Michelle Hoover - Bottomland

“Then it’s from one of the animals,” I said.

“Maybe,” Agnes said.

“This is Myrle’s dress, isn’t it?” Patricia pieced the fabric together. “I just knew something was wrong. Chicago. I knew it couldn’t be that. Otherwise, Lee would have found them.”

“It’s only a dress,” I said. “It could be mud for all we know.”

“That’s not mud,” Patricia said.

“But you told us they ran away,” I started again. “And we believed you, even if it didn’t feel right.”

“Something must have happened,” Patricia said. “Something terrible.”

“Maybe I was wrong,” Agnes let out.

My eyes blurred. I raised a hand, wanting to slap away what she said. They both flinched.

“Nan?”

“Oh, Nanny,” Agnes said.

“Get out. The both of you.”

“We have to tell Ray. ”

But I didn’t give them the chance to finish. Taking both of their arms, I pushed them out into the hall and closed my door behind them. I bundled the dress tightly then and folded it away in the drawer.

The blame was mine. That’s what I knew then. Why, I had forgotten my sisters so much as to raise my hand. I’d thought only of hems and bedtimes, chores that begged for doing, and all the many ways I could escape them. When Mother was ill, how often had I dreamt of it? That fence with its four sides and the small stretch of land. The fence painted blue. The square of earth in between, a place of my own where if I opened the gate I could invite someone in. Hello, Nan , Carl had said in town. I was wondering where you’d gone . I could only answer, I haven’t gone anywhere . In the past weeks, Carl had not made his visit, and now I was convinced he never would. We were a practical family, he knew. We kept to ourselves. But underneath he must have sensed something new at fault. I’m different , I reminded him. The town had said as much in years past. And though we were innocent then, now with the girls missing, we seemed anything but.

Outside, a heavy crash. I sat up in bed, the wind fierce against the panes. Taking hold of my lantern, I rushed into the hall and opened the front door. A plank of wood lay on the porch. It must have blown from the barn or one of the outhouses, but the barn itself had disappeared in the storm. One of the Elliots’ shepherds barked, and out in the southernmost field, a shadow quivered. For an instant, it showed itself against the snow, then it was gone. The calf. Looking for her mother. Somehow she had gotten out.

I pulled on my boots, looked back at the shuttered house, and stepped into the snow. My feet sank, the crest higher than my knees. The shadow loped and cried silently in the distance. Behind me the house seemed as if it might float, the snow blanketing the windows, and only the lantern I carried and a dim lamp in the parlor gave any brightness. The calf was running, stumbling as it went and caught near to stopping, and soon I was running too. The snow was thick under my boots. The cold burned my cheeks. The calf fell in the drifts, but surely when I caught it, I could take it up in my arms. I could deliver the creature from the storm, leave my coat by the fire to dry, and have done my part. I was close enough to believe I might reach out and feel the calf under my glove. Instead my boot kicked something hard. There wasn’t a sound but the snow, nothing I could touch but cold and ice — and it wasn’t the calf at all. A tree limb stood high in the drift, ripped from a far-off pine and blown. A tear of canvas stuck against it and swayed like a living thing. I touched the wood, felt its spine. The canvas tore away in my hand.

When I looked back, the house was gone.

I turned in circles, but the snow had thickened. My lantern grew faint, the wick low. How far I had walked, I could not say. In every direction, my light showed only a wall of white. My footprints were nearly covered, nothing that pointed one way or another. Crushing the bit of canvas in my pocket, I set out again, plunging to my thighs in the snow.

Surely I couldn’t be far from the house. Only a few dozen yards at best, and the barn would show itself or one of the fences and I could follow any one of them back. In the dark, even my hands were invisible. Was this what it felt like when they went? For suddenly I was sure the girls had gone alone, dress or not. They had found the strength to do it themselves — what with Esther leading the way. I saw her clearly as I hadn’t for months, pulling me along, her hand small and sharp and that fierce look she gave. Hurry , she said, as clear as the living, and when the wind tore up again there it was before us — an openness I had never known. The land was gone, the earth uncertain under my feet, and everything was possible at once. I could be forgotten, the oldest sister who would never be missed, and this was a release, the way sleep was a release, or that hour after the sun set, suppertime done, and I could sit with my darning and escape into myself while seeming every bit present. I could dream terrible dreams then, of my whole self vanishing while my knuckles cracked over one last trouser leg — and in that new place I could become boundless.

My toe struck the fence.

It was hours then or only minutes. I followed the fenceline with the barbs bloodying my fingers and soon wrenched the barn door open against the drifts. Under the rafters, my ears rushed with stillness, my lamp brighter now by half. The animals in their stalls shivered. In the far corner, the calf lay safe and near to sleep. She stared as I crouched next to her, her eyes shining — such a pretty thing, though Agnes worried she couldn’t be saved. We should shoot her before she starved, Ray had said. But Agnes wouldn’t allow for shooting, not with Lee gone. Lee, that soft heart. As I lay down, the calf shook her head, scared in the faint light and hardly ready for the living. I closed my eyes and let myself drift. A stream warmed my leg, as good as kettle water in the bath and a sudden softness in my hips. The calf nosed my shoulder, licking the snow off my chin. I took a scab of snow from my sleeve, held it to her lips to drink, and her tongue stung my skin.

I woke. The barn was still. The calf lay asleep in the far corner, its mouth wet. The rip of a hinge and the door flew open. I heard my name. It was then I was lifted up, a man’s breath in my ear. He labored and fell and righted himself, another voice calling my name and asking to carry me, but the man wouldn’t give in. Stumbling to the house, he grunted, nearly falling again as he held me fast. My cheek dropped against his shoulder, the smell of leather and tobacco. Soon I was awake enough to know it was Father who carried me, the way he hadn’t since I was a little girl. When I was young, he let me sit on his knee and rested the flat of his palm on my head, as if in protection. He wore an old leather hat, a triangular sort the color of moss, and he gave it to me whenever I complained of the sun. His hands were large, pocked at the knuckles, the whole of him wide as a barrel. Often he had carried me to my room at night when I dropped off to sleep in the parlor, if only to stay with my parents and their talk. Now he lowered me to my bed. Someone pushed a pillow behind my back. When I opened my eyes, he stood watching me, wild and gripping his chest.

“ Mein Mädchen ,” Father said, his face pinched. “You were found.” He ran his thumb across my cheek and slapped me with a full hand. “Never have us find you again.”

The room went quiet. My cheek stung. Around the bed my siblings watched like frightened children. Soon the room darkened and they hushed each other. I was falling asleep. I would sleep for several days more, hot as an oven and sweating through the sheets. The others came and went, tending to me. But it was Father who slumped always in the chair at my side, his head sagging. It was Father who said my name. I dreamt wonderful dreams then — of the girls returning home. Of Lee walking over the hill, not a limp in his step, and Mother taking hold of my hand. What a girl you are , she said. She opened the window and brought out her best skirt, fastening a belt around her waist. Your father says we have new sugar , she said. How about a cake? The girls ran to the kitchen to dip their fingers in the batter. Not so fast , Ray said. Not before dinner , I called out.