by Katie French
The pencil drawing shows five stick figures, each with giant circular heads and grins that cover half their faces. For my mama, I drew a triangle dress and her clutching what looks like a bean with a face—my best effort for baby Ethan. For Arn, I sketched his overalls as uneven rectangles over his stick body. Auntie’s figure has a long rope braid down her back. And for myself, the biggest grin of all plastered on my little circle head.
My family as I saw it at age ten. I drew this at the kitchen table of the house we lived in six years ago. A thunderstorm crackled overhead and I tried to clamber on my mama’s lap. She kindly pried me off and set the pencil and paper in front of me.
“Draw something happy,” she’d said, caressing my cheek. “It’ll keep your mind off the storm.”
I hold the picture delicately to my chest. What I wouldn’t give to go back there, under the flickering sky with my mother’s hand at my shoulder and the clack-clack of Auntie’s rocking chair, the slow steady rhythm that meant all was right with the world. How could I have known then I had everything I ever need? That it would all be taken from me?
What can I do now to keep my mind off the storm?
The sharp knock on our front door wakes me. I bolt upright and dig in my pants for my knife. Nothing. I scan the room, lit with morning light, for a weapon and spy the fire poker in the stand near the hearth. Hefting the metal rod over my shoulder, I tiptoe to the front door.
Through the bullet holes in the wood, I see a figure on the other side.
“Go away!” I yell in my deepest voice. “We don’t want any.”
“Now, I highly doubt that.”
Clay. I turn the knob and yank the door open. He stands on the porch in his clean cowboy best—short-sleeve button-down shirt, jeans, boots and his hat. In his left hand, he holds a basket of apples, rolls and wrapped bacon. In his right hand is a bar of antiseptic soap. He lifts a dimpled reassuring smile.
I raise the poker as if to strike.
“Jesus!” He jumps back. “What’s a fella gotta do to prove he’s worth havin’?”
As I’m brandishing the poker, Ethan slides up behind me.
“Are you Clay?” His smile is wide and inviting.
“He was just leaving,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Oh.” Ethan’s face falls. He pulls his wounded arm up and clutches it to him. The wound looks awful. The skin around the bite is puffy and oozing. The iodine is long gone.
I look at Ethan’s arm and then at Clay, who’s eying the poker, waiting for me to strike. I have no choice. The poker thuds heavily against my thigh as I bring it down.
“Come in,” I say, stiffly. “Can we get you some breakfast?”
Clay scans my expression and then takes a tentative step forward. “Sure,” he says. “Just put away the brainin’ stick, will ya?”
I hand him the metal rod. “Take it. I’ll start the stove.”
Ethan leads Clay to the table and begins peppering him with questions as I try to figure out what the hell I’m doing. Mechanically, I open the stove, toss in the kindling and dig around for a match. When the flame ignites, the yellow-red tongues eat up the starter twigs until they are crumbled black husks of their former selves. Then there’s nothing left to do but make breakfast for my enemy.
Chapter Eight
I sit across from Clay as he eats bacon off my mother’s blue china plate. The three of us ignore the bullet holes shot into the table. Clay is telling some story to my little brother, who laughs and then chomps a rippled slice of bacon between his teeth.
I can’t laugh. I don’t even know what he’s saying. I pretend to eat and watch the words form in his mouth, but all I think about is Clay sitting in Arn’s chair. It makes me want to go find that stove poker again.
“Riley, did you hear that?”
“Huh?”
“Did you hear what Clay said? He said Mama and Auntie are still in town. He can take us to see them if we want.” Joy dances across Ethan’s face.
I stop eating and stare up at Clay. “Can I have a word with you outside?”
Clay gives a wary smile and drops his napkin on the table. “Sure.”
I lead him out onto the porch and shut the door tight. On the porch, the air is searing, a perfect match for how I’m feeling inside. Clay clomps out, leans his hip against the rickety porch railing and offers me his smile again.
“I mean it, you know. I can take y’all into town. We’ll have to be caref—”
“You can get the hell out of here right now,” I say, trembling. I point to his motorcycle. “Just go. I had enough of your lies.”
“I’m not lying. Your ma’s in town. Won’t be for long, so if you want to see ’em, we need to shake tail.”
I clutch my hands together until my knuckles are white. “It’s just another trick. Another way to get us into town so you can finish what you started.”
Frustration deepens the lines between his eyes. He shakes his head slowly back and forth. “You’re really irritating, you know that?”
I stare at him with my jaw dropped. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.” He grips the porch rail and it rocks under his weight. “What do I have to do to prove I’m sorry? I saved y’all during the raid, I brought you food, medicine. What do I have to do?” He flaps his arms in frustration.
I cross my arms over my thrumming heart. “You can start by bringing my stepfather back to life.”
He winces and drops his head. “Wish I could.” He grips the porch railing and stares sadly off toward the barn. “I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. When they told me we were going on a raid, I had no idea we were coming here.” He points to my bullet-riddled house. “Then I saw you and your brother in the yard. I locked you in to keep you safe. By the time I got back, your pa was toe up. Nothing I could do.” Clay lifts his sorrowful eyes from the dirt to meet mine.
“Do you think feeling bad is enough? You were a part of this whether you shot him or not.”
He digs the toe of his boot along a crack in the porch floorboards. “That’s why I’m trying to make amends. I may be Sheriff’s number two, but I don’t like his politics. I don’t mind rustling criminals, but I can’t abide this. Taking you to see your ma is the only decent thing I can think of to make up for what I did.”
I dig deep for more fury, but the wellspring runs dry.
Then it dawns on me. If Clay’s not our enemy, he might be useful. A plan hatches. I look down the road toward town. “You said you want to help us, right?”
Clay stands straighter, thumbs in his belt loops. “Yeah.”
“Good.” My mind’s still reeling. I take a few steps across the porch, swivel on my heel and face Clay again. “Where are they keeping my family?”
Clay’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Now hold those flyin’ horses of your’n. There’s one thing you gotta understand.”
“No,” I say curtly. “There’s one thing you gotta understand. I’m getting my mama and auntie out of there before the Breeders come. I don’t care what I got to do. I’m not letting those monsters take ’em.”
Clay rubs a hand over his head, mussing short brown hair. “Sorry, chief, but Breeders are coming tomorrow. And don’t nobody get in their way.”
I stare out over the dusty landscape of our yard until my eyes light on my mother’s garden. “Then we go today.”
He shakes his head. “Now wait a minute—”
I point my finger at his chest. “You want to make up for what you did? You helped lock ’em up. You get ’em free.”
He screws up his mouth and begins worrying the chipped paint on the porch rail. “I’d be strung up or kicked out with nothin’.”
I shrug and wave my hand at the desolation that used to be our family farm.
Clay rubs his smooth palms over his face. “Ah, God. This is crazy. You understand what you’re asking me to do?”
I nod.
Clay blows out his breath. “Fine. I’ll help you bust ’em out, but Sheriff can’t kn
ow I had a hand in it.”
For the first time, I let a smile slink up my face. “Deal.”
Clay stares at my expression for a lingering minute. With my hate no longer clouding my judgment, I realize how reckless I’ve been with my secret. My breasts are bound tight, but I’ve done nothing to disguise my voice or the rest of my features.
Clay punches my arm. “God, you sure do got balls for a bender. Wait, do benders have balls?”
I give him a cold stare.
He waves his hand dismissively, a blush climbing up into his cheeks. “Never mind.”
In the back of the Jeep, the ruts in the road feel like craters. Ethan and I lie across the back seat, covered with a large canvas that’s got us both sweating. Clay’s driving. Every time the Jeep slows, I expect the townies to rip off our cover and arrest us.
Everything that matters is stuffed in two sacks in the back of the Jeep. Changes of clothes, my mother’s quilt, Auntie’s knitting needles, the Superman figure Arn was carving, Ethan’s comic book, any spare food, and water. It’s amazing how items that used to mean the world to me I tossed without a thought. It’s easy to know what matters when what you really love is stripped from you.
