By Chip Houser

It’s dark out when I hear the slow clomp of hooves on the wagon track from town. Soon I hear Pa’s voice, low and even. He has a certain kinship with old Sarge. Turns out Pa’s talking to Regina McCrake, though, who’s riding sidesaddle, lovely as can be. I run my free hand down my dress, my heart dancing. She smiles at me, not a real smile, more like she’s nervous, or scared maybe.

Pa makes a big show of helping Regina down, though she doesn’t need it. I’m glad he’s gentle with her, though it doesn’t sit right. He’s got hellfire in his blood and has never been gentle with me or Ma. God rest her soul.

We’re the same age, me and Regina. Fifteen. The McCrake farm’s up the road toward town. We’ve known each other all our lives. Lately, we mostly see each other at church. The boys there are more interested in town girls, which suits us just fine. Regina’s a true beauty, no matter they don’t see it.

I feel warm inside, thinking Pa brought her to keep me company, until he calls Regina his bride. It hasn’t been a month since Biscuit, our milk cow, kicked Ma’s head in. I figured Pa would marry again, sure, just not so quick. And not so young. Nor the woman I’m in love with.

Pa hands me the reins. “See to Sarge.”

After Ma got killed, Pa wouldn’t let me say goodbye. He said it wasn’t proper, looking on the dead. I don’t remember that from the bible, but it’s best not to cross Pa, lest he bring the hellfire. He brought it on me and Ma plenty. Better Ma got her head kicked in by Biscuit, I guess, than by Pa. He wrapped Ma in a quilt, tied her over Sarge, and walked to town. And that was that. I finished the milking, told Biscuit I knew she didn’t mean it, and kept on with my other chores.

I’m in the barn rubbing Sarge down when Pa drops a blanket on the packed dirt. “Now on, you sleep in the hayloft.” What he doesn’t say is that he offered me in trade for Regina, but the McCrake boys weren’t interested. It brings the hellfire to Pa’s eyes that I won’t encourage their attention.

The hay’s comfortable, but it’s a long while before I fall asleep. I’m worried for Regina, of course, but it’s also strange sleeping so close to where Ma died. The barn feels different, quieter, like it’s listening. Maybe I’m just accustomed to Pa’s snores rattling the house.

Past midnight, I wake up shivering. There’s just enough moonlight through the siding boards to see my breath, which isn’t natural for June. I get up, thinking Sarge might need a blanket, and that’s when I see Ma floating right there in front of me. Her hair’s pinned up pretty and she’s wearing her favorite dress. She doesn’t speak, just stares at me, head bent, hanging by a rope from the rafters. A white glow surrounds her, like the moon through the boards. I think maybe she’s a door leading somewhere brighter.

I jump, reaching for Ma, but I pass right through her. I land hard with a sound like split wood, my right ankle erupting with pain. I look up, but Ma’s gone. That must have been her spirit hanging from the rafters. Did she hang herself? That’s not Christian, Pa wouldn’t allow it—

Suddenly, I understand. Ma wouldn’t wear her best dress for milking. Biscuit didn’t kick her. Pa lied. He was ashamed, caring more about keeping his good name than my feelings.

I try to stand, but my ankle’s broken. If I was Sarge, Pa would shoot me and dump me in the holler. But I’m not Sarge. I crawl to the splitting maul, the closest thing to a crutch nearby. I see stars as I pull myself up the handle, and stand on my good foot. The other is heavy as a log.

I hobble across the yard. It’s plenty warm outside. The maul shines in the moonlight, except where something dark has dried on the flat end. Sap doesn’t dry that color.

Inside the house, I get cold sweats looking at the stairs. I take them slowly, lifting my throbbing ankle each time Pa sucks in a breath, biting my collar against the pain. Halfway up, I lean against the wall. Pasted to my back, my nightgown is cool against the rough-hewn wood. Between Pa’s snores, I hear Regina’s soft cries. She deserves better, just like Ma did. Like I do. I’m going to do right by us and give Pa a taste of his own hellfire.

~

In the morning, my ankle’s purple and black, taut as a squash. I scream as Regina wraps it up tight. I can’t stand on it long, but it’ll heal. Until then, I’ll make do. The thought of Pa being gone helps with the pain.

We wrap the blanket around Pa and pull him off the bed. The thud is ugly when he hits the floorboards. Regina goes down the stairs first, pulling Pa behind her. I follow, leaning on the maul. I think of Ma every time his head hits a step.

Sarge stands quietly while we wrestle Pa over his back.

Regina walks Sarge toward town. I watch her go, thinking about Ma, hoping she’ll rest easier now that we’re all free of Pa. The sheriff won’t take much persuading—after all, it’s not Biscuit’s fault I’m clumsy and broke my ankle getting down from the loft, or that Pa wasn’t used to milking her. Besides, the sheriff knows all about Pa’s hellfire. Not that he ever did anything about it.

The sheriff will check with us every Sunday at church, as will all the single boys now that Pa’s land might be theirs. We’ll be just fine, though, a couple of tough farm girls like us.