“I’m sleeping out here,” said Vern.
Mam thought Vern had a death wish, but the truth of it was it was in her nature to poke. She liked to think of what Sherman might do if he finally lost his temper truly and backhanded her so her white cheek erupted blue. What would the folks of Cainland think of him? Some violence could be disguised as a holy cleansing, but wife-beating was wife-beating. Less easy to contort into his narrative.
“What is wrong with you, stupid girl?” he asked, perplexed. It plagued him that he didn’t understand her ways. “You’re always spoiling for a fight. Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you just so damn tired of fighting? Come to bed and rest.”
Vern squeezed her top row of teeth to her bottom, jaw aching. “What if I don’t? You going to kill me?”
“Vern,” said Sherman. “I’m not playing with you tonight. Come to bed.” The screen door snapped shut behind him as he returned inside.
No matter what people thought, Vern didn’t have a death wish. She could leave well enough alone, and for that very reason was about to follow Sherman back inside. She stopped because she saw Brother Jerome approaching. “Evening, sister,” he said, and waved.
Vern hopped from the railing onto the porch. The suddenness of the movement startled Brother Jerome and he jumped back. “Shouldn’t you be getting upstairs so I can lock you down for the night?” asked Jerome.
Vern sighed loudly and exaggeratedly. “I don’t know. Should I? If I was really so dangerous in my sleep, I’d break out my straps, sleepwalk to your house, come in, and strangle you. Now, have I ever done anything of the kind?” Vern said.
Brother Jerome laughed, but the sound was syncopated and unsure.
“Am I joking?” she asked.
“You are something else, Vern.”
That was how Cainites politely expressed displeasure in Vern. Lately, it seemed someone said that to her at least once a day. Her small rebellions of yesteryear had turned big and disruptive. It’d been days since she’d done any chores. The goats whined, distended with milk she didn’t harvest. Corn bread grew stale on the kitchen counter, untended since the last lunch she made.
Sherman blamed the pregnancy hormones. He laughed gently whenever anyone brought up Vern’s troubles. The man was right that being with child had some effect, just not in the ways Sherman asserted. Her new belly made sleep impossible, as did all the talk of the coming child. Little Thurgood this. Little Thurgood that. Vern was nothing but the vessel. In the night, she had visions of Cainites slitting her throat after the birth, her purpose fulfilled.
Vern couldn’t worry about being a good little Cainite when her time might well be running out.
Vern paced the porch and breathed in her last taste of the night before following Brother Jerome upstairs. While he went to strap down Mam and Carmichael, Vern went to the master bedroom. Sherman wasn’t alone.
“Hello, Vern.” It was Dr. Malcolm.
This was Sherman’s punishment for the way she’d been acting up lately. She should’ve known it would be something quiet. Gentle ruinings were Reverend Sherman’s style.
“What’s he want?” Vern asked, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.
“I want the same thing Reverend Sherman wants. I’m here because this—you acting like you’ve been acting—can’t carry on, sister,” said Dr. Malcolm. He knelt close enough in front of her that she could see his face as more than a swipe of color. In his hand he held out a triangle of sedatives, pink, white, and blue. A faded American flag. “I’d like it if we could get you comfortable and settled before Brother Jerome comes in,” the doctor said, propagating the illusion that this was for her benefit.
Vern shook her head, right leg curled over her left knee and arms crossed over her chest. “I’m fine,” she said.
“Sister,” said Dr. Malcolm, “be reasonable.”
Vern picked at her cuticles, a tunnel of raw flesh emerging at the border between her nails and skin.
“What have I told you about doing that to yourself, girl?” said Sherman, taking a seat next to her. He grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it.
“I’m not taking those pills,” Vern said. Vern didn’t believe Mam’s adage about picking battles. Everything that could be contested needed contesting. She could wear opponents down by the sheer quantity of escalations.
“You’ve not been sleeping, sister,” Dr. Malcolm stated simply.
Vern doused the yawn she felt coming with a swallow of spit. “There’s worse things than being tired.” Vern preferred fatigue to the complacency Dr. Malcolm’s pills imposed. The sedatives were a glorified lobotomy, and their lulling effect protruded far beyond the sleep hours into the next day.