“A girl in my class taught me how to say the alphabet backward. Do you want to hear?” Emily asked.
“Maybe later. Did you learn anything else?”
“That the Creator loves us and watches over us.”
Hanna held her tongue. She adjusted Emily’s dress so it sat evenly on her shoulders and then straightened Emily’s neckline before her sister gave her one last squeeze and hurried back to her space on the floor.
The soft tones of a piano were playing on the record player as Hanna watched the toddlers drawing in coloring books featuring the Creator atop a white steed, the word understanding—Brother Paul’s personal proclamation—emblazoned on each cover in large, uppercase letters. Hanna had done the same thing hundreds of times. For years, she’d penned journal entries detailing how the Creator brought structure and joy to her life. She’d submitted her work to her teachers for evaluation. She’d helped the little ones write their stories.
For the children in Clearhaven, every aspect of their lives always came back to the Creator. When she was a little girl, Hanna had been terribly afraid of the Creator, especially when she swiped pieces of sweet bread from the kitchen. It was a small act of disobedience, taking more than her fair share, and Hanna remembered lying in bed afterward—bits of bread clinging to the spaces between her teeth, her tongue tingling from the doughy mixture of sugar and honey—and wondering whether the Creator was looking down at her at that very moment, his wisdom replaced by an ardent, uncharacteristic wrath. For hours before she fell asleep, she would lie motionless in bed waiting for the Creator to grab her by her hair and hurl her into a pit of outstretched flames—owing to her theft, yes, but more for the deception that came with it. The remorse beat in her chest so strongly that she swore she’d never steal another piece of sweet bread in her entire life, until of course the next time the warm smell of yeast and butter came drifting from the oven.
Hanna wasn’t sure whether the Creator knew about her unauthorized visit to Daniel’s pier, whether he kept that close a watch on her comings and goings. She only knew that ever since Brother Paul had called her name and Edwin stepped forward to claim her, Hanna had felt like a rubber band stretched to the point of breaking, pulled so tight that its color had all but disappeared. Hanna had spent so very long worried about what others thought, about the consequences for the slightest misbehavior, that she hadn’t stopped to think about what she wanted, what was right for her.
Hanna thought back to the pier by the lake, to the sound of Daniel’s fingers shifting along the guitar strings, the warmth of his words... Champagne Girl, only you are sacred.
“Hanna?”
Kara was calling her into the kitchen. She had to call twice, so lost was Hanna in her thoughts. Hanna joined Kara by the countertop where her mother was stirring a pot of stew.
“How was the visit to Edwin’s?” she asked.
Hanna peeked at the muddy-brown broth that was for supper. She thought back to the emotion in Kara’s voice moments after she’d told the story about Hanna falling from the sky, the way Kara had stared spellbound at the fire. I should have done so much more. As much as she wanted to tell her mother all about Edwin’s wives, how they lived, the tall woman’s wicked barbs, how Paedyn said they spent their nights, she held her tongue.
“It was wonderful,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. His wives are all delightful.”
Kara looked at Hanna out of the corner of her eye, studying her, trying to decipher whether Hanna was telling the truth. A moment passed before Kara returned to stirring her stew. Then a creaking door sounded and Jotham lumbered in from the bathroom. He passed by without so much as a hello. Hanna glanced from her mother to her father, amazed that neither of them knew about her unchaperoned visit to Daniel’s pier, about the harrowing car ride into the woods. They didn’t know what Hanna had been thinking. She wondered if anyone—Jotham, Edwin, the Creator—even knew who she was.
A secret burned inside her. Brother Paul’s words, his edict of understanding—frozen in Hanna’s mind for so long—melted away, replaced by her desire to hear more of Daniel’s amber-tinted words, to live like her brave other self. Hanna stepped away from her mother and started setting the table for supper. She listened to Katherine’s cheerful chatter as she adjusted the little ones’ booster seats. Hanna kept her mouth closed, her eyes focused on her task. On the outside, everything was as it had always been. But, inside, a fire had been lit. Hanna resolved to see Daniel again. She would find a way.
