Attached, p.4
Attached, page 4
* * *
When I was six, I went out to collect eggs for the morning. Caring for the chickens had become my first true outside chore, and I reveled in it. I skipped up to the chicken coop but my little tummy flipped when I looked under Harriett, my very first chicken’s fat feathered bottom. Again, there were no eggs.
Initially, I had confided in Daddy because I was worried about my pet. I told him Harriett stopped producing eggs, thinking he might know how to fix her.
He’d threatened, “If she doesn’t start laying eggs, she ain’t worth keepin’.”
So for weeks, I had covered for her and lied to Daddy—now fearful for her life.
Giving her extra pets and corn, I tried to give her more attention, urging her to lay more eggs.
When he wasn’t looking, I would take an egg from one of the other hens and put it in Harriett’s count. Eventually, he caught on. I got a whippin’ for lyin’ to him, and he was now watching more closely.
I slowly filled my basket one morning and took my time back to the kitchen. Quietly, I slid the basket of eggs on the counter, hoping he wouldn’t ask.
“Any eggs from Harriett?” he asked over the brim of a steaming coffee mug.
My heart dropped. I looked at the ground and grumbled out, “No.”
He pushed himself away from the counter and walked over to me.
“Ellie, if she ain’t givin’ us eggs, she ain’t welcome here anymore.” He looked at me and waited until our eyes met. “This is part of taking care of chickens, and if they stop laying eggs, they become our food.”
My whole body began to shake. “Harriett is my friend. I raised her and protected her. She trusts me.”
“And now you are going to kill her so we can save feed for the other chickens. The feed costs money, and if she ain’t contributin’, she ain’t worth nothin’,” he said. Worthiness came from production is what he meant.
“I will not kill her.” I made my tiny frame as big as it could be.
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me outside; I struggled against his strength and dug my feet in the dirt. My heart pounded in my ears, and red-hot tears burned the lining of my eyes.
He pulled me along with no effort and said through gritted teeth, “This is part of survivin’ out here. You need to learn this right here and now, girl. Freeloaders ain’t got no place here.”
He pulled me to his ax and yanked it from the wood wedge. My eyes widened, and I knew what he meant to do. I backed away toward my hens and saw them waddle up to me as I’d trained them to do. Harriett was the first to reach me.
These were my chickens, my girls.
I turned and ran at them so they would fly off—my last attempt at saving Harriett. They scattered, and Daddy stalked off in the direction of Harriett. He took two long strides and grabbed her by her white feathered neck. He tucked her under his arm, pinning her wings down. He shoved the heavy ax at my chest, but I pushed it away and let it hit the ground. Then I looked up at him, silently pleading with my tear-streaked face. Please don’t make me do this.
He lifted his lip and grabbed Harriet by the head. “Girl, you either pick up that ax and do it quickly or I will find another way that won’t be so kind.”
I looked at Harriett and she cocked her head to one side, one eye looking at me with confusion. I knew his words were not a threat. He would kill her slowly just to make a point. Even by then, I knew when he meant to teach me a hard life lesson.
I wiped my eyes and reached down with my small shaking hand to lift up the ax.
Daddy smiled at me, beaming with pride. “Atta girl, you know what needs to be done.”
I breathed faster, my chest heaved, and I raced to think of any way out of this. I schemed that I would miss her neck and accidentally let her go, but he stretched her thin neck out away from her body with his strong hands. I watched as her little plump chest breathed harder and faster. She tried to shake out of his grip but he was too strong for her, just as he was too strong for me. Holding Harriett steady for me, he waited.
My vision blurred.
Daddy yelled, “Do it now!”
I stopped thinking, blocked out all emotion, brought the ax over my head, and cut straight through Harriett’s neck in one strong thunk. Her body fell to the ground and flopped around. Daddy threw her head to the ground and wiped his hands on his pant leg, leaving finger streaks of blood. I dropped the ax and stepped away.
* * *
From that moment on, I never named our chickens again. Getting close hurt too much. Eventually, I was able to separate this connection and never really thought about it again until tonight. We needed to eat and survive, so chickens, cattle, and deer had to die. But now the man who taught me the importance of cutting out a weak freeloading link is forcing my hand again.
Chapter 6
Days turn into months and my daddy’s absence no longer surprises me. It’s been two weeks since I last saw or heard of him. Since that night when we left him on the ground, covered in his urine and vomit, I don’t look for him or bring him back. His staying away was easier actually, and it seems like he must think that too. We aren’t sure if he’s staying away intentionally or not, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I have to focus on my sisters and keep the remnants of our little family together.
Tugging on my boots, I notice the vacant area where his boots used to live.
Distracting myself from the pang of sadness, I get ready for a long day of hunting, fishing, and hopefully some gold panning. I have put off panhandling for months now, burdened with the other more vital tasks that consume my worried mind. Just as I’m saying my goodbyes to Maggie and Lottie, Daddy stumbles into the cabin.
