Susan Kiernan-Lewis - Free Falling

Before he took his first bite of the lunch Dierdre had prepared for him—with yet another pot of tea to wash it all down with—he wanted nothing more than to fall face first into the couch and sleep until morning.

And he still had a full afternoon’s chores to do.

Sarah’s morning had not gone well.

First, it had rained like it would never stop, forcing John to spend a good part of the morning indoors—never ideal for parent or child. Then, Ethel acted like she had prior Intel about the afternoon’s planned activities. From the minute Sarah came into the coop, the chicken ran from her. And because she ran, the other chickens became afraid and ran, too. After fifteen minutes of stirring up more feathers and dust than a down pillow factory explosion Sarah grabbed the chicken and stuffed her in a pillowcase.

Now she was sweating and nearly as upset as the chicken. She backed out of the coop, glad that John had gone to the sheep pasture. All laughter aside, this was upsetting in anyone’s book. She hurried with her squirming, thrashing bag of chicken hysteria to the area behind the barn she’d already designated the killing ground. Dierdre had told her it would all go much better if she was fast and sure about what she was doing. Assuming she’d already pretty much botched that tactic, Sarah took a moment to try to calm her nerves. The bag twitched and convulsed maniacally at the end of her arm.

Zen, zen, ommmm, peace , she chanted inside her head. Be at peace now. There is nothing more intimate than the taking of a life for the purpose of sustenance. I am, in fact, freeing you. Oh, this is nonsense. She gripped at the chicken inside the bag, feeling for its scrawny little neck and hoping she didn’t mistake it for a leg. Within seconds she found the neck through the burlap bag and, with the adrenalin pumping through her, wrenched as hard as she could.

The motion in the bag slowed and then stopped. Bright red blood began to seep out around her hands. Afraid for a moment that she’d literally torn the bird’s head off, Sarah dropped the bag in the snow, turned and retched up her morning tea. She sat down with a hard thump in the snow beside the now still bag and burst into tears.

David examined the broken fence by the eastern pasture. The three cows grazed peacefully nearby. Seamus’ dog lay dead in the ditch.

How did he miss this, this morning?

Had the fence been deliberately broken? And if they’d broken into the gate to steal a cow, why were they all there? It would’ve made sense to butcher the cow in the pasture rather than try to steal it on the hoof—considering the speed at which cows moved that would have been seriously counterproductive. The dog had its neck slit . Why would someone kill a dog? Were they trying to take out the couple’s alarm system? Was it just an act of senseless violence? David shook his head and looked at Seamus who stared peacefully out across the pasture.

“Sorry about this, Seamus,” David said. “Did you hear him bark at all last night?”

Seamus only smiled.

David looked at the cows, then back at the dog. He hadn’t heard anything himself, but he had been so exhausted that his sleep had been more like a light coma than a slumber. The dog, if he had barked, would not have awakened him.

“Dierdre will know,” the old man said.

David nodded and turned to head back to the house.

“I’ll get the shovel,” he said. It didn’t look like he would be going home early today after all. He felt a wave of weariness and disappointment.

Sarah pulled the roast chicken out of the oven and set it on top of the cook stove. She had enough potatoes and garlic and wild rosemary to make a proper feast of the dish. She was out of yeast but David seemed to prefer the simple flour biscuits anyway. The aroma from the chicken dish nearly brought tears to her eyes. Never had she been more proud of a simple roast chicken.

She looked out the kitchen window with the hope that she’d catch a glimpse of David coming down the main road on Rocky. She frowned. It was after three and she had expected him hours ago. Out in the courtyard, she watched John as he put his dogs through their paces. He made them both sit and stay and then released them with little bits of muffin he had saved from his lunch.

She tapped on the window and he looked up.

“Let me know when you see Dad, okay?” she shouted.

He gave a thumbs up to indicate he understood and turned back to his training.

Sarah sat down with a cup of tea. She noticed a single chicken feather wafting alone in the corner of the room. The plucking and gutting had been nearly as traumatic as the killing. But the thrill of her accomplishment blotted out the pain and horror of the day. She looked at her beautiful golden brown roast, shiny with herbs and basted with goat butter.

A perfect, celebratory meal for the returning husband, she thought, her anticipation back. She stood up to look out the window again.

Four hours later, she and John finished their dinner alone. The anxiety in the pit of her stomach had made it impossible to enjoy the meal. Even John looked worried.

“Do you think something happened to him on the road?” he asked.

“I’m sure Dierdre and Seamus just needed him tonight,” she said, not at all sure.

“It’s just that it’s not like Dierdre to keep him two nights in a row,” he said. He walked to the front door and looked out at the road. “They know we need him, too.”

Sarah knew he was right. Dierdre would insist that David come home tonight.

“He’s been this late before,” she said.

“No, he hasn’t. Not ever.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Based on what?”

“John, did you do last check on the animals?”

He turned back to her. “Not yet,” he said.

“Well, why don’t you? I’ll clean up here and we’ll play a game of chess before bed.”

“You’re terrible at chess,” he said, shrugging into his coat.

“Well, you can read a book at the same time,” she said with a grin.

He left the dogs with her. As docile as the puppies were, they were still too undisciplined to be around the horses for long without having to dodge a well-deserved kick.

Sarah now went to the front door herself, as if watching would make David come, then turned and put away the roast chicken and leftover potatoes. Even without electricity, the refrigerator served as a fairly successful icebox, better at least than leaving food sitting out on the counter. They kept milk bottles parked out on the porch all night but meat couldn’t be left out without attracting animals. She wiped down the counters and wrapped the biscuits in wax paper to put them away for their breakfast.

It occurred to her that she had stopped taking her anti-anxiety medicine weeks ago. Funny. She had dreaded the day when she would take her last pill. Probably got more worked up about that than was rational. And then, things got so busy, she actually forgot to take them. She must have a week’s supply left in her suitcase. The real shocker was that, as relentlessly afraid as she was these days—for herself, for her husband and son, and for her parents back in the States—Sarah realized she didn’t feel that different without the pills. The thought stopped her. How could that be? she wondered.

All at once, both dogs stopped playing with the rag they had been tugging on. They stood in the kitchen, the hackles on their backs rising, slow menacing growls emanating from them.

Sarah’s hand froze as she was wrapping the biscuits and stared at the dogs.

In the next second, a horse’s terrified scream punched the air outside the cottage. Sarah dropped the biscuits and bolted for the front door and the source of the noise.