Michelle Hoover - Bottomland

In the early dark the next morning, Margrit shook me from my sleep. Outside, a strange sun appeared on the horizon, our curtains colored with a furious light. My wife gathered her shawl to her throat and pressed her forehead to the window. She whispered my name.

It was a fire. One that rose from a mound of sticks in a circle of snowmelt, high enough the men seemed but children around it. Their clothes were dark. Their faces nearly hidden by scarves. In their hands, they held torches. When they saw us at the window, they turned and headed down the road on foot. Only four stayed behind. The fire spelled a crooked letter K , an R , and a cross at the end. When I spoke the letters aloud, the word came together: kraut .

In the light of the torches that remained, I could name them: Conners, Wilkerson, Elliot, and Tom.

I turned from the window. Outside our room, Nan and the boys stood in the parlor looking out. Their bedclothes glowed. The boys held their guns.

“If you’d only let us fight,” said Ray.

I opened the front door and shut it behind me. From the porch, the fire looked higher yet.

“Pay up, Prager,” they shouted.

Wilkerson stepped up, hat in hand. Council of National Defense , he might have called himself. “We’ve heard there are un-American activities taking place in this house. Snatching land. Keeping your boys from the draft. Five hundred in bonds should prove it otherwise. Eight hundred the better.”

I kept my fists in my pockets. “I will not pay. Not with your torches. Not at this time of night. The one boy I have of age has his deferment. As far as the land. ”

“We can’t scare him,” called a voice.

Wilkerson caught hold of my wrist. Conners joined him. They dragged me from the porch and bound my hands with rope. When I struggled, the rope jerked up sharp. I dropped to my knees in the snow. “I’m not afraid.”

A gunshot cracked. The men ducked. Ray hurried between the torches, