by Amity Green
“Dad!” Savannah screamed, pulling him by an arm while he regained footing. She coughed hard after inhaling the thick dust. They sprinted into a grove of aspens as the car sped toward them.
The engine idled down when it stopped at the trees. The driver threw it in reverse and then rolled through the yard between the house and barn, onto the county road. All sound faded as space grew between the car and the torn hayfield.
Savannah followed her dad into the clear. Savannah brushed gravel from her skinned knees.
Silently, they walked to the house, not looking back to see the destroyed ground that no longer held the hope of stored hay for the winter.
* * *
The back door slammed with a bang. Savannah blinked as her scratchy, tired eyes adjusted to the light.
“Not a goddamn mark out there,” Dad called from downstairs.
New sunlight pushed through slatted blinds, casting white stripes onto her bed. She squinted and rubbed the sleep away, listening. Voices mumbled between her parents. Curiosity drove her from the warm comfort of her blankets as the soft fog of sleep lifted from her memory. Sliding into house shoes, she ran downstairs to see for herself.
Her parents stood just outside the back door, hands held over their brows to shade their sight.
“What’d I tell ya?” he asked.
Mother, of course, didn’t say anything. Just as expected, stoicism owned her response, just like each day for the last few weeks.
“How can this happen?” Savannah said, coming to stand beside her parents. Relief surged inside her, nearly strong enough to ward off the foreboding from the night before. Knee-high mountain grass waved in a morning breeze, seedy tops bouncing. There would be hay for the winter.
There probably wouldn’t be an explanation of the phenomenon from her father, however. It was just like the outburst in the barn when the horses got hurt. “Maybe it looked worse last night, because it was dark,” he offered. “I don’t understand it.”
“The car had wings on it. Like an emblem, I mean. It was silver, on the front of the hood. I saw when it went by.” It probably didn’t matter. The damage to the field had magically healed overnight.
“Go put some clothes on, Savannah,” her mother commanded with a scathing look. Savannah crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly ashamed of wearing only a nightgown. Her favorite sleep shirt fell mid-thigh, but it was far from being see-through.
Dad didn’t react to Mother’s animosity, just gazed at the pristine hay field in new sunshine.
***
Chapter 7
An angry handprint slanted across Molly’s tear-streaked face as she ran through the back door. Savannah’s eyes widened and she reached for her sister, but Molly ducked away, quickly beating feet upstairs. Savannah slowed down, listening for the sound of her bedroom door slamming. With her hands protecting her ears from the loud noise, she waited for it so the resulting pop of the door against the wooden jamb was much easier to handle. She started toward the backyard where Molly had come from moments before.
Mother was tapping dust from throw rugs on the clothesline. The door clicked shut behind Savannah, which caught Caroline’s attention.
“What?” she snapped.
“What’s wrong with Molly, Mom?”
Caroline turned back to the chore, swinging the broom a little harder.
Savannah approached. “She has a mark on her face.”
The beating of the rugs turned brutal, with her slender mother gripping the handle like it was a Louisville Slugger.
“Mom!”
Caroline shoved the broom to the ground, wheeling on Savannah. Using a stiff index finger, she jabbed hard at Savannah’s chest. “You two girls and your nasty minds,” she said with a jaw locked like it was wired in place. “Maybe you’ll end up in a nuthouse like the rest of the crazies in his family. You’re nothing but a couple of shameful, little sluts.”
Speechless, Savannah withdrew a step, rubbing her chest where she got stabbed with a finger.
“Hmph,” Mother snorted. “Daydreaming about things good girls wouldn’t.” She bent for the broom and let the rugs have it anew. “Shame on you.”
“What the heck are you talking about?” Tears welled. Mother had never talked to her in such a tone. Distance had grown further between them since they moved to the Witcher Place, and she didn’t know why. Mother had been quiet, unapproachable. At night she’d started taking pills to sleep, and there was no waking her. Questions went unanswered, and it seemed she made herself scarce as much as possible.
