by Austin Boyd
Deserted in the back of beyond, Laura Ann closed her eyes in prayer.
“Are you a troll?” a voice asked sometime later.
The question jarred her out of another world, the mysterious twilight of deep prayer. Laura Ann looked up from her cold seat on the causeway, blinking against the sun. A man in green and khaki stood over her, lit up with smiles.
She wiped her eyes, self-conscious about any wet in them. “Ian?”
“I asked you a question,” he said, his smile brimming ear to ear. “Are you a troll?”
She dusted her pants as she stood, tilting her head.
“You know,” he said. “Guarding the bridge. From the Brothers Grimm? We read those stories when we were kids.”
Laura Ann smiled. “What’s the password, Officer?” she asked, crossing her arms and staking a claim to the middle of the concrete.
“That’s easy. Hot biscuits.”
Laura Ann shrugged with a shake of her head.
Ian put a finger to his temple, then replied. “Biscuits and gravy!”
“Got it. But you’re early,” she responded, extending a hand. His grip was strong and warm. Inviting.
“Been out since five. Most poachers can’t wait to hit the woods with their new rifles on Christmas morning. Probably figure I’ll be home snoozing on a holiday.”
“Any luck?” she asked, remembering her reason for leaving the house. The intruder.
“I wrote three tickets before seven. So, what’s got you down here? It’s too cold to be out watching the creek.”
“Thinking,” she replied, hands shoved into the pockets of her coat. She looked away for a moment, sure her expression would give her away.
A hand touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Laura Ann. For your loss. Your dad was the best.” Ian faced the ground, perhaps to save her the embarrassment, perhaps because he felt her pain. “I wish there was something I could do.”
Laura Ann watched him, a tall drink of water with tousled brown hair under a West Virginia Department of Natural Resources ball cap. His badge rose and fell with the deep breaths of a man who didn’t know exactly what to say, a man who exhaled deep with each frustration.
“Thank you, Ian,” she said, moving toward him. She put a hand on the forearm of his brown official coat, squeezing through the insulated sleeves. His eyes met hers, and understanding flowed in the silence between them.
A long moment later, Ian motioned to his truck. “I’m starving. Biscuits and gravy?”
Laura Ann smiled. “I saved some. Hoped you’d drive by.”
“Every Christmas. Are they still warm?”
“They were when I left,” she replied, climbing into his vehicle.
As they drew abreast her pickup near the bottom of the hill, Laura Ann touched Ian’s forearm a second time. “Let’s ride to the farm in your truck.”
“Suits me,” Ian said. He shifted down a gear to climb out of the low water crossing and head up the first hill of The Jug.
Laura Ann turned and looked out the back window at her truck, aside the road near the bottom of the grade. “I want to leave it there for a while. As a warning.”
“Warning?”
“Someone was in here this morning, Ian. Taking pictures, I think.”
His countenance changed like summer weather. In an instant he was serious, his law enforcement face. He stopped the truck and turned in the bench seat to face her. “Pictures?”
“I saw someone up on the ridge above the farmhouse forty-five minutes ago. I took off after him, but he got away.”
“Any idea who it was?”
“Uncle Jack, I think.”
“You’re sure?”
“No,” she confessed. “But I saw his blue truck. It had to be him, right?”
“Not because of the truck. But I’ll bet it was Jack.”
“Why?”
“Saw him up the road. On my way back from Big Moses.”
“You saw Uncle Jack?” she repeated, incredulous.
“Yep. And he had company. Two of ‘em, plain as day.” Ian laid his arm on the seat back, turning her direction. “Had a gun in the rack, and Jack was wearing a tie.”
Laura Ann took a deep breath, trying to remember. There could have been two of them. But Uncle Jack in a tie? Never.
Ian smiled, lowered his arm, and put the truck back into gear. “Let’s go grab those biscuits,” he said with a chuckle, “and we’ll figure this out together.”
