Read Online The Cure for Death by Lightning by Gail Anderson-Dargatz - Free Book Online
Authors: Gail Anderson-Dargatz
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calf is a big strong creature, if clumsy, and many times, as they did this morning, they chased me from the heifer pasture.
When I returned to the house, my brother and father were at the kitchen table with their boots on. I poured them coffee and helped my mother serve their bowls of porridge and plates of eggs and sausage. I ate quickly, then took the separator bowl, spouts, discs, rubber ring, and float off the separator to wash them, and wiped out the machine. While I was cleaning, a man and his wife came to the door. The man had a red face and a loud voice. When my mother opened the door he stepped right in without waiting to be asked. The woman hung behind. She wore a gray dress with buttons all the way up her neck. Theylooked rumpled and hot, as if they’d walked a long way already that morning.
I disliked salesmen. Because we lived so close to the road and appeared to be the last house before the reserve (the Swede’s house was set far back in the woods), they always stopped by selling horse collars and harnesses, cistern pumps, gang plows, cream separators, poorly made accordions and other instruments, sewing machines, brushes, and patent medicines — all the things we could get in the Eaton’s catalogue if we really needed them.
“We’ve come to talk about the state of the world today,” said the man.
My father looked up from the breakfast table. “What do you want?” he said.
The man walked right up to the kitchen table. The woman stayed by the door, fiddling with her purse. My mother looked at her and tried to smile and then went over to the table and stood between my father and the red-faced man.
“These are terrible times,” said the man. “But they are also glorious times. The signs are everywhere. You only have to read the papers. The world is consumed by war. The coming of the Lord is at hand!”
My father made a face, shook his head, and laughed, so that the little gray woman stepped back and knocked the washbowl from the table beside the door. The bowl clattered to the floor, clattered into our ears, and clattered into my father’s head. My mother tensed. My father put his hand to his forehead and stood up as the women bent down to retrieve the bowl.
“Get out!” he said.
The red-faced man looked confused but immediately regained his ground. “We were hoping you might be generous,” he said, and both he and his wife suddenly looked sunken and hungry.
“Out!” said my father. He took the man by the shoulder and pushed him to the door.
“You wouldn’t put out a man preaching the message of the Lord. Can’t you see the warnings? The end time is near!”
My mother said, “John,” and put her hand on his arm, but he flung her hand away and marched the husband and wife out the door. The gray woman said, “Oh!” and trotted a little way. She was wearingtown shoes with heels and she limped. My father watched the couple until they rounded the corner of the driveway out of sight. Then he went to the barn. I sat at the table watching as my mother stuffed a flour sack with jars of canned fruit, jam, and bread. She took me by the elbow so urgently that I stood.
“Go out our bedroom window and catch up to them,” she said. “Explain your father’s been ill this past year.”
I pushed off my shyness and did as she asked, running the overgrown Indian trail that rounded the root cellar. I caught the strange couple as they were walking down Blood Road towards the reserve.
“Here,” I called. “Wait.”
The couple turned around and I handed the woman the bag of preserves and bread. “There isn’t anything that way,” I said.
“There’s the reserve,” the woman said. “We always do well on the reserve. The people are generous. They listen.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
The couple exchanged a look, and I felt ashamed.
“God bless you, dear.” The woman took my hand and gave it a squeeze.
When I walked back to the house, black lizards skittered away from my feet and
When I returned to the house, my brother and father were at the kitchen table with their boots on. I poured them coffee and helped my mother serve their bowls of porridge and plates of eggs and sausage. I ate quickly, then took the separator bowl, spouts, discs, rubber ring, and float off the separator to wash them, and wiped out the machine. While I was cleaning, a man and his wife came to the door. The man had a red face and a loud voice. When my mother opened the door he stepped right in without waiting to be asked. The woman hung behind. She wore a gray dress with buttons all the way up her neck. Theylooked rumpled and hot, as if they’d walked a long way already that morning.
I disliked salesmen. Because we lived so close to the road and appeared to be the last house before the reserve (the Swede’s house was set far back in the woods), they always stopped by selling horse collars and harnesses, cistern pumps, gang plows, cream separators, poorly made accordions and other instruments, sewing machines, brushes, and patent medicines — all the things we could get in the Eaton’s catalogue if we really needed them.
“We’ve come to talk about the state of the world today,” said the man.
My father looked up from the breakfast table. “What do you want?” he said.
The man walked right up to the kitchen table. The woman stayed by the door, fiddling with her purse. My mother looked at her and tried to smile and then went over to the table and stood between my father and the red-faced man.
“These are terrible times,” said the man. “But they are also glorious times. The signs are everywhere. You only have to read the papers. The world is consumed by war. The coming of the Lord is at hand!”
My father made a face, shook his head, and laughed, so that the little gray woman stepped back and knocked the washbowl from the table beside the door. The bowl clattered to the floor, clattered into our ears, and clattered into my father’s head. My mother tensed. My father put his hand to his forehead and stood up as the women bent down to retrieve the bowl.
“Get out!” he said.
The red-faced man looked confused but immediately regained his ground. “We were hoping you might be generous,” he said, and both he and his wife suddenly looked sunken and hungry.
“Out!” said my father. He took the man by the shoulder and pushed him to the door.
“You wouldn’t put out a man preaching the message of the Lord. Can’t you see the warnings? The end time is near!”
My mother said, “John,” and put her hand on his arm, but he flung her hand away and marched the husband and wife out the door. The gray woman said, “Oh!” and trotted a little way. She was wearingtown shoes with heels and she limped. My father watched the couple until they rounded the corner of the driveway out of sight. Then he went to the barn. I sat at the table watching as my mother stuffed a flour sack with jars of canned fruit, jam, and bread. She took me by the elbow so urgently that I stood.
“Go out our bedroom window and catch up to them,” she said. “Explain your father’s been ill this past year.”
I pushed off my shyness and did as she asked, running the overgrown Indian trail that rounded the root cellar. I caught the strange couple as they were walking down Blood Road towards the reserve.
“Here,” I called. “Wait.”
The couple turned around and I handed the woman the bag of preserves and bread. “There isn’t anything that way,” I said.
“There’s the reserve,” the woman said. “We always do well on the reserve. The people are generous. They listen.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
The couple exchanged a look, and I felt ashamed.
“God bless you, dear.” The woman took my hand and gave it a squeeze.
When I walked back to the house, black lizards skittered away from my feet and
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