“What’s been going on with you, Mom?”
“You’re father’s a good man,” she said between swats. Caroline turned to face her, broomstick cocked over a shoulder. “And you’d better watch it if you have anything different on your mind.”
“You hit Molly.” Mother used to be a gentle soul. The shock of the event was worse than the little spot on her breastbone, where she could still feel the angry stabs that punctuated her mother’s warning.
“She’s lucky I didn’t beat her ass with a belt. That’s what my mother would have done.”
An afternoon breeze whipped Caroline’s hair across her bare shoulders, long tresses hanging in waves against her tank top, creating a conflicted vision. How could beautiful, sensible, gentle Mother say such things? Blue eyes that should have regarded her with only patience, telling of a kind heart, stared cold. They’d grown apart very slowly as Savannah grew up, but since the move, Mother made every attempt to treat her like nothing more than a roommate she put up with in passing.
“I should have washed her mouth out with soap for lying.”
“What did she lie about?” Savannah held her breath, letting the words out slowly to keep her voice from cracking.
“Oh, now you’re going to play stupid?” Her voice raised in ferocity, just below an all-out yell.
“I … I don’t—”
“Get the hell out of my sight,” Mother growled, stepping close. She leveled a finger toward the house.
Savannah backed away, shaking her head and ran inside. In the den on the way to the staircase, she slowed. Dad had come inside and stood before his cat painting, the usual, morning fire crackling in the fireplace even though there was no chill to burn off.
“Hey, Dad?” she called to his back with a trembling voice. He didn’t turn to respond. The mountain lion watched her over Dad’s shoulder, from the painted rock ledge above the fog. She went closer.
“Dad? What’s wrong with Mom?”
“Nothing. I was just out there and she’s fine,” he said, still gazing at the art.
“She hit Molly.” Of her parents, he was always the one she could count on. She didn’t like to admit that she usually felt closer to him than to Mother, but it was what it was.
“Now that’s probably not the case, honey,” he said, still not looking.
“She did. She told me.”
“You probably misunderstood.”
“No, I—”
“Savannah, I’m sure it’s a figment of your imagination, baby.” For the first time since she entered the room, he pulled his eyes away to glance at her. The look wasn’t friendly, not at all what she expected. He wore the expression of someone who’d been disturbed.
“Just like Molly’s nightmares,” he said.
“Have you seen Molly?”
“No.” He turned away.
“She has a handprint on her face,” she offered. Surely that would get his attention. Perhaps convince him to worry some.
“Your mother would never hit anyone. You know that. She’s just not the type to act on her feelings that way.” He huffed with a half-smile. “She doesn’t care much about anything, anyway.”
Savannah blinked. He’d completely ignored the fact that Molly was hurt. “Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“You’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Vannie,” he answered.
“Molly’s hurt. Don’t you care?” Her voice trembled.
&nb
sp; He spun to face her. “Let’s get something straight,” he said. “I love Molly. I’d never want anything to happen to her.” Savannah took an instinctive step away. Her father watched her closely, then followed her. His eyes fixed on his own hand as he caressed the skin of her forearm, then ran it up her jaw and along her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “I love both you girls.”
Words she loved to hear before sunk in the pit of her stomach like a damp wad of sour bread dough. Something about the delivery wasn’t right. Keeping momentum, she continued to back away, turning toward the stairs when his gaze returned to the painting. The big cat stared at her, the little ridges and texture in the paint dancing with firelight. Dad didn’t move or blink as she left.
Tapping with her fingertips, Savannah beckoned through Molly’s thick, bedroom door. “Molly, open up.”
Nothing.
“Mol?” She tapped a little harder. “Are you okay?”
Hornet barked from Chaz’s room at the end of the hall.
There was still nothing from her sister. Defeated, Savannah started outside for the night’s chores. The broom lie on the grass, abandoned as the throw rugs swayed from pins on the line. She walked toward the barn and let herself into the yard next to the outer stalls. A horse nickered when she latched the gate.
