Then the tip of the knife slashed across the top of the swollen mass. Fluid gushed out and ran over her eye and down her cheek. Mattie whimpered.
“Hold that cloth underneath it,” William said, shoving one in her hands. “Let all that stuff come out.”
She pressed the cloth against her eye, underneath the wound, which felt like a flowing waterfall on her face. More and more fluid ran out, a deflating balloon. Her eye, relieved of the intense pressure, already felt better.
William had taken the other cloth and was dipping it in cold water. He returned to the table holding a sliver of soap and the wet cloth.
When it seemed like Mattie’s eye was mostly done running, he gestured for her to take the cloth away. He dabbed at the cut with the wet cloth, then rubbed the sliver of soap over it. Mattie cried out as the soap touched the open wound.
“I know it stings,” he said. He almost seemed gentle then, almost like he cared about her. “But we’ve got to get it clean or else it will get infected. And what will I do if my girl is sick?”
William hated it when she got sick. He hated it when she couldn’t take care of herself, when she couldn’t cook or clean or look after him. He never hit her when she was ill—she thought that some part of him considered it unfair to strike her when she was already weak—but he would stomp around the cabin growling like an angry bear until she was back to normal.
He rinsed out the soap by holding the wet cloth over her face and squeezing water into it. Mattie bit her bottom lip hard while he was doing this. Then he fetched a fresh cloth to dry it.
“Press that against it,” he said, and started preparing the needle.
William had big hands, and he was often rough with them, so Mattie was always a little surprised that he could do careful, delicate work like stitch up her eye. He could have been cruel about it, could have tugged the needle through any which way, but she could feel him neatly and precisely stitching the thread in an orderly line. She tried not to think about the needle going in and out, pushing through her skin, pulling the thread along behind it.
It seemed like forever, but she knew it was only the work of a few moments. Finally he said, “That’s all done.”
“Thank you, William,” she said, because she knew that she was supposed to.
Then she collected all the dirty cloths and the needle, which was bright with slicks of her own blood, and took everything away to clean it.
William moved around the room, sorting all of his new gear and adding some of the old. Then he sat down at the table to clean and check over the new rifle he’d bought.
As Mattie washed the dirty cloths and hung them up to dry, she wondered where William had gotten the money to pay for all of those things. She knew he must have money in the trunk in the bedroom, but how had he earned that money? He didn’t work any kind of job that she could see, and they didn’t make anything on the mountain that he could sell. Could he really have years and years of money to support them in that trunk?
I have to get inside it. I have to, without William knowing.
The keys that he always took with him when he left the cabin were hanging on a hook near the door now. They seemed to call her, to tempt her.
If you touch the keys, he’ll know. You can’t do anything that will make him angry, that will make him hurt you so that you can’t escape.
She wondered if there was a way for her to jimmy the trunk lock without using a key. She’d have to be careful, though—so, so careful. If there was a scratch on the lock or any sign that she’d been inside it . . .
She put thoughts of the trunk away. There was laundry to be washed, which was always a tiresome task in the winter as the clothes would have to be strung near the fire to dry instead of outside in the sunshine.
Her eye no longer throbbed, but it hurt where William had made and stitched the cut. The lid was slowly peeling back, however, and she could see faint, cloudy shapes again. This was slightly disorienting, as one eye could see clearly and the other couldn’t.
William put on his boots and then took one of the bottles from the table, tucking it in his pocket. “Going to take that trap out and lay it now.”
Mattie glanced at the heavy-looking metal object. “Do you need me to help you carry it?”
He snorted a little laugh. “You’ve got no muscles to carry something like that, Mattie my girl. I bought a sled when I was in town, in any case. How do you think I carried all those things up the mountain by myself?”
She didn’t answer, because that little laugh had made her pause. When was the last time she heard William laugh? Years. It had been years.