“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was looking for your grandpa,” Randy said, pulling his red McDonough Feed and Seed cap from his head and kneading it between his large fingers.
“Josie,” came Matthew’s raspy voice. “Time to go.” Then seeing Randy, his face changed, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Can I help you?” he asked Randy.
“No, no,” Randy said in a rush. “I was just stopping in to see if there was anything I can do to help out. See if you needed any help with chores and such. I’m so sorry about what happened. Man,” he shook his head, “I just can’t imagine.”
After Matthew sent Randy Cutter on his way, Josie stayed close to her grandfather as they did the chores. He milked the nannies while Josie watered and fed the goats. Flies buzzed about Josie’s head as she scooped grain into the feed bunks and then added fresh hay atop the loose hay that was already there.
Josie got to the final bunker and started pouring in the grain when a putrid odor filled her nose. She covered her face with her hand. Goats had a strong scent, especially the billy goats, but that wasn’t what she smelled.
It was a distinctive odor. Animals were always dying on the farm. Whether it be a goat, chicken, or a nighttime visitor like a possum or raccoon, animals died, and their stink was unmistakable. Josie knew that she couldn’t let the goats feed from bunks that contained a carcass. She was carefully pawing through the three feet of hay that lined the bottom of the bunk in search of the animal when she saw it. The deep indigo of denim. Josie paused. It was so out of place, so foreign a sight, it took a moment for her to register what she was seeing.
Josie tugged on the fabric, but it resisted. She brushed away more hay and more denim appeared. A shudder crept up her spine as the smell grew stronger. Josie knew she should stop and get her grandfather, but still, she swept aside the hay, slowly working her way up the length of the bunk until the dark blue turned pale, not much lighter than the hay it was sitting in.
Still not sure what she was seeing, Josie leaned in more closely to get a better look. It was a hand, palm facing upward. Cupped as if ready to receive something, a coin or communion. Then Josie saw them. The scars. He had gotten them when he fell into a barbwire fence when he was fourteen. Tore the flesh clean across his palm in a ragged X.
It was Ethan.
32
When the snows first came, the girl would stand on her chair beneath the window and watch the dancing flakes fall to the ground. She longed to reach through the glass and catch the white crystals in the palm of her hand. They looked like glittering stars.
All the lights were to be turned off when the sun went down, so darkness came early. The little girl and her mother spent much of their time listening for her father’s footsteps above and huddled near the space heater to keep warm.
The girl’s father consistently brought them food now, even including treats like snack cakes and small plastic containers of pudding. Still, her mother didn’t trust him. She rationed their meals, always making sure they had enough cans of chicken noodle soup and ravioli, jars of peanut butter, and tins of tuna fish in case he decided to stay away for an extended time again.
Though her mother always gave her a larger portion at mealtime, there was always a gnawing in the girl’s stomach, an emptiness that was never quite filled.
Her mother was quiet and often lost in thought. The girl had to repeat things two or three times before she would answer. Her mother paced, often stopping at the bottom of the stairs to look up at the locked door. The girl was left to read and color and amuse herself on her own.
One day, her mother climbed a few of the steps but then quickly came back down. The next day, she went one step higher. This went on for days. Up four steps, up five steps, up six, until she finally reached the top. The girl held her breath. Would she open the door? Her father would be so angry. Her mother stood there for a long time but in the end, came back down.
One evening, her father came bursting through the door carrying a plastic bag. “I’m having a few people over tonight,” he said. No one ever came to the house, at least no one that the girl knew about. “Who?” the girl asked, but her father silenced her with a sharp look.
“You have to be quiet, I mean it. Not a sound,” he said. “They’ll be here in a little bit.” He reached into the plastic bag. The girl was hoping it was a carton of strawberries—they were her favorite. Instead, he pulled out a round silver roll of tape.
Next to the girl, her mother stiffened. “What’s that for?” she asked warily.