The barn was dim inside with the exception of a few stray, dust-riddled beams of sunlight at the back by the haystack. There was no sound of the horses in their stalls, so she guessed they were all outside in the sun. Taking it slow, she walked toward the tack area to switch on the overhead fluorescents. Just before she got there, the unmistakable sound of a rake handle sliding loose startled her. She spun in the direction of the sound just as the rake fell to the floor against the wall to her left, about fifteen feet away. A dark object recoiled, melding with the shadows in the corner.
Steadily, Savannah bent without taking her eyes away. She grabbed a handful of gravel and dirt from the floor, leaned back and let the small rocks fly into the corner like scattered buckshot. Whatever it was, likely a coyote or a raccoon, hit the wooden wall with a scratching thud. She reached for more ammunition. Wild animals in the barn equaled nothing but trouble, and if it was big enough, it could spook the horses through the fence.
Her grasp claimed only a flat stone about the size of a golf ball so she whipped it as hard as she could, dead center into the corner. The rock struck something solid and bounced to the ground.
“Yah! Out!” she yelled.
Nothing moved.
Savannah took the remaining steps and switched on the lights. There was nothing in the corner. She turned back toward the door in time to see an enormous brown cat pacing away with careful steps. There was no fear in the animal, or at least not enough to make it run away.
Not good. Adrenaline brought her senses to life, coursing through her veins like liquid electricity with each heartbeat. A beast that size could drag her off and stash her in a tree for a week of meals.
The lion stopped and looked back at her. The cat’s face was beautiful, with white marking its chin and tufts behind its ears. Dark eyes regarded her as she reached for the rake, knowing it would not stop the cougar from killing her. The rake head clanged against a shovel with a broken off handle. Quickly, she grabbed the busted spade head and hurled it at the doorway, intending to hit the gravel in front of the mountain lion and startle it out of the barn and away from her horses. She was so amped up that she whipped the shovel head with enough strength that it hit the wooden door, just above the cat’s head, falling down on its shoulders as it jumped to the side.
Again, it stared at her with huge, black eyes.
Savannah trembled so hard the legs of her jeans shook.
Panting, the mountain lion cocked its head like a listening dog, but much slower.
Savannah matched eye contact, despite fear. Seconds pounded by with her heartbeat.
Finally, the cat walked outside. When she was able to breathe again, she closed the barn door and quickly inspected the horses; all of which were fine. Apparently the lion hadn’t been there for long. From that point on, she’d bring Daddy’s shotgun out with her.
***
Chapter 8
“Rebecca Caleman,” Savannah read aloud. The same crazy great aunt that committed suicide in the kitchen a year ago at their old house had been an artist in her younger, more sane years. The cat painting was done on a thick canvas with heavy layers of oil paint. Together with the wooden frame, the piece of art was so big and weighed so much she had to use Mother’s six-foot painting ladder to reach the top of the frame, then slide it against the wall to get it down. Resting on the floor, it was nearly as tall as she was.
Very well done. Fine lines added texture to the animal’s coat, mixing bits of white in with a range of browns, just like the mountain lion that was in the barn. Detail was lost when the painting hung so far above the eye, and since she held it closer, the slightest changes in color arced and rippled. Heavier strokes of the brush spread tone perfectly, in lifelike hues. The creature’s eyes popped, shadows and reflections of light causing the effect that the cat watched all angles of the room, its gaze tracing a path as anyone walked through, sat on the couch, or stared back.
More riveting was the cloud of fog that churned below the rock shelf where the mountain lion reclined. Vivid blues blended with pouting grey and charcoal, swirling as if the mass tumbled on an undying gale of fresh wind. Lighter fog rested around the edges of the mass, which grew darker like a rain-filled cloud. Blackness lurked near the center, split like dual orbs, or eyes. Rebecca was talented. The painting oozed to life with each shift of the eye.