Even if the flames engulfed her.
12
After supper, Hanna sat down on the sofa with Ahmre standing in front of her. She took the child’s hair and divided it into three parts. Hanna crossed the right section over the middle and then repeated with the left. Halfway through, Ahmre brought her hand up and placed it in the braid. Gently, so as not to start again, Hanna steered the little girl’s fingers out of the way. She kept braiding until she reached the end and was twisting an elastic in Ahmre’s hair when Emily hobbled around the corner.
“I need a bath.”
Hanna kissed Ahmre on the forehead and sent her running into the next room. “You had one yesterday.”
“I smell like soup,” Emily said.
“Excuse me?”
“I spilled soup on myself at supper. I smell like soup.”
Hanna leaned in close and smelled her sister. She almost laughed. Emily was right: she smelled like tomato broth and burnt lentils. She took Emily by the hand and led her to the upstairs bathroom where Hanna helped her sister remove her clothes and step inside the bathtub. She ran her fingers along Emily’s back the way she always did. Hanna felt the juts in her spine. She washed the girl’s hair.
Emily dipped her head underwater and poked it back up to reveal droplets dangling from her eyelashes. She pushed her wet hair from her face and placed her chin on the side of the tub.
“When I get married, I’m going to wear chrysanthemums in my hair,” she said. “Orange ones with just a smattering of white. You don’t want to wear yellow chrysanthemums. My mother told me yellow ones symbolize sadness. But white and orange are all about love.”
Hanna nodded. “You seem to have your wedding all planned out.”
“I do,” Emily said, scooping a handful of water and dousing her face. She wiped the drops out of her eyes. “And nobody’s going to stop it. Not even the evildoers.”
“Evildoers?” Hanna said.
“You know—the ones from the other side of the world. The ones that commit wicked acts.”
Hanna ran through their last bath-time conversation in her head. “Ah yes, the evildoers. That story was more about being brave in the face of wicked acts.”
Emily paused to think. “But what wicked acts do they do?”
Hanna sat down on the cold floor and leaned against the tub. “Terrible things. They hurt people. They threaten people, which is sometimes worse.”
Emily shook her head. “Getting hit is worse than getting threatened.”
“But what if you’re always afraid? Isn’t it better to get struck and know the pain than to always be terrified of what might come next?”
“I don’t want to be hit,” Emily said.
“Neither do I.”
Emily dropped her bar of soap into the tub and searched for it under the water. She grasped it and it slipped out of her hand and the girl giggled. When Hanna smiled, Emily did it again, intentionally this time. The two sisters sat quietly, Emily playing with the soap, Hanna staring at the tattered wallpaper, until Emily said, “How would we get to the other side of the world?”
Hanna’s ears perked. She cast a quick glance at the door and kept her voice low. “We could walk through the woods.”
“The wolves would find us.”
“I’m done being afraid of wolv
es,” Hanna said.
“But they have sharp teeth. And Kara says they turn on their own. They eat their friends when their friends get hurt.”
“Forget the woods, then. We could drive a car far away from here,” Hanna said. “My mother taught me how. It’s hard to get it into second gear, but once I do, we can drive as fast as we want. We could be gone by midnight tonight if we really wanted to.”
Emily gazed at the cracks in the ceiling, at the wide, discolored splotches where water had damaged the far wall, anywhere except her sister’s eyes. She shifted back and forth in the bath as Hanna sat perfectly still on the crooked floor tiles; aware of the moisture in the air, the cold iron tub against her skin, the hair on her neck standing on end. Emily dunked her head underwater and reemerged.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks. I’m going to be a bride one day, just like you,” Emily said.
“I know you are,” Hanna said, perhaps a little too gently.