His clothes are caked and darkened from dirt, and his hair is sticking out in all directions in greasy bunches; he can hardly stand. Maggie is holding Lottie who starts to cry from all his commotion. He staggers toward Maggie and Lottie with a crazy look in his eye. All of my hunting senses kick to attention. He never laid a hand on Maggie in the past, so I told myself we had nothing to worry about.
He spits out, “You... You killed your momma, you little witch.”
I then notice he is pointing at Lottie. My stomach drops to my feet. He throws the chair across the room and the leg splinters off in pieces. He takes another pounding step at Maggie and Lottie. I attempt to move my body but his eyes snap to mine and I freeze. He keeps looking at me with vacant, lost, and intense eyes, which are lined with silver. He gives me a warning glance, one he had used so many times while we were hunting together. It’s a silent order to stay put.
I can’t move. He then seems to remember Lottie and turns his attention back on her. He stumbles into another chair and braces himself on the kitchen table.
He is taking deep heaving breaths, rasping out the last bit of air he has left. His stance widens, and he stands up.
“If it weren’t fer you, your mother would still be alive,” he screams.
Lottie screams back at him.
Maggie tries to cover Lottie with her body and turns to back away.
Maggie attempts kindness. “Daddy, why don’t you lie down and rest a bit?”
“Annie, don’t you tell me what to do,” he yells. “It’s your fault she’s here. You wanted that damn baby. Now, look what she’s done.”
I saw Maggie’s eyes widen; he thinks she is Momma—his Annie.
Maggie starts to move her lips, preparing to say something, but the sound never develops. His body lumbers forward and then time slows to a crawl. I watch stupidly as he charges at my sisters. It isn’t until the back of his thick club of a hand connects with the side of Maggie’s face that I snap out of my trance.
Maggie falls to the ground, keeping Lottie close to her chest. Without thinking, my hand finds the cast iron pan, the one that heated all our family meals, and I swing it with all my strength. Its weight makes contact with the middle of his back. He cries out in a warbled sound and then tumbles, falling to the ground and clutching his injury.
My whole body is shaking, including both of my hands holding the iron. I raise it above my head, again ready. My fear peaks. I don’t know what to do next.
Rising to his knees, my father glares at me with dazed and shining eyes. He closes one of them to focus on me. Good, he is drunk enough to see two of me. At that moment, I am sure I could handle this. I nod my head, telling Maggie to get the hell out of here.
He grabs for her as she runs by with Lottie in her arms but misses and falls to the ground once more. Disgust bubbles in my gut. My shoulders drop and my jaw sets once I see the skirt tails of Maggie’s dress exit the front door.
Looking down my nose at him, I bark, “You get out of here, now.”
His eyes dart away from mine, with what looks like hurt and betrayal, but I no longer care. He tries to stand but has to crawl over to the sofa to right himself.
He leans on the sofa, and with iciness lacing his words, he taunts me, “What are you gonna do, hit me again?”
“If I have to,” I growl without hesitation.
He looks down at the floor as if in defeat, bracing both hands on the spine of the brown leather sofa.
Lowering the pan, relief flits through my body. This subtle movement is all he needs.
He uses the heel of his hand and knocks my chin up. I am thrown off balance and land flat on my back. My head bounces once, and my vision blurs. His balance is thrown by our momentum, causing him to land on me.
Neither of us moves for several moments. We just lie there. The room is twisting around me. His blurred and jerking figure lifts off of me. He stabilizes himself with one hand and punches me hard with the other, making the room spin in the opposite direction.
I blindly swipe his arm with mine and this causes him to fall on his face. Shaking my head several times, my vision clears so I push him over and scramble out from underneath him. I can see in his eyes the explosion of anger burning hotter than I have ever seen it. He might actually kill me.
Move. Move! my head screams to my body.
I raise the pan again, this time over my shoulder, and use a sweeping upward motion to connect with his chin. He falls to the floor and does not get up.
Maggie rushes back into the house with a rifle raised. I am sweating, and my breaths come out of me in ragged grunts. My eyes are wide. She sees Daddy on the ground and then surveys me for any injuries.
“You hurt?”
I shake my head once as tears start to spill over my cheeks. She rushes to me and hugs me. I am drenched in sweat and my heart’s still pounding. We allow ourselves a few more moments to calm down.
Pulling away from her, I need space. “He can’t be here.”
Maggie considers this and nods in agreement. “Let’s take him out to the stalls and leave him there. I will clip some money and a note that says to take it, a horse, and to never come back.”
Maggie runs to the money jar and fishes out most of our savings. She ties it up in a handkerchief and places it in her apron. I watch her as I sit on the ground. My body continues to shake for a few more seconds, but then my mind catches up and lethal stillness takes over.
I am angry. I let myself think he would never hit Maggie or hurt Lottie. I am angry we are giving him our money, and I am most angry because I can’t get myself to move again.
Maggie writes the letter on a piece of paper and grabs a clothespin. I finally drop the pan and am able to rise to my feet. Maggie and I hoist him in the way we had done so many times now. He is deadweight but feels lighter than ever thanks to the renewed conviction and fire that drives us forward.
