We saved you a seat,” Sam says, his mouth full of food.

I sit down between the two boys gratefully.

“Thanks.”

Ben, Levi, and Curtis are sitting across from us, and I sneak a look down the table as I tuck my napkin in my lap.

“Who’re those folks?” I ask in a whisper.

“Other hunters,” Curtis says. “Don’t pay them no mind.”

“They’re here for the food,” Levi says. “Mrs. Keen always outdoes herself.”

“Try the corn pudding,” Sam says, spooning a lump of the yellow mash onto my plate.

I’m slightly overwhelmed by the amount of food laid out on the table. In addition to the pudding, there’s a thick pea soup, roast chicken with some sort of sauce, currant jelly, and small boiled onions. I pile my plate with some of everything, but as I start to chew on a bite of onion I realize I’m not even a little hungry. In fact, the smell of the food is making my stomach turn, and the burnt edges of the meat remind me too much of my rotting insides.

I force myself to swallow what’s in my mouth and take a long drink of water to wash the taste away. I put my fork down and stare at my plate, at the mound of food I have no appetite for. It looks more like a challenge now.

“Not hungry?” Micah asks, glancing at me.

“No, I just—I think I’ll start with the soup,” I say. I can manage that much; I have to eat, I need to, to keep my strength up. I shovel the soup into my mouth, spoonful after spoonful, before my stomach has a chance to reject it. It goes down easy enough, but it might as well be watered-down broth for all I’m enjoying it. All these years spent eating grits and beans, and now here’s a wasted feast in front of me. I would laugh, if it were at all funny.