Eight hours later, the farm kitchen brimmed to overflowing with food. Auntie Rose’s turkey simmered in a pan of blistering hot drippings, fresh from the oven. Salad, cornbread dressing, pole beans, fresh-baked bread, and mashed potatoes all waited to be heaped into serving dishes. Laura Ann surveyed the feast and cooking utensils, then joined her aunt at the window.
Laura Ann broke the silence with the question that no doubt hung on Auntie Rose’s mind. “Do you think Uncle Jack got your note?” Laura Ann asked, certain she didn’t want him here for dinner, and hopeful her aunt would say “Let’s eat without him.”
“I called twice, Laura Ann. He won’t answer his cell phone.”
“Should we start without him?”
Auntie Rose lowered her head and shook it slowly. No words needed.
“Fine,” Laura Ann replied, pulling her in the direction of the living room. “Then come see what Daddy gave me for Christmas. It’s amazing.”
Auntie Rose brightened and dusted her hands on an apron, then followed.
Together, they squatted at the foot of the Christmas tree and shared stories about the leather-bound book, Laura Ann’s favorite. Auntie Rose told stories about her brother Angus and his love of reading to his daughter. Stories about his experiences traveling the world through books.
Daddy lived again in her words. She could see him in Auntie Rose’s face, shared genes expressed in her aunt’s cheeks and eyes. Daddy’s laugh mirrored hers, and it felt good to giggle again. To share the living room floor as family. To hold someone close, warm skin embracing hers. She relished every one of Auntie Rose’s stories, tales of Angus McGehee, and his conquering ways as a young man in a post-Vietnam America. The farm boy whom every girl pined for, but only one woman captured. Stories of Hope and Rose, sisters in spirit and marriage. Idyllic times.
Uncle Jack might not have entered the story had he not arrived at the door. The bang of a fist meant he came to be served, not to dine.
Auntie Rose stopped in midsentence, sharing another memory of Hope and their youth together as schoolgirls, the tender middle-school years long before Angus proposed marriage. The first bang on the door stopped her and she cowered, eyes wide, moving where Laura Ann’s body shielded her from the sound. Just a fraction of a moment, a brief retreat, but it spoke dark secrets of her dread of Uncle Jack. She turned to embrace her aunt, but too late. Rose stood and walked to the door, stoic. A lamb headed to slaughter.
When his wife opened the door, Uncle Jack stepped into the home without a word, eyes on the prowl. Like he was searching for something, scouring every tidbit, leveraging for an angle. His way.
“Hello, Laura Ann,” he said at last.
She nodded. “Merry Christmas, Uncle Jack.” She stood and faced him, her quarry. He’d eluded her once today. Would he confess?
He didn’t respond to her greeting but dusted snowflakes off his jacket, a brown outdoorsman thing like the ones that hung in rows at the hardware store. Not a stain on it, still stiff with factory sizing. He headed straight for the kitchen, avoiding Laura Ann’s gaze.
“We’ll get dinner set,” Auntie Rose said. “We were just waiting for you.” She moved quickly, but more like a robot on fast action than a woman proud of her kitchen skills. She made small talk, he responded. She ladled food, he sat down. She prayed, he bowed a head, then ate in silence. The spirit of Christmas died in the compress of their unspoken tension. Uncle Jack, the joy thief.
“Shoot anything?” Laura Ann asked, tired of hearing him chew.
“No. Why?”<
br />
“Saw your truck up on the rise earlier. With a gun in the rack.”
Auntie Rose snapped her head up from its characteristic slump, her eyes pleading with Laura Ann “don’t.” No talk of guns or game laws — or wardens on the prowl.
Words burned on Laura Ann’s tongue and she swallowed hot spite. “Ian stopped by earlier,” she said, determined to make her point. “Mentioned he saw you this morning out near West Union.”
“Might have,” Uncle Jack responded, watching his plate.
“He said to tell you hello,” she continued. “Comes by every Christmas to check for poachers.” She watched for some response. He reached over the table to pull the pie in his direction.
“You don’t have to head up to West Union to hunt, Uncle Jack,” she continued, standing to gather up his plate and her own. Laura Ann could see Auntie Rose shaking as she lifted a hand to finish her last bite. “You’re family. You can hunt here.”