Intricate as it was, there was still no excuse for her dad to stand in front of the thing for hours, ignoring life for the past weeks since they moved. The house could burn down around him and he wouldn’t bat an eye.
“Put it back,” Dad whispered, so near her hair gusted away from her cheek.
The frame slid from her grasp and fell back against the mantle, cracking hard.
“Fuck,” he said, reaching for it.
“I didn’t mean to. I mean— I was going to dust it off.” She bit her lip. Her father didn’t cuss like that. The word “dammit” was heard so much from both of her parents, it really didn’t count, but the “F” word never happened.
The frame had popped loose at the corner, but he tapped it back together, shaking his head.
“You scared me.” She swallowed hard and backed off a step. “Did Great Aunt Rebecca paint this?”
“Yes.”
“Did she do any more painting? This is really beautiful.”
“How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my things?”
Savannah gaped. He’d never said anything like that. She shook her head.
“She was just as crazy as her mother and her daughters. They’re all Looney Tunes. Always have been,” he muttered, not caring if she could hear him or not.
“Your aunt?” The women in the Caleman clan hadn’t cornered the market for the “crazy” gene, by any means, it seemed. Her dad hadn’t been a picture of sanity lately. “Where does that side of the family live?”
“Never mind. Just go check the horses.” He stood back, looking at the bare spot on the wall and back at the picture, absently rubbing a hand along the wood frame.
“All right,” she said, turning for the back door. “Sorry about your picture.” She waited a couple seconds to see if he would surprise her with a reply. He didn’t act like he’d heard her so she headed upstairs to her room, instead. The horses didn’t need to be checked up on. He just didn’t want to be bothered with her questions. That was a “New Dad” thing. “Old Dad” would still be chatting her leg off, maybe even teach her to fix the frame, since she’d been the one who’d dropped it. He would have said it with kindness, the way he always did. Her throat ached a little. Old Dad would have a lot to say to New Dad. She missed him terribly.
Savannah took her contacts out and lay down, staring at the ce
iling above her bed. Blurry spots of light and color tumbled as her eyes attempted to focus. There had to be a sane Caleman woman out there someplace. Thinking back, all the big family to-do’s were always put together by Mother’s family, not the Caleman clan. And there was the hush-hush thing with Dad’s great aunt back on the ranch. They’d all called her “Auntie”, and Savannah couldn’t remember having a conversation with her. Her art suggested prodigy. Could it really be that there was something inherently wrong with only the females on Dad’s side? That seemed pretty short-sighted considering the way he’d acted since the move.
* * *
Hornet was the best dog ever, no matter what anyone else had to say. Chaz had said it a hundred times. Savannah peeked into his room, spying a little, but mostly to see what the only “normal” family member was up to.
Chaz scrubbed the yellow fur behind an ear as Hornet made scratchy movements with his hind leg. He laughed, making her smile. Sure, Hornet was a stinky mutt. But weren’t most dogs smelly? And the dog made her baby brother really happy, so it was a good trade off.
Now that they’d moved to the new house, Hornet stuck even closer to Chaz, which she would have considered an impossibility since they’d always seemed inseparable. The dog never had liked the girls as much, but that was because they never did any cool “dog” stuff. There was plenty for Chaz to do, while Molly complained about being bored. The quakies outside the yard made shade, and there were always tons of fat jackrabbits to chase. Turning over big rocks always seemed to be great fun for them because of all the different bugs underneath. Hornet always wanted to roll rocks around and dig up ant hills. He even liked to take big naps with his tongue hanging out while Chaz did his homework or read at night.
With White Fang propped on two pillows, Chaz used one elbow as a chin rest while he scratched Hornet, sometimes forgetting to keep scratching until the dog reminded him with a loud snort or a forlorn groan of forgottenness. The duo was a portrait of lazy comfort, Chaz in shorts and a tee shirt and Hornet on his back with all fours in the air.