The Jeep jerks and Ethan and I rock back and forth and nearly knock heads. Lying pressed together like this, it’s hard to see his face, but I feel his hand tighten around my arm. I give him a squeeze, but that’s all I can offer. My stomach’s in knots. Questions run in my mind till I’m dizzy with them. What will we have to do to free my family? How will we pull it off? What happens if I can’t get back to Ethan? Our whole plan’s paper-thin and it all hinges on Clay. Clay who I didn’t trust, who I’m not sure I do. As the sun pokes through the holes in the canvas blanket, I wonder if this will be my last day breathing free air.
We rock to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires. I hear the guard holler down. We’re here.
Clay shouts a friendly hello and the gates creak open. For him, there’s no identifying himself, no weapons confiscation. He’s a good ally to have. If only I knew for sure he was our ally.
Insides the gates, I feel the weight of what we’re doing pressing down on me until I can barely breathe. I focus on listening and trying not to move.
“Stay here. I’ll be back after dark,” Clay whispers from somewhere above.
I want to answer, but the Jeep rocks as he jumps out. He’s gone.
Three hours go slow when you’re cramped in the back of a Jeep, trying not to make a sound.
Darkness falls. The light filtering through the canvas is a dusky gray. Ethan’s fallen asleep on my arm and I can’t feel my fingers. Every few minutes, male voices shout, guns fire. Waiting makes me crazy. Where the hell is Clay? I’m about to slip up the canvas and attempt a peek when there’s a hand on my back.
“Don’t move,” the voice whispers.
We’re done for.
The canvas slips back and there’s Clay, washed and dressed in clean jeans and a fresh button-down shirt. The pearl snaps on his breast pockets wink in the twilight. I feel the rivers of sweat on my face and neck. I’m a hot mess. It doesn’t matter what I look like. Clay thinks I’m a bender, and besides, after tonight, I’ll never see him again.
As I untangle myself from Ethan, I glower at Clay’s sparkling appearance. “Nice to see you had time to get a change of clothes. Did you have a bath? A massage?” I wipe the sweat from my brow.
“Shh,” he puts a finger to his lips and then holds up a bandanna, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and a brown coat. “You’ll be hot, but least you’ll be covered.”
I clench my teeth to keep the sarcastic remarks from slipping out. I put on the clothes. Then we both look down at Ethan.
“I told him to stay in the Jeep,” I say, looking at his curled form, his hair lying in damp strands across his face. His mouth twitches in a dream. I hate leaving him, but I don’t want him where I’m going. I brush a strand of hair from his face. “Let’s get this over with,” I say to Clay.
He nods. “Follow me and try to act like you belong.”
In the twilight, little gas lamps flicker on either side of the street, a few more in the windows. The noises of the day have quieted. A few drunken calls spill out from the brothel. A woman cackles from an upper window. Besides a handful of stragglers, the streets are mostly empty. All respectable persons have gone home. Down the road lamps glow in the windows of the well-to-do. Right about now, my family would be cleaning up from supper. Auntie’d be knitting in her rocking chair on the porch. Ethan and I would dig out the molding deck of cards and invent a few games until the light grew too dim. My mama would rub the kinks out of Arn’s shoulders. I blink the painful image from my mind and turn my eyes to the task at hand.
We stroll down the road, the same one I traveled not more than a few days ago. Clay saunters, smiles, stops to chat. The men lift their hats to Clay. I stand stiffly at each exchange, hoping no one notices me. Hoping I don’t run into the Warden.
A toothless old man crosses the street and makes a beeline for us. He extends his wrinkled hand and for a moment I think he’ll snatch me. I flinch, but he limps past and starts pumping Clay’s hand like a dying man at a water well.
“I just want ta thankee again fer the help, son,” he says, through the few teeth left in his mouth. “Thought I was up a crick with that charge. Not a dime in me pocket when I got pinched.”
Clay lifts his reassuring smile. “Don’t mention it, Hawk. Glad to help.”
The withered man’s face glows with gratitude. What did Clay do for him? Probably something like he did for me at the jailhouse. It eases my frayed nerves a little to remember how he put himself on the line.