“I am going to be a bride. I’m going to wear a white dress and orange chrysanthemums in my hair. Father’s going to give me away and the ceremony will be held in the old tower cathedral, and all my brothers and sisters will be there. Of course, you’ll arrive with Edwin’s family, but you’ll still watch the ceremony, won’t you, Hanna?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Emily leaned forward so her shoulders were outside the tub. Water dripped off her naked body onto the floor. “Then promise,” she said.
“Emily...”
“Just promise.”
Hanna’s words failed her. That feeling of falling inside herself returned. Emily’s bathwater trickled along the floor tiles, dampening Hanna’s dress and seeping into the exposed flesh of Hanna’s legs. Before she could speak, a woman’s voice came through the door. It sounded shrill, almost unnerved, and it took Hanna a moment to realize it was her mother.
“This is a terrible mistake!” Kara said.
A second voice rang out, this one deep and angry. “Then it’s my mistake to make. It’s my decision,” Jotham said.
Emily splashed in the tub. “Are they fighting?”
Hanna put her finger to her lips. “Shh!”
“You pretend it’s your decision when others are making it for you,” Kara said.
“I am the husband and the father in this house. And my decision is final,” Jotham said.
“But what about Hanna?”
“What about her!?”
“You can’t seriously tell me you want her to serve out her life as Edwin’s fifth wife.”
The hallway fell silent. Both Hanna and Emily held their breath. Jotham and Kara were shouting and whispering at the same time, clearly unaware that the girls were listening on the other side of the bathroom wall.
“What would you have me do?” Jotham said. “Take her into the city? Marry Hanna off to some liberal coward?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what? What!?”
“I don’t have all the answers,” Kara said. “But can you honestly tell me a voice from above told you to give your daughter away while she’s still a child? For her to live a life of servitude under Edwin? Did the Creator really speak to you in a vision?”
“You know perfectly well that he did not,” Jotham said.
“Then why do this? Why give her away? For the money? We don’t need the money.”
“We do need the money.”
Kara’s voice rose. Her whisper disappeared. “I’ve stood by quietly for eighteen long years, never complaining when you come to me at night, never speaking out of turn or offering an opinion, because you told me our daughter was special. You told me you could protect her. All your talk about Heaven and the path of the righteous all these years was just that—talk. Now it seems your will is all that matters. Your will is not the will of God!”
A sudden, swift sound rang out—a violent collision of skin against skin—Jotham’s hand striking Kara’s cheek. The sound reverberated off the door, and then a terrible thud. Emily gasped. The bathroom grew very quiet, the only sound a trickle of water dripping from the tap. When Jotham finally spoke, his voice was so low Hanna could barely hear it through the door.
“When you married into this way of life, my will became your will. I am your husband, damn it! You forget your place, Kara. Be sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Jotham’s heavy footsteps lurched along the floor, coming closer. Hanna’s eyes darted to the bathroom door; she’d forgotten to lock it. A frenzy erupted inside her. She leapt up and grasped the handle. Hanna’s hand was shaking so hard that she thought she might jar the door and Jotham would hear them. She looked back at Emily’s naked, twisted body, soaking wet and vulnerable. Very carefully, she locked the door.
“Hanna...” Emily said.
“Quiet!” Hanna whispered hard.
She pressed her back against the door and felt how fragile it was, how someone Jotham’s size could easily barge through. Jotham paused near the bathroom door and the blood in Hanna’s veins turned to ice. Her heart beat so hard she thought he might hear it on the other side.
Jotham shifted his back brace. He let out a phlegmy, anguished cough and then lumbered to the stairs, the wood creaking under his feet. Hanna heard Kara stand up and slam her bedroom door. Then silence.
“Why, Hanna?” Emily said. “Why are we being quiet?”
Hanna looked into Emily’s wide, innocent eyes. She saw not a future bride or a budding young woman, but a child too naive to know what was coming for her big sister. What would one day come for her.
13
It was midmorning five days before her wedding when Hanna helped Charliss prop an old wooden ladder up against the side of Jotham’s house. They had delayed too long in fixing the roof. Last night, more rainwater had seeped into the walls of the front alcove, so much that, on the ceiling, wide drops of condensation were visible to the naked eye. When Hanna placed her hand against the wallpaper, it felt damp. Ten minutes ago, Jotham had yelled to Hanna from the other room, told her to plug the leak before nightfall.