That comment got his eye. Uncle Jack regarded her for a long moment, then looked down to lift a wedge of pumpkin pie onto his plate. She headed for the sink, an ear inclined back toward the table.
“Thanks. I might do that Friday. Buck season’s back in.”
No one spoke while she cleaned up the dishes, set out coffee, and dashed some whipped cream on the pie. When at last she sat down, ready to enjoy her first dessert, Uncle Jack was finished, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, he smiled.
“I met a man today, Laura Ann,” he said, his voice unnaturally pleasant. “Land buyer. Super opportunity.”
“You told me you went hunting.” Auntie Rose’s voice rose in pitch, her fork of pie stopped halfway to her mouth.
“Today’s Monday, Rose. It’s a work day in my book.”
“You had to work on Christmas?” Laura Ann asked.
He looked down at his pie, then over at Rose. “You should be glad.” He turned back to face Laura Ann.
She held his gaze, counting the seconds in silence, waiting for him to look away. She learned the trick from Daddy, staring down bad dogs. The skill paid dividends, particularly with her uncle.
“Glad?” Laura Ann asked, pouring coffee but never breaking the lock with his eyes. She listened for the sound of the liquid, judging her filling of the cup by ear.
Uncle Jack got up from the table, coffee in hand, waving toward the window. “I found you a buyer, Laura Ann. A solution to your money problems. You’re one lucky girl.”
She set the coffee pot down hard on the table, jarring the dishes. Auntie Rose jerked when the pot hit the tablecloth, spilling some of the hot drink on her blouse. Laura Ann huffed, then crossed the kitchen for a wet rag.
“I’ve got it,” Auntie Rose insisted, her eyes on her husband. Uncle Jack’s faked smile never faded.
“What money problem?” Laura Ann asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
His chest swelled and he walked about the room in a slow circle, waving occasionally toward a window. “This. This problem. You can’t afford the place, Laura Ann, but I’ve found a solution.”
“I own it, Uncle Jack.”
“No,” he insisted, shaking his head, staring out the kitchen window toward the Middle Island Creek. “The bank owns this farm. You mortgaged it for all that medical care — a lot of good that did your dad. A mortgage you can’t pay, by the way.”
He turned from the window, pointing his coffee cup at Laura Ann. “The state wants to buy your place.” He stopped his walk, sipping from the cup. “It’s a good deal. You should take it.”
Laura Ann shook her head. “I don’t need your help — or the state’s.”
He chuckled, then let out a long breath. “Oh, yes, you do.”
Laura Ann stiffened and crossed her arms, feet spread. Her fighting stance. “Why are you here on Christmas, anyway, Uncle Jack? Why not head out there tonight on the best holiday of the year and sell some more crop insurance? Or go shoot a buck out of season. You’re pretty good at that.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that, young lady.”
“I did say it. You don’t care about Christmas, or this family, except what it gets for you. Don’t pretend you’re doing me some kind of favor. It’s all about you. It always has been.”
“I am doing you a favor, Laura Ann. I’ve got a buyer all queued up and ready to pay.” His face went red like her truck, arteries swelling in his temples. “You need my help.”
“No, I don’t,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Don’t need it, and don’t want it.”
“Stupid girl.”
“Stupid what?”
“Girl. You’re a kid, for crying out loud. Barely twenty, you don’t have an education, and you’ve never held a job. No means of support. You’ll be at the Social Security office begging for handouts inside a month.” He waved the coffee cup like a lance, slicing her with his imaginary rapier.
Venom rose in her throat, hot words she’d heard from her daddy, ready to spew in Uncle Jack’s face. Words about his broken marital vows with Daddy’s sister, his tightfistedness, and his stream of lies. All words that would pierce Auntie Rose, words she dared not vent.
Uncle Jack took a step toward Laura Ann. Auntie Rose gasped, her knees buckling where she fell into a kitchen chair. Laura Ann set her stance and found her voice, all her pain pummeling him with one commanding word. “No!”
He stopped midstride and cast a puzzled look at her, then at Auntie Rose, who wrung her hands, eyes wide.
