“It was like one of those sheep they would sacrifice back in the Bible. It was like it had climbed up onto the altar itself and flopped onto its back with its throat held up and said: ‘All right. Come on and get it over with. Cut my damn throat and go away and let me lay quiet in the fire.’”
William Faulkner
“Uncle Willy”
For a long time, I lay quiet next to Thomas and listened to Katie’s whimpers as they drifted through the wall. I hoped the nightmare would pass, but it didn’t. Finally I went to her and tried to comfort her. I wish there were something I could do to ease her torment, but I haven’t been able to help her, to reach her and let her know how much I love her. If only she were more like MayBeth—strong and sound and cheerful. Katie is a female nightingale—silent and sad—carrying the heavy weight of sorrow on her slim shoulders. She’s endured too much for one so young. She must be serving penance for my sins. There’s no other reason I can think of why God would single her out for such pain.
Thomas reaches for me, but I turn away. I’ve lost all interest in making love. It happened so gradually over the past year I hardly noticed my desire leaving until one day I realized it was gone. There’s always so much on my mind—the girls, this old house that needs so many repairs, money worries, Granny. I blame Thomas for my unhappiness. He doesn’t understand me. He courted me for months, pressuring me into marriage, but I balked at the idea. When I realized no one else wanted me, the decision was taken out of my hands. We were married on an icy cold day in the dead of winter—a wild day that matched my mood. I was too young to be a bride. I wasn’t ready, but what else could I do? 
When I was a little girl, I often heard Ma crying at night when she thought I was asleep. She had five stillborn births before me, and I would listen as she said the names of each dead infant. She would rhyme them off like days of the week and ask God to protect them until she could join them. She prayed all the time about everything, but what I remember most is that she usually prayed to die. I was eight or nine when I asked her why. I remember she gave me a strange look then put down her darning needle and folded her hands.
“Life is hard,” she said. “And it don’t get any easier the longer you live. Might as well go home to the Lord sooner as later.” I can still see her sitting in her rocker with a ball of navy blue yarn and a wooden darning egg resting on her lap. When tears rolled down my cheeks she patted my hand and told me not to worry, that God would work things out. Then she went back to her darning and rocking. That rocking chair was her prized possession, given to her by her mother. After Blew’s death, I moved it to our bedroom. Sometimes I think Ma is watching me, sitting there in the corner, pointing a sharp needle at me, cursing me for marrying a poor Irishman.
Thomas is reaching for me again. He slips his arm around my waist and rubs my belly. He whispers in his sleep, something about wanting another baby. He wants a son, but I’m afraid. MayBeth was a breech birth, and I almost died with her. I was terrified to have another child, but then Katie came along, and the thirty-six hour labor for her almost finished me. Unlike MayBeth, who was round and chubby, Katie was long and thin. She was perfect, too, except for the birthmark on her forehead—a red mark in the shape of a sword. The mark gradually faded, but when she cries or gets angry, the sword flames red again. I see it every day.
I feel the warmth from Thomas’ body as mine arouses his. I’ve learned to love him over the years, for he is a good man, but I’m not ready to be a wife in the physical sense. I’m tired. Tired of everything—this farm with its endless work and thankless animals—tired of MayBeth’s selfishness and Katie’s grief, and I’m tired of Granny’s constant interfering. I want them all to go away. Everyone wants a piece of me—they think I can fix all their problems as easily as Father Gray gives absolution—with the wave of the hand and the sign of the cross. If it were that easy, I would gladly oblige all of them.
“You awake?” Thomas asks. He’s pressing into me.
“Yes. Katie had another nightmare.” His hand leaves my belly and his strong fingers encircle mine. He squeezes them.
“Did you talk to the priest about her? Isn’t there something he can do?” His breath is sweet, as if he’s just rinsed his mouth with peppermint schnapps, and the concern in his voice brings tears to my eyes. Katie is his favorite.
“Yes, you know I have, but he says it will take time for her to heal. He said he watches her eyes on Sunday morning, and they’re blank—like her soul died with Blew. He doesn’t know what to do anymore than we do. Please, Thomas. Not now.” He ignores me, his need for me greater than his desire to please me and honor my wishes. When it’s over, I cry. “Don’t,” he says and tries to comfort me. “Maybe the seed will take, and our son will come with the spring.” He kisses my lips, turns his body to the wall, and goes back to sleep.
I feel his sperm sticking to my thighs and hope his phantom son is sliding down my legs. My passion is gone as is my desire to be an obedient wife. When I was young, I used to read Dickens and Hardy and Elliot and Thoreau and Shakespeare and dozens of other great writers. I used to pretend my life would be filled with adventure, that I might even write a novel that would withstand time. Now I only have time to write the grocery list. I no longer have dreams. Sometimes I think Katie will fulfill them. She’s a loner and is always reading, especially now Blew is gone. She spends too much time by herself either locked in her playhouse or high up in the haymow. Sometimes she rides her bicycle and disappears down our isolated road and is gone for hours. I don’t know for sure, but I think she rides to the river. I’ll be thankful when school starts in a few weeks.
I close my eyes and listen to the peaceful silence of the upstairs. Both my girls are sleeping. With each breath, I feel their childhood slipping away. I long to hold it for them, but instead, I help it disappear. Perhaps—in the long run—it’s better that way. Lately I’ve had to shield them from so much. There’s tension between Granny and me, and when Thomas drinks, things get worse. Last New Year’s Eve, he was so drunk he couldn’t walk home from the party at Rene’s. Goad hitched the horse to the sleigh and dumped Thomas on the front porch. If Lard hadn’t barked, I don’t think I would have heard a thing I was so engrossed in a book. Thomas could have frozen to death, if it’s possible for a drunk to freeze.
I awakened the girls, and we hauled him in. MayBeth thought it was funny—Papa’s starting the New Year off right she said—but Katie blinked back tears. She had never seen Thomas in such a state. It made me sick to see the fear and sadness in her eyes, but she might as well get used to it. The bottle is never far from him now. The steady breathing of my daughters comforts me. Perhaps their breath will give me strength to endure this life thrust upon me.