“Are you okay to do this now?” Hanna said.
“I think so,” Charliss said.
Hanna’s brother had already spent hours chopping firewood and a pink fatigue had crept in behind his eyes. For over a year now, every time Hanna looked at Charliss, it was like watching a clock slowly tick down to zero. At some point, he would be made to leave. Jotham and Brother Paul would sit Charliss down and lecture him on responsibility and what it means to be a man, how the Creator chooses a different path for everyone. They wouldn’t say a word about ridding themselves of their competition, not a word about how—were Charliss to stay—their crop of young, unsullied brides might diminish. Jotham would place him in the back seat of a car and drive Charliss down The Road and Hanna would never see her brother again. Charliss wasn’t living on borrowed time. He was living on finite time, and Hanna wondered whether Charliss was savoring every moment, every small interaction with his family, or if he’d long grown detached, knowing he was powerless to stop what was coming.
In less than a week, Hanna wouldn’t be around to assist him anymore. This might be the very last chore she and Charliss did together.
Charliss hoisted a satchel over his shoulder containing a trowel, rubber cement, a paintbrush and several pieces of asphalt he’d salvaged from the neighbor’s trash, and then he scrambled up onto the roof. He climbed easily and fearlessly, and Hanna felt a little foolish for approaching the old wooden ladder with such caution behind him. Hanna placed her foot on the first rung. The left side was shorter than the right by a couple of inches, enough to make it tilt off-center. Very carefully, Hanna ascended the ladder. As she reached the roof and placed her boot on the gutter, Hanna’s dress snagged on a shingle, its jagged edge tearing the fabric. For a second, Hanna thought she
might lose her balance and fall to the ground below. Then Charliss grabbed her hand. He pulled her onto the rooftop.
“Thank you,” Hanna said.
Charliss freed Hanna’s dress. He secured the satchel on his back and climbed on all fours toward the chimney while Hanna knelt down against the damp shingles and followed, still wary, still tentative. They advanced to the highest point on the rooftop, where the tall chimney stack met the edge of the house, three stories above ground. Hanna steadied herself and together she and Charliss pulled the tools out of the satchel.
Hanna had done this type of work before. Three seasons ago, she’d assisted Kara in replacing the roof on the shed out back. However, that was a large undertaking and Kara had had a detailed plan. She insisted they follow it to the letter, to ensure the shed’s new ceiling would last for years to come. This was different. Hanna and Charliss were doing piecemeal work. The shingles on Jotham’s house were too old and decrepit, too porous to repair them all. Hanna and Charliss were to plug the leak. It didn’t matter how the repair looked so long as it functioned, so long as they wouldn’t have to place buckets beside the fireplace the next time the storms came.
Hanna lifted three shingles by their edges and the wood came out of its nails like butter sliding through a warm knife. She set them atop the chimney and dug into the thin layer of asphalt with the trowel, clearing out the debris. Then Charliss unfastened the jar of rubber cement and poured it over the crack. Hanna braced her shoulder against the chimney stack. She flattened the rubber cement with the trowel. Once it seeped into the fissure, Charliss smoothed it with the paintbrush.
“How long does it take to dry?” Charliss said.
“A few minutes.”
“Then we put the shingles back on?”
“First we hammer down the new strips of asphalt and then the shingles.”
“Do you think it will hold?” Charliss said.
Hanna ran her finger over a loose shingle and felt the indent from where she’d pressed her thumb down just a minute before. “I’m not sure,” she said. Under her boots, moss had sprouted in tufts, creeping across the rooftop and down the walls. The gutters were clogged with soupy, green debris and the outer shell of the chimney stack crumbled when touched. From this vantage point, Jotham’s house looked like it might be better off condemned.
Hanna Who Fell from the Sky Page 11
