Laura McHugh - The Weight of Blood

When Lila was alive, Crete had been determined to find out if Lucy was his daughter. He was driven by selfish anger and a blind urge to claim what belonged to him. But with Lila gone and Carl floundering, things changed. No one stood between him and Lucy; she was closer to him than ever. He knew that after the loss of his wife, Carl couldn’t take a second blow, the one he would suffer if Crete took away his child. He wouldn’t do that to his brother. And this way, he didn’t have to face the possibility that Lucy wasn’t his. He would rather not know for sure. Though what would a test result matter? It was just a bunch of letters and numbers. It wouldn’t change his love for her. It was real love, true and effortless: stronger, simpler, and more important than what he had felt for Lila or his mother or any other woman. And she loved him back. He gave Lucy everything, and she was enough, a solace for all the other things he knew he couldn’t have.

Crete’s nose had been broken a second time when he lied and told Carl he’d slept with Janessa Walker. He stood there and let Carl hit him, because he knew he deserved it. Janessa was the first girl to turn down his advances in favor of his little brother, and while he felt bad about hurting Carl, he couldn’t stand to let Janessa go unpunished.

Crete was almost home when the sky let loose. Rain blurred his windshield as the wipers struggled to keep up, and he flicked on the headlights. A few minutes later, he pulled into his driveway, parked the truck, and made a run for the house. He fumbled with his keys as he reached the front porch but quickly realized that he wouldn’t need them.

Crete stood there in the wind and rain, fully soaked, staring into his house. Beyond the screen, the front door gaped open on the dark and empty hall, and he knew right then, before he ran inside and down the stairs to check the basement, that the girl was gone.

Though the rain let up as soon as I got in the house, the sky stayed dark. Birdie would be worrying. I fetched the rifle from the front hall and checked the chamber, knowing the gun was little more than a rattle on a snake, a warning—a plea—to stay away. I wasn’t so worried about Emory, who’d already shown that he valued survival above retribution when he sped away from Crete’s. But Crete might not believe I’d call the law, that I’d forsake my family to save a girl I barely knew. He wouldn’t run on speculation; I’d never known him to run from anything. He was a man of confrontation. If Emory told him what I’d done, he’d want answers from me.

I dialed Birdie, and she picked up at half a ring. “I got caught in the rain out in the garden,” I said. “I’m gonna get cleaned up, and then I’ll head back.”

“I’ll come get you,” she said. “Radio says it’s gonna get worse.”

“No!” It came out harsher than I intended. “I’m fine. I don’t need your help. I’ll wait it out here if it gets that bad.”

Lightning flared, and her voice buzzed with static. “Well, at least turn on the radio.” She wasn’t happy with me, but that couldn’t be helped. I had to wait at the house until it seemed likely that nobody would come. Then I could start cleaning up my mess. I’d have to call my dad.

I stepped out onto the porch and inhaled the damp electric scent of the storm. Bruised clouds bulged overhead, leaving a gap of clear greenish sky along the horizon. All through the hills, the treetops swayed like the coat of a giant beast being stroked by unseen hands. I heard no approaching engines, no manmade sounds, just the swell and creak of the house, the shuddering wind, the rustle of ten thousand leaves. He’s not coming , I thought. He is letting me go.

A tender ache flowered along my cheek where Emory had struck me. I hadn’t bothered to check my face in a mirror, but now that I had time to think straight, ice seemed like a good idea. I went back inside and cracked ice cubes into a kitchen rag to make a compress. Remembering Birdie’s advice, I clicked on the radio and changed stations in time to hear the weatherman speak of a hook echo. His instruments and calculations had detected a pocket of rotation. I waited as he read the names of towns in its path: Theodosia, Isabella, Sundown, Howard’s Ridge, Henbane. The list kept going. I wondered if the tornado siren was blaring in the town square; we were too far out to hear it.

A tornado had torn through town when I was in grade school, and for a long while after that, every time a tornado watch was issued for Ozark County, I’d drag Dad out to the root cellar with me. We would huddle on the dirt floor and use the flashlight to count the preserves on the sagging shelves. If Birdie don’t quit with the pickled beets , he’d say, there won’t be any room left in here for us. I outgrew my fear, letting myself believe Dad’s assertion that twisters skipped right over the holler due to geography.

Now I imagined the tornado warning’s angry magenta blotch on the radar screen, and all my fears rose up inside me like floodwater. I didn’t want to be here alone, waiting for something terrible to happen. I picked up the phone, and it crackled at me. I jabbed the buttons until I got a dial tone and called Birdie. When she didn’t answer on the first ring, I knew she wouldn’t answer at all. I’d told her I was fine. She was probably already in her cellar with Merle. I didn’t want to consider the alternative—that Crete had shown up there looking for me.

I paced the kitchen floor in tears, marveling at my stupidity, my stubbornness. I was stuck here until the storm passed. I hoped that Jamie and Holly had already made it to Crenshaw Ridge, to some sort of safety. Outside the window, the trees were thrashing, eerie tendrils of cloud trailing down as the sky closed in. Hail pelted the yard, a scattering of pearls, and I knew that I should take shelter, just in case. I grabbed the rifle and opened the back door.

From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the truck. And Crete stepping out of it. Staying in the house wasn’t an option, so I dashed for the concrete mound of the root cellar, rain lashing me as I ran.

“Lucy!” He sprinted across the yard, catching up to me before I could push the cellar door closed. He wedged himself in the entryway so that I could neither escape nor shut him out. I backed into the darkness, holding the rifle in front of me, the safety still on.

“Lucy, honey, I just wanna talk to you,” he said. “Put that down.” He pulled the gun easily from my hands.

“Just leave me alone,” I sobbed. “Please.”

“I wanna tell you I’m sorry,” he said. “There’s been… misunderstandings. But I love you, and I’d never do anything to hurt you.” He edged into the small space with me. The wind howled at his back, tugging at his hair and clothing. It was absurd, him trying to carry on a conversation as the storm bore down. I scooted into the corner, brushing cobwebs from my face.

“You wanna know the truth about her,” he said. “Your mother. That’s what all this is about, all your poking around and causing trouble.” I covered my ears. Truth . It didn’t mean much coming from him. He would say whatever was necessary to distort the things he’d done, to lay blame on everyone but himself.

“Listen!” he shouted. “What happened to her in the cave… she didn’t kill herself. I know that for a fact. It was an accident, that’s all. It was black as pitch, and she fell. She was gone, and there was no getting her back. There was nothing I could do.”

I slowly grasped what he was saying. He’d been there when she died. He’d known all along that she was never coming back. He had known it my entire life and never said a word. If it truly was an accident, if there was some good reason he’d been alone in that cave with my mother when she died, he could have told me years ago.