by Amy Espeseth
Samuel’s eyes shine black, and he does not flinch; he keeps his eyes hard on his father’s face. ‘No.’ The boy leans wet and steaming by the stove. ‘No to all your questions.’ Ringlets of blonde hair are puffing up as they dry, and we can all smell the wool. Samuel breathes normal without any sign of fear, without any pause or searching; he is well and warming at the fire.
‘And that’s the end of it.’ Ingwald puts his hand on Samuel’s puny shoulder, capping the bone with flesh. The man holds on tight for a moment and then releases his grip. Ingwald glares around the room and his face flushes red again. ‘Peter’s waited a long time, but he won’t sow division amongst us.’
And my uncle walks back to the table and drinks his lukewarm coffee. Aunt Gloria and Mom start folding the snow into the vanilla mixture, clinking their spoons in the bowls, and Naomi and Samuel sit down at the table. My daddy gets up, but keeps his head pointed at the ground; he walks quiet through the kitchen into the pantry and brings back some of this fall’s maple syrup. The pails of snow have been melting; the ice cream will be soupy and strange. But we’ll all pretend it’s alright. No one dares speak. I stay warm at the fire.
Last spring a starving black bear was roaming our land. Grandma had seen it across the river weaving amongst the white pine planted by Grampa’s people. The bear was tall and long, would have been six foot if he stood. Winter fur was coming off in mangy clumps where the bristly new was poking through, and he walked a bit unsteady. Could have been he was just dazed like they are when they first awake, but then Grandma got out her binoculars. Instead of pointing them at the bird feeder, she aimed them at the bear and saw that he was hurting. She got a good look.
He was caught. He was plain stuck and he was dying. Must’ve been some syrup dripped down inside a plastic jug or somebody pure mean put some meat in there. Otherwise there was no reason for his head to be wedged like that. The bear’s whole head, triangle face and ears and eyes, were trapped inside a plastic jug. The opening must have been just big enough for him to force his way in, but too small to pull out. The ears would’ve been the sticking point and his sharp teeth couldn’t help him much, not in that position, pushed close to the plastic base. So for however long was as long as he lasted, he had wandered the woods without sight, sound or smell. And without eating — and barely breathing — he was ready to drop. But before he lay down and died, he was giving it another shot; rubbing his head against the pines, he was straining to pull his way free.
Grandma called the DNR boys, but it didn’t seem they were interested in this particular natural resource. They said they’d come and shoot him if she’d like. Grandma said she’d shoot her own bear, thank you, and called my daddy. He came down the hill and made her a deal: they’d try for a while, but then time would be up. He had better things to do than rescue bears. It took a while; sometimes they were too close to danger or too far away to help. And close enough to touch was a hard balance. But eventually it worked: Daddy lassoed and held him just long enough for Grandma to get ahold of the jug. When she pulled, it came off with such force that she landed on her bottom as the bear shook himself, blinked his eyes and — as Daddy released the noose — walked slowly away. Grandma held the jug and Daddy the slack rope as they watched the bear’s backside slip into the woods. Nothing held his neck anymore.
29
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me! I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see. ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved. How precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed. Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come. ’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.
I DON’T KNOW IF THE LORD IS SAYING YES OR NO, BUT I KNOW He needs to start speaking louder now. She must have started bleeding heavy on the bus ride home from school, because when we got up to get off at the homefarm, Naomi left a dark, red stain on the vinyl seat. In between the pain, she keeps saying that God heard us and He is answering our prayers. I know that He hears, and I believe that He answers; I just think I’m having a hard time hearing His voice over the sound of Naomi.
Straight off the bus, I hustle Naomi up through the yard into the screened-in porch; Grandma’s house is lonely now, but at least we’ll be out of the weather. As I try to push the front door into the kitchen, the door handle don’t turn. After the funeral and the family meeting, someone must have locked the house; I didn’t even know that door had a lock. Through the window, I expect to see Grandma peeling potatoes at the sink: scraps floating in a basin of murky water, peels piled on a newspaper spread out on the counter. Instead, I see casket flowers sitting on the table. With the florist-wired roses and irises smashed together, dying without water to drink, the kitchen must smell sickly sweet. It makes me glad we can’t get inside: I want to keep the kitchen in my memory with the smell of spring lilacs and baking apples.