“I can and will run this farm, Uncle Jack. I’ve worked here my whole life and I’ll make it pay. So clean that wax out of your ears and hear me. This farm is not for sale.”
CHAPTER 4
Dear Daddy,
It’s Christmas night and this is my first letter to you using the wonderful leather journal you gave me. I promise to write a letter every year. I miss you dearly. Being close to you, even with the cancer, was so much more joyful than the life I’ve lived since you left.
It’s after midnight. My fourth try at this, and lots of tears on this page. I’m trying so hard to write you a letter, but these words are like sparks around gasoline. They ignite so many feelings, so many memories.
Your funeral was beautiful. Simple, just the way you wanted. Preacher said some nice things about you, and about Momma. He talked about reuniting with loved ones, and about the impact you made in our church. It was so cold. I wanted to throw a blanket over your casket to warm you up, but I knew you weren’t there.
I thought that losing you would be the hardest thing I’d ever have to deal with. But it’s not. Now I understand why you always protected me when Uncle Jack came to visit. He didn’t wait long to show up. It was bad tonight. He’s not a nice man, Daddy, and I wish he’d leave Auntie Rose alone. She and I cooked an amazing Christmas dinner together here at the house. Uncle Jack started arguing with her after dinner and tried to hit her when she was washing the dishes. When he swung at her, she raised the biscuit skillet out of the soapsuds to shield herself. He slammed his fist into cast iron, broke his hand, and then drove himself to the hospital, cursing. You’d be laughing, I guess, if you’d been here. Auntie Rose is spending the night at the farm. She’s terrified to leave him — but scared to go home.
That’s not all. Uncle Jack is pushing me to sell our land and somehow he stands to profit. I’m sure of it. You’ve only been gone a few days, and he’s already had a man here taking pictures of the farm. The state wants to buy our property to extend the wildlife management area to the end of The Jug. He’s promising enough money to pay off the mortgage and the medical bills. I told him, “No sale. “
The cold snap hasn’t broken yet, but the cows are fine. We have plenty of hay right now, but I might have to buy some more before February. It’s wicked cold. I named one of the black cats “Lucky” because he’s fortunate not to sleep in the barn in this weather. He comes in the house at night and sleeps with me on my bed.
Granny Apple is coming over tomorrow. She and I will take some of you
r things to the shelter to help them through this cold weather. She has been so nice, calling on the phone at least twice a day. We’ll probably cook when she comes over.
I keep telling you boring stuff about my day because I don’t want … can’t seem to put my feelings on paper. Please forgive me. It might take me a while to be able to write about what I feel. Right now, it’s all very raw.
There are two things I need to say. First, I promise I won’t break the chain. I know how much the farm means to you, Daddy. How it came down from your family so many years ago. I wish I could give our family name to a son, but I know you’re happy that I am who I am. I won’t let Uncle Jack or anyone pressure me. It won’t be easy, getting by. But God will provide. He always has.
The other thing is much harder for me to tell you. I’ve done something you probably wouldn’t approve of, and I hope you’ll forgive me. When you were sick, I did something to make some money. A lot of money. Preacher would never approve of what I’ve done and I don’t dare tell anyone around here. But my body paid for your medicine until we mortgaged the farm to pay the bills.
What’s done is done. I can’t bring myself to write about what I did. I know it sounds crazy, maybe like an unspoken prayer request or a secret sin. You told me once that a person can do the wrong thing for the right reason. I know what I did was wrong. I sold a piece of myself. But doing that kept you alive and that’s the right reason. You raised me to make good decisions, Daddy. I decided that if my body could give you life, whatever I could do was worth the sacrifice. No matter what Preacher or Auntie Rose might say, I’d go through that humiliation and pain all over again, just to have you here with me again, even for a day.
I love you.
DECEMBER 26
“No welfare. Ever.” Laura Ann rubbed her eyes, raw from her tearful night with the journal, a restless three hours of sleep, and an early feeding in the barn. Bent over the kitchen table, her head pounded with each blink. Life spiraled down and joy fled with it.
