Claudia Casper - The Mercy Journals

I could see my brother from the back, his pants at his ankles, one hand squeezing her breast, the other tugging her track pants down, and Parker’s face turned sideways, eyes shut, arms protectively around her belly.

My brother heard me and turned, his erection sticking out sideways like an absurd thing, like Pinocchio’s nose, the blue of his eyes dark with blood, a beast interrupted in the midst of a kill. He yanked his pants up, enraged by the indignity, and went up the stairs clutching them. Parker turned into the wall and pressed against it. I went up after my brother and threw open his door. He was doing up his belt. I lunged at him and threw him down, grabbed his hair, and smashed his head on the floor several times. He didn’t resist. His eyes rolled in his head. I stopped. How do you think this can end? I screamed. His eyes gradually came back to focus, looking at me. There is no good way for this to end, I cried. We have to leave. We’re leaving tomorrow.

He continued to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. Finally he said, I’m not leaving.

This morning I woke up with vertigo. Exhausted. Edged by memories of men taking the women aside at the border, the women shrinking in on themselves as they walked and the men inflating themselves, trying to give themselves the right. I was surrounded by a sense of doom.

Parker made cheese from the goat’s milk yesterday and this evening she brought it out. She and Griffin made a small loaf of bread too.

The fat of the land, Leo said as he took a second piece. To think this is made of grass and water and a goat’s digestive system. Parker, I’m impressed. As though he were lord of this fiefdom, and the food were an offering for him.

No one looked at him. Griffin showed only the usual contempt. Parker hasn’t told him.

Eventually, ridiculously, I said, I haven’t tasted anything this good for years either. Parker, how did you make it? Leo and I could start a business back in the canton. Start something new. Lay down a foundation. Look for our children. No time like the present. Leo, let’s head back in the next couple of days. Griffin — sorry buddy, but I need to see Ruby. I think you can handle the baby’s delivery. I know you can. And two less mouths to feed would be a bonus.

Leo stopped eating. He placed his hands on the table beside his plate. Took a big breath in.

Might as well cut my wrists right now. He looked at me. Remember before I came here? Really, give me a knife. He stood, picked up his plate, and took it upstairs with him.

We sat in silence for a while, Parker holding her belly. Why doesn’t he just leave? Parker demanded. Griffin looked at her.

He found a will, I started.

He must have been listening at the top of the stairs. He came back down and threw his plate on the table.

This place is mine. You can ignore your birthright if you want, Allen, but I’m not going to. The rest of you can leave. My parents built this place. It’s mine by blood.

If there’s conflict between us, I started.

Conflict? he sneered. Is there conflict between us?

No one spoke. The crud of being human. A waste of goat cheese and bread.

When Griffin left with the goats today I made tea for Parker and myself. I wanted to talk to her. Leo had gone out before any of us got up.

If the three of us go to the city, I said, it’s a six-day paddle. We find a place to live. Griffin and I can find work. We can keep the baby hidden.

She took a deep breath and looked at me. This baby is coming any day. She looked out the window. He’s the one who should leave. Private property doesn’t mean anything any more. There’s no inheritance. There’s no blood. She looked back at me. There’s the three of us and there’s him. He should leave.

He’s not going to leave, I said.

You get the gun, point it at him, and tell him to leave. She blew on her tea. She had changed. She wasn’t afraid anymore.

No matter how I tried to imagine that scene, the gun always went off. I looked away from her and stared out the window. My mind was racing, trying to stay ahead of the memories that were starting to whisper and gnaw at the edges of my mind, like nervous mice taking fast little bites. My hands started to shake. My eyes sank in their sockets.

He’s my brother.

She looked directly at me. There’s nothing as uncompromising as a woman thinking about the well-being of her child. Almost sociopathic. She comprehended all the implications of what she was saying and, for her, the final math was clear.

Say that worked, I said, trying to get my hands to stop trembling by pressing them hard against the table. You don’t think he’d come back? You don’t think he’d want revenge?

She sipped her tea. She didn’t say any more.

We ate dinner in silence that evening. Leo finished first and put his plate in the sink. He turned to leave and Griffin said, Are you going to wash that?

Leo stopped, looking straight ahead.

Because I’m not. And there’s no way Parker should. Uncle Allen — you?

I said nothing.

Leo picked his plate up as though to wash it, turned, and frisbeed it at Griffin’s face. Griffin moved sideways. The plate clipped his left temple, put a dent in the drywall behind him, and smashed onto the floor.

As good as washed, Leo said and stepped toward the door.

Griffin’s chair hit the floor as he lunged across the room and tackled Leo. Leo fell against the counter, catching a bowl with his shoulder, which smashed on the floor just before he fell with Griffin on top of him. Griffin was not a fighter, but he was enraged. He got Leo by the throat and squeezed. Leo managed to grab a large piece of the broken bowl and slashed Griffin’s forearm, then torqued his body and threw Griffin off. Leo sprang to his feet and launched a kick at Griffin’s head, which snapped back. Parker screamed.

I roared something, got Leo in a headlock, and shoved him toward the door. He put his arms out and grabbed the doorjamb. Grinding the words out through clenched teeth he said, I’ve tried to get along with you people. I managed to dislodge one of his hands from the doorjamb and shoved him through. Fuck off Allen, he said, twisting out of my grip, I’ve had enough of this anyway. He went upstairs.

Griffin was confused and groggy, his arm bleeding heavily. Parker grabbed a clean towel and pressed it to stop the bleeding, while I tore up a pillowcase, butterflied the cut with tape, and bound it tight.

Parker leaned against the table suddenly, waiting out a contraction. I helped them up to their room and told Griffin to barricade the door and yell if he needed me. Before I left I said, We always used to fight over who did the dishes, but this one definitely takes the prize.

I woke up dreaming about Mom. She was kneading her hands like the agitator of a washing machine. She looked up at me with a blank expression. We never wanted this, she said.

This.

I’m freezing.

I can barely breathe. Everything feels old and dark, claustrophobic and old-school biblical. I yearn for something new, something fresh.

It’s cloudy outside, but the clouds are high and white and there’s a light breeze I wouldn’t classify as wind. Sleep has left me exhausted. I feel like time has emptied its bucket on me. I don’t feel any of the usual relief waking up, no thank God it was only a dream.

The sheets are damp from sweat. My head is pounding and my neck is stiff and I feel like I might puke.

I let the goats out of the shed. My turn for shepherd duty. I haven’t told anyone how sick I’m feeling. I took a walking stick with me because I felt so weak and headed for the field past the old highway. Leo headed out first thing in the morning again with a daypack. Nonetheless I hate to leave Parker and Griffin.