Hawk finally lets go and we continue past the brothel. My stomach knots as I peer through the open doorway. A few weary men hunch over the bar. One unfortunate old woman in ratty underwear and too much makeup slings drinks. Her eyes are like dull hunks of coal. Clay puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head. Thank God. I couldn’t stand seeing a townie with his hands on my mother. I’d do something we’d both regret.
We stride past the darkened doctor’s office, the general store, the armory. Clay never slows. My stomach flip-flops as we come up to the jail, but Clay doesn’t turn. I glance in as we walk by and see Darrel’s dirty boots up on the desk, his head back. The Warden is nowhere to be seen.
When we run out of shops and hit the residential end of the street, I’m confused. I shoot Clay questioning looks, which he ignores. When he continues past the rest of the homes, with their dimly lit windows and smells of cooked meat, and heads straight for the last house on the road, the stately white ranch with the wrap-around porch, I grab his arm.
“This is the Sheriff’s,” I hiss.
He removes his arm from my grip and scans the road. With his face set all calm, he nods. “Thanks for the tip, hot shot, but I think I know where I’m going. Duck behind there and wait for me.” He points to a slanted wooden outhouse. “I got to send the guard on a little errand.”
I scowl but bite my tongue. If I make a scene here, it will be the end of me. I slip behind a battered outhouse several yards from the Sheriff’s white picket fence and watch from the shadows as Clay slips through the gate into the lion’s den.
From my dark hiding space, I can see everything. Gas lamps light the front rooms of the Sheriff’s house. I note the smoothly carved furniture, the shiny upright piano in the sitting room, the polished silver tea set on the table. I scan the windows for my mother and Auntie but see no one.
Clay strides up the gravel path and greets the guard at the front door. They chuckle about something I can’t hear. Clay motions back toward town and the guard nods, picks up his rifle and crunches down the street. When the guard’s out of sight and the road quiet, Clay waves me forward. I slip out from behind my hiding spot, feeling more nervous than ever. My skin crawls beneath my layers of clothing. What are we doing?
He leads me around the side of the house. We trot past the little backyard with p
atches of clipped green grass and four apple trees heavy with red fruit. Beneath the trees is a weathered wooden swing. I imagine the Sheriff wiling away the hours, rocking beneath his apple trees. He probably needs to relax in between butchering families in their sleep.
Clay steps up to the back door, grabs my arm and pulls me in. Our bodies are so close, I can smell the sticky sweetness of his aftershave. My eyes rest on the curve of his jaw, the stubble on his chin. My cheeks flush beneath my bandanna. I shake my head and focus.
“Here’s the plan. I head in and make sure the coast’s clear. You slip down the basement real quiet. I’ll send ’em down to you. When you’re ready, head out the back gate. They’ll be a ride waiting.”
“What about Ethan?”
“He’ll be there, too. Okay?”
I nod.
Clay looks up at the house. “Let’s get started. We only got an hour.”
Clay puts a key in the lock and cracks open the back door. I follow on his heels. To my right is the basement stairs. I tread carefully into the dark basement. I don’t dare fumble for a lantern, just plunge into the cool darkness with my hands outstretched. When my feet hit the concrete floor, I shuffle forward and almost smack into a pole. I wrap my arms around the cool metal beam. It gives me something solid to hold onto when most of me feels like dust picked up in a twister.
Footsteps overhead, whispering. I can’t tell who’s speaking, but I hear a female voice. My mom? God, why won’t they hurry up? My heart thuds against the metal pole.
A beam of light trickles down the basement stairs. Someone’s coming. Please God, let it be my family.
A foot appears, then an ankle, followed by a white cotton dress that’s frayed at the hem. Auntie. In the lamplight clutched in her outstretched hand, she looks twenty years older, all wrinkles and sagging skin. She’s wearing a clean cotton housedress and a head rag over her hair. I want to run to her, but my arms feel anchored to the pole. I watch her expression as she searches for me in the darkness. Her eyes adjust and lock onto mine. She shuffles to a stop; her hand flies to her mouth. “Riley?”
