Read Online The Cure for Death by Lightning by Gail Anderson-Dargatz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gail Anderson-Dargatz
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ran for cover. I went after a couple of them, trying to step on their tails, but my mother clanked dishes around in the wash pan in front of the kitchen window, a hint that I’d better get busy. When I carried out my chamber pail to the manure pile to empty it of night soil, I saw my parents’ pail was already there and opened the lid on it with the idea of emptying and cleaning the pail for them. It was full of water and at first I didn’t comprehend why. Then I saw the dark bodies of the new litter of kittens I’d played with that morning. The stench of night soil on the manure pile became overpowering. I took a step back as my father passed by with a bucket of chop in each hand. He said, “Bury those cats, will you?” as if he didn’t know what he’d done, as if it were just another chore for me to do.
I STOOD for a long time with my hand at my throat looking at the bucket of dead kittens. Then I removed myself and watched my hands take up a shovel, make a hole in the manure pile, and empty the foul water and the bodies of the dead kittens into it. Their bodies slid from the bucket like fish. I covered them over with manure, then followed myself to the other side of the barn, like a child following her mother. My father was there, throwing another bucket of chop to the pigs. He was wearing his town shirt, the white shirt my mother had mended for Sarah Kemp’s funeral, and the black suit pants and suspenders he saved for funerals and weddings. I followed myself up to him and watched as my hand slid into a pile of warm manure and threw it at him, hitting him in the sleeve. In the moment he looked at me, I came back to myself and ran into the house. I stood in the kitchen washing my hands beside my mother, knowing he’d follow, knowing he’d lick me good. My mother didn’t look up. She went on washing dishes even when my father stomped into the kitchen and grabbed me by the arm. She kept washing and clanking until my father let go of my arm and yelled at her.
“Stop that!” he said.
My mother stopped instantly.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he said to me. “What did you do that for?”
I looked down at my dress because my father looked at it. I’dslopped manure down my front and it had dropped off as I’d run, leaving green stains over my breasts and on my skirt.
“Look at you!” he said. “You’re filthy. Get that dress off. Wash it!”
I stepped back and my father rushed at me. “Now!” he said.
When I didn’t move he swept me up. I screamed and that made him angrier. He carried me into my room, threw me on my blue quilt, and ripped the dress from me.
“That’s enough,” said my mother.
She stood against the doorframe to my room. Her hair was coming loose from the bun she’d wound it into. My father stopped, caught off guard. He stood up straight.
“Get out of the house,” said my mother. “Now.”
I held my breath and waited, but my father only lowered his eyes and like a kicked dog he slunk from the room. My mother turned sideways to let him pass, but she didn’t let her shoulders fall, or let the air go from her chest until she heard my father’s footsteps on the porch outside. She brushed her hair from her forehead.
“I hate him,” I said.
“Get dressed,” she said.
I put on a clean brown skirt and white blouse, combed out my curls, and padded out in my bare feet. My mother heated a little cream, poured it over a slice of bread, and sprinkled it with sugar. She set the bowl in front of me. The strangeness about her had dissolved into tiredness. She had rubbed rose petal into her cheeks and lips for a little color, but my father had either ignored or hadn’t noticed this small vanity. She still had on the loose housedress that she wore to milk the cows and she smelled a little sour from the dairy. The bread and cream was child’s food and I was no longer a child, but I was thankful for it. By the time I finished the bowl, I’d forgotten to hate my
I STOOD for a long time with my hand at my throat looking at the bucket of dead kittens. Then I removed myself and watched my hands take up a shovel, make a hole in the manure pile, and empty the foul water and the bodies of the dead kittens into it. Their bodies slid from the bucket like fish. I covered them over with manure, then followed myself to the other side of the barn, like a child following her mother. My father was there, throwing another bucket of chop to the pigs. He was wearing his town shirt, the white shirt my mother had mended for Sarah Kemp’s funeral, and the black suit pants and suspenders he saved for funerals and weddings. I followed myself up to him and watched as my hand slid into a pile of warm manure and threw it at him, hitting him in the sleeve. In the moment he looked at me, I came back to myself and ran into the house. I stood in the kitchen washing my hands beside my mother, knowing he’d follow, knowing he’d lick me good. My mother didn’t look up. She went on washing dishes even when my father stomped into the kitchen and grabbed me by the arm. She kept washing and clanking until my father let go of my arm and yelled at her.
“Stop that!” he said.
My mother stopped instantly.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” he said to me. “What did you do that for?”
I looked down at my dress because my father looked at it. I’dslopped manure down my front and it had dropped off as I’d run, leaving green stains over my breasts and on my skirt.
“Look at you!” he said. “You’re filthy. Get that dress off. Wash it!”
I stepped back and my father rushed at me. “Now!” he said.
When I didn’t move he swept me up. I screamed and that made him angrier. He carried me into my room, threw me on my blue quilt, and ripped the dress from me.
“That’s enough,” said my mother.
She stood against the doorframe to my room. Her hair was coming loose from the bun she’d wound it into. My father stopped, caught off guard. He stood up straight.
“Get out of the house,” said my mother. “Now.”
I held my breath and waited, but my father only lowered his eyes and like a kicked dog he slunk from the room. My mother turned sideways to let him pass, but she didn’t let her shoulders fall, or let the air go from her chest until she heard my father’s footsteps on the porch outside. She brushed her hair from her forehead.
“I hate him,” I said.
“Get dressed,” she said.
I put on a clean brown skirt and white blouse, combed out my curls, and padded out in my bare feet. My mother heated a little cream, poured it over a slice of bread, and sprinkled it with sugar. She set the bowl in front of me. The strangeness about her had dissolved into tiredness. She had rubbed rose petal into her cheeks and lips for a little color, but my father had either ignored or hadn’t noticed this small vanity. She still had on the loose housedress that she wore to milk the cows and she smelled a little sour from the dairy. The bread and cream was child’s food and I was no longer a child, but I was thankful for it. By the time I finished the bowl, I’d forgotten to hate my
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