“Sister Vern—” Dr. Malcolm began, but Sherman held up a hand to stop him.
“It was worth a try, but she says she don’t want the damn things, brother,” said Sherman. He pretended to be her savior, like he wasn’t the one to have brought the doctor up in the first place.
Dr. Malcolm’s posture stiffened at Sherman’s rebuke. “Of course, Reverend,” he said, smiling warily. “But Sister Vern, don’t think you can be rid of me altogether. I’ll be around in the morning for your blood draws and to give you your vitamin injection. I don’t want to have to come up here and fetch you. I’m an old man and my knees hurt.” It was an attempt at humor that Vern had no energy to indulge.
Vern glanced at the bruising on both her right and left arms, blurry blue petals around origins of scabbed black dots. Soon there’d be nowhere left for him to poke the needle. “Have a blessed night, Dr. Malcolm,” Vern said.
“You, too, sister. And I hope you get some rest,” he said.
“Night, brother,” said Sherman, and shut the bedroom door harder than was necessary after the doctor left. She startled but did her best to pay him no mind. Vern plaited her hair into four long stumps. “He’s right, you know. You need sleep. Good, hard sleep,” Sherman said.
Vern walked to the window and, after shoving the floral-printed curtains to the side, opened it.
“I suggest a compromise,” Sherman said.
Vern grasped the window edge and leaned out into the night. The fog beckoned. “What kind of compromise?” she asked, squinting out into the dark. The shadow of a coyote or some other night beast lurked just out of range of her vision.
“I know you hate Dr. Malcolm’s pills. I don’t blame you. But he’s right. He only came here because he cares,” said Sherman.
Vern leaned her weight against the shallow windowsill. She felt Sherman approaching from behind and braced herself for his touch. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. “Life doesn’t have to be as hard as you make it.”
Vern pulled from Sherman’s grasp and walked to the trunk at the foot of the bed where she sat to rub tallow cream onto her elbows, knees, and feet. “So, what, Sherman, you want me to call Dr. Malcolm back so he can render me brain-dead?”
“What about some cold medicine, honey?” Sherman asked. “Some cough syrup. That stuff always knocks you out good.” He whipped it out of the right pocket of his pajama pants. How long had it been there? “Take it, baby. It’ll make you feel better,” Sherman insisted.
“It tastes like rancid jam,” said Vern.
“This isn’t a debate,” Sherman said.
Vern should’ve spat at him, or knocked him down with a swipe of her foot across his ankles. She didn’t, and with a sigh, she held out her hand. She was no better than anybody here. Nobody knew how to fight. “Give it here.”
Sherman handed her the bottle, and Vern opened the Evenyl to take a sip. Afterward, she took another. Took another inch of it until she gulped. She drank it down until it was about empty.
Sherman snatched the bottle from Vern’s hands. “Enough.”
Every exchange Vern shared with Sherman was one she’d either won or lost. This one she’d almost lost by giving in and taking the medicine, but she’d taken a modicum of power back by drinking more than she should have. The noose he’d slid over her head like a necklace still had a few inches of give, and that made her cocky. “When you were a boy, did you always know you’d be like him?” she asked.
Vern looked toward the strop that hung from the hook drilled into the dresser’s side. It once belonged to Sherman’s father, Eamon Fields. His initials were branded into the leather.
“Like who?”
But Sherman knew, and the fact that he couldn’t bring himself to answer straightaway meant the insult had done its intended damage. “Like your daddy.”
Sherman grabbed a three-quarters-full glass of water sitting on the dresser and drained it in a gulp. “Be thankful, child, that I am nothing, nothing, like that man.”
“You’re right. You’re not domineering and controlling at all. Must’ve had you confused with my other husband.” Vern should not have felt so delighted to speak out of turn, but obliterating the narrative Sherman had constructed of himself made her brazen words worth it. “Do you really think you won’t do to me what he done to your mam?”
Vern braced for an eruption, but when none came she kept talking. “You know nobody believes it, that what happened to Sister Rainey was an accident. When will you permanently cripple me, too?”