We drag his body through the dirt to the stables and leave him next to his horse. Maggie clips the note and handkerchief to his shirt. We look at each other and stand a little straighter as we walk back to the cabin. Maggie peels away from me to collect Lottie from the bushes where she hid her. I hold the door open and watch them walk in. I close the door behind me and bolt it shut. We all pile on the sofa. Maggie with Lottie sleeping in her lap and me with the rifle resting across mine. We sit in silence for a long time.
I now only have one goal, and that is to keep my sisters safe from everything. Nothing else matters.
GIVE UP AND GIVE IN
Chapter 7
The icy wind seeps deep into my bones. I have not been able to catch food over the last two days and I’m now worried, but I am so tired I almost do not care. After we kicked Daddy out four months ago, the summer months felt manageable and slipped past us dreamily. Maggie and I had prepared by stocking and then re-stocking. We had counted our cans and bought bags and bags of beans and extra dry meat from the Parsons. We rehearsed and replayed all the scenarios that could go wrong.
We didn’t account for this type of winter, nor did anyone else. We have never had a winter this bad before. Everyone agrees. Others came to the shop once they all ran out of food earlier than usual. Desperation dissolved from their faces once they saw the shop shelves fully stocked. We made out like bandits with coin and gold, resolving that if we ran out, we would just buy more from the Parson men or I would do some extra hunting. We are fine, I reassured myself and Maggie.
However, it is now the dead of deep winter, and supplies and game are scarce. Graham and Daniel have not made it up the mountain for over a month. I have no other choice but to find something out here.
This responsibility is solely on my shoulders. Maggie already offered to help with hunting but neither of us had the patience to endure that lesson. When survival scrapes its hungry claws down my nerves, the nastier side of me is nearly impossible to hide. Teaching Maggie the rudimentary skill of walking quietly ended in a screaming fight. It was a waste of time. Driving her back to the cabin where she was safe was better for us all, I reason with myself.
The looming mountains blanketed in thick white crystals tease my senses. The whitewashed pines lining the ridges are already covered with the same snowy layer; it brings me a sense of wonder and peace. This is an illusion; the beauty of the landscape causes my fears to consume me. The fear of my failure is ever-present, much like the raw skin inside your cheek after you’ve nipped it with your teeth, never able to leave it alone.
Wearily, I scan the white path in front of me. Foggy thinking as the real reality of our current situation bears down on me and I am not paying attention to where my feet carry me.
You can’t do this. You knew you weren’t ready. It’s all your fault. You should’ve let him stay. You are the reason they are starving now. Weak, like the girl you are.
Self-loathing comes easily to me with each day, hour, and minute I fail to provide. Times like these Daddy’s level of lethal focus used to impress me most. Ever since I was a little girl, I could never understand how he mastered and shoved his needs aside for the hunt. The strength and determination he had exhausted and inspired me on long days.
We would be deep in the mountains together, late at night or early in the morning, and just when I could not bear it anymore, our prey would enter the clearing. He would expertly shoot the beast to the ground.
He would rise from the ground laughing at me and say, “See, if I let you be soft, we would go hungry and die. Toughen up, girl. I do this for your own good.”
Focus now. The sharpness and allure of wanting to give up scrapes against my willpower. My mind drifts to another time I almost gave up.
* * *
I was twelve years old, lying in the snow next to Daddy. We’d set our guns and were waiting for the kill. My fingers hurt so bad I believed one of my toes would go black from the wetness and cold that sponged into my boots. A whimper escaped from my pursed lips. The cold numbed my body but also my ability to think straight. Then to add insult to a shitty situation, I had to pee.
Groaning and movements took over my body. Distracted by my primal needs, I never saw the solid heavy elbow flying toward my ribs. I knew when he made contact I would be bruised for weeks. It knocked the wind out of me and I buckled over on my side, gasping for air and wetting myself.
He muttered, “Now you have something to whine about.”
I could not breathe.
Just then, the most beautiful doe entered the clearing. My father took a deep breath and cocked the gun, ready to fire, his body set to make a quick and fatal kill.
At the moment just before his finger squeezed the trigger, I unleashed a cry of exaggerated agony.
The doe looked in our direction then swiftly sprinted away.
His anger boiled over at the lost opportunity, so I had to be quick. My size allowed for speed.
My rifle was still attached to me. Tucking my arms, I rolled away as he snatched at the air where I had been. The whiff of his fingertips grazed the rope end of my braided hair.
I still was not able to take deep breaths but I righted myself as best I could and staggered away while holding my already bruising side.
His boots crunched in the snow and mud of the earth, just two strides behind. We had done this before when he was not quite so mad.
He would drive me off so he could find me and tell me all the ways I fucked up by leaving a footprint or being too loud. But that was when I was much younger and now my legs stretched out and I could run lighter and take longer steps. Slowly at first, but when I was able to lengthen my stride to create more room between us, I was sprinting. He was not going to catch me this time.
I could hear him yelling and cursing my name. He was pissed.