Even a garter snake knows you can’t have a new thing lying around outside in the cold. She’ll carry her eggs inside her, come hunger or fear, and won’t give them up until the babies are ready to wriggle free. I’ve got to find us a nest; there’s got to be room for us somewhere. In the corner of the porch, three brown-paper grocery bags sit on the flaky-blue bench. Mom and Gloria must have made a start on sorting out Grandma’s clothes for charity. Looking farther and further away, Naomi’s brown eyes are coal-black. It don’t feel like she’s even standing here with me anymore; all that’s left is a girl-body, empty and trembling. So I grab the first bag without even looking in, take her by the elbow, and decide to head toward the barn.
Parked smack in the middle of the entry, the dusty tractor is taking up too much space. We can barely squeeze between it and the wooden workbenches piled with oily chainsaw and snowmobile parts. My hand brushes the pitted concrete wall; it is damp with cold. There’s no room here for us. Naomi ain’t going to like it, but we’ll have to go up. I tell her, but she don’t say no. She don’t say anything at all until she is pulling herself up the ladder into the haymow. She is scared, and she is hurting.
She is crying. ‘Oh God. Oh my God.’ And she sure ain’t cursing; she is praying and praying hard. Her grip on the metal rung seems a bit shaky, so I start to help from behind. As I hold Naomi’s bottom, a trickle of warm water seeps into the sleeve of my jacket.
She’s really panting now and keeping up a stream of prayer. ‘Oh God, oh Lord, oh Lord.’
The boys’ fort is the closest, so we struggle toward the stacked bales. As soon as I settle Naomi down on the hay, I shake out Grandma’s give-away bag. There’s a half-finished quilt and scraps from her patchwork basket, a couple flower-patterned baking aprons, and — wrapped in the blue wool coat her boys gave her for Christmas — Grandma’s worn leather Bible. The hay is warm but scratchy, so I spread out Grandma’s blue coat and help Naomi slide over onto it. The slippery lining is cool to the touch, and Naomi’s forehead is next to boiling, so I think it may give her some comfort. Grandma’s Bible props up Naomi’s head. I wrap the pieced quilt around her body and hope that it will calm down her shivering.
She is hot and cold at the same time. ‘I’m so thirsty, Ruth. I’m so cold. I’m so cold and thirsty. Oh Lord.’
Oh Lord, I don’t know what to do.
Even though I don’t want to leave her, I feel like I can’t just stand and watch her suffer so. I climb down through the opening in the haymow floor and look around the barn for anything that might help us through. I don’t know if what I bring is better than what I leave behind; I can’t even see clearly for the tears in my eyes. My arms are shaking as I climb back up the ladder, but I’ve got some help tucked in my pockets: a rusty skinning knife, some baling twine, and an icicle I broke off the side of the barn. Maybe she can suck on the ice.
As my head rises through into the haymow, I struggle to catch my breath: there is much more than hay here now. Blood is weeping from Naomi; she
is still, so still, laying on her back with her legs surrendered and spread wide.
At first I fear she is dead, but then the baby takes hold again. Naomi’s body tenses with the next swell of pain, and I hear her praying again.
‘Help, Lord. Give me help.’
I guess that I’m the closest thing to an answer to prayer that she’s going to get, so help I do. Daddy will only reach in and pull when a lambing ewe starts to roll her eyes into the back of her skull, but Naomi’s way past that now. There is a head: black hair slick with blood. We try to rest, but the rhythm is too powerful; it is a heart beating, in calm, steady control, all from the inside of Naomi.
And then, it is all over all at once. With a great rush of blood and water, into my hands slides a tiny baby: eyes, nose, arms, fingers, legs, knees, feet, toes. She don’t scream; not the momma nor the baby. Naomi lays panting, spread out like a field-dressed kill. She is so little, the baby: her elbows work, and she has long, dark eyelashes. She is a tiny kitten, curled up in my hands, tender and mild in this quiet night. The barn swallows have stopped their swooping and no scurrying mice can be heard. The only sound is the barn creaking in the wind. We are three little girls alone: just me and Naomi and this still, silent child. I use the twine and the knife. I offer the baby to Naomi, but Naomi won’t touch her. Naomi won’t hold her.
She can’t even look at her. ‘I won’t name her. I don’t want to have to forget her name.’
Still, I can’t just lay this nameless baby down. Someone has to tell God and Grandma who she is so that they can recognise her face. The light is fading, so I raise her up high to get a better look at her. I still can’t get a good enough hold on her features, so I walk toward the hay chute and struggle to slide open the heavy door.
It is windy and cold; snowflakes swirl around me as I stand high above the farmyard looking out into the dark, deep night. I talk to this girl.
I hold her out toward the woods. ‘These are our trees.’
I hold her out toward the farmstead. ‘This is our home.’
I hold her out toward the river. ‘This is our water.’
Finally, I hold her out toward the heavens and tell Grandma and God. ‘This is our baby; hold her now.’
And then I let go.
30
WRAPPED IN A FILTHY QUILT, I GUARD FROM HIGH ABOVE THE farmyard. I watch now, as God does: too far away to hear, too nearby not to see. From the north, two angels are flying through the snow. Their strong wings are tucked beneath plaid barn coats, their golden halos darkened by orange hunting caps, their holy feet shrouded in boots. Snow flies before them as they roar across the cornfield, circling broken stalks with shouts of joy. Their snow machine screams over the icy gravel road and slides to a halt in the middle of the farmyard. They have found her; they are here to take the sacrifice.
They stand. The quiet angel bends to retrieve the body; the fierce angel knocks the body out of the arms of the quiet angel. Words are spoken, loud words, but I still cannot hear. Their words are spoken with puffs of smoke; their breath is hot to the cold night air. I think they voice a blessing that must be spoken by the two over the one. Pain comes with this sacrifice: the quiet angel is now on his knees, weeping over the body of the one. The fierce angel’s hands knot into fists. His eyes sweep the farmyard; his eyes see all. They burn through the snow and melt the ice. They burn straight through my body. His eyes see all that has gone before and all that is yet to be.
The fierce angel snatches the sacrifice and pushes away the quiet angel. They wrestle for the body; the quiet angel will not let go. He must be fighting for a blessing too. He pleads with the fierce angel for mercy; he begs as if he is asking for his own life.
We are shrivelled leaves clinging to the trees until the wind and our sins sweep us off the branches. Our righteousness is like a leper’s rags, filthy and unclean. No one knows our names or hopes to hold us; we call no name and never reach out our hands. For the Lord has hidden His face and allowed our wasting; we are dry and dying because of our sins.
We must come before God the Father stained with the blood of the Child. Fierce Angel roars away through the snow, the sacrifice balanced on his lap. Quiet Angel kneels in prayer next to a red stain in the snow, but as he raises his eyes to heaven, he sees only me.
To put back together again something broken is harder than it was first to make it new. I wasn’t there when Naomi was conceived, somewhere in the dark jack pine forest, the tall trees swaying with jagged broken tops and long brittle needles. That final push and groan was not in me, but at the moment she was made she was whole. Now she is shattered and unwound and wrecked. What it will take to bring her back — unbreak her — is beyond what my mind can imagine. And all I have are my small hands.
The wood framing the hay chute is solid, so I push my fingers into its hardness. It brings me back to this world. Turning away from the gaze of the angel — Reuben — still kneeling on the snow, I look for Naomi and I see her. She has wrapped herself in Grandma’s coat, and the wool sticks to her where it is wet with blood. She does not whimper. The hay beneath where she rests is red. I do not know the way, but if there is one, I will find it. I’ve walked pathless before.
‘We got to get you help. I’m going to get help.’ And I rush over to her and hold her head to my knees. She is not weeping but she is not here. Eyes open, she pushes her head into my legs, like a baby calf nudging for more milk.
Her blank eyes and her low breathing are all that I have to know that she is not dead. But when I turn to leave, she grabs my knees and pulls me down on the hay; her clinging is so tight. Her nails push into my arms. There is no pride in Naomi now; she is silent and broken before the Lord. The gifts of the Spirit are not present and neither is her soul. She cannot bear even my eyes upon her, and hides her face in my chest; my eyes burn holes into her heart, so I look away, up into the beams of the barn. High above in the eaves are the mud nests of sparrows, abandoned for the winter. The birds have spackled them together with mud and spit and hay; here they will lay their eggs and raise their young. Their homes are safe spaces, refuges in which to rest, but they are just earth and water. They would crumble easy enough.
All I can do is hold this girl, keep her safe and tight. I rock her body and brush away her tears, warming her and humming and praying in tongues. I am in my right mind, even though the Spirit is pushing hard to take hold. Naomi thought she was chosen, but I know now for certain: I am the one to bear the load.
I am not afraid of blood. I have seen enough blood in my life, so I’m not afraid of the blood. It smells of life and it smells of death; it spreads and spreads and spreads. Her soundless, almost breathless crying is more than enough: it is repentance and she will be justified before God. His tears drip down his face and roll off his nose. There is no weeping in heaven; the angels must come down to earth to cry. Quiet and peace, peace, peace descends on our souls. There is sin and there is blame, but they are not here in this lofty place. We have been given a way. Even in the midst of my confusion, I remembered. I opened the mouth and looked before she flew. I opened the mouth to check for fangs.
Obey the Word of the Lord, or you will be killed. That is my sentence; I have pronounced it myself. Thus the Lord speaks and thus speaks the prophets, they who speak the Word of the Lord. Therefore it is your life for his life, your people for his people.
And we three sit together in the hay: my brother, me and what is left of Naomi.
Reuben pulls away from our crying tangle of arms and legs and crouches nearby. Stuttering, he holds his hands across his face. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He sways on his haunches, wiping his eyes. ‘I knew — I guess I knew some — but I didn’t know about her.’
‘What do you mean?’ My head pounds, and I taste salt.
‘We could have fixed this.’ Steam rises off Reuben’s jacket. ‘He said you weren’t being hurt, and that he’d never touch Naomi. And S
amuel said he’d tell the truth — about the fires — he’d tell that most of them was just me.’
I can’t quite keep my mind still enough, but my brother’s words try to slip into gaps in my memory: times the boys weren’t where they claimed, gasoline smells on their clothes. The barns left by our grandparents were hand-hewn and hard-won: trees taken with axe and crosscut saw, logs skidded on ice with horses, fieldstone basements made of field rock. The boys burnt them, and then Reuben traded me to Samuel. He traded me to save his own skin. He traded me to keep Naomi safe.
I cannot look at him. He is not my brother.
Reuben clambers up and starts screaming, roaring with no words, directing his sound at the barn roof. He hits his head with his hands over and over; his grief is breaking him into noise. He screams until he stops.
When he is finished, and the sound again is only the hay-chute door rattling against its iron clasps and the wind outside and the creak of the barn timbers, I release my hold on my tender Naomi and turn my face to Reuben.
‘There was nothing to be done.’ I am certain of this, and hold my eyes hard on him. ‘Nothing happened here. Nothing that was your fault.’
It is made so as I speak it. I stare at his eyes and keep him still. And the wind stops moving outside and the eaves still their groaning and the chute door stands silent.
I begin to remake Naomi, to push everything back into place. But Reuben breaks again, with his knocking at his head and his screaming. He did not move before, so why must he shake so now?
Reuben screams at God and swears against His name. Then he screams against the Enemy while rejecting God’s way. And he screams until he falls down on the hay, slumping with his face buried between his knees. After he has sat there awhile, next to the gently rocking Naomi, he lays down in the hay. He is curled up like a baby, with his hands cupping his groin. He is finished. And now I know what I had hoped against: he is all he is, and he is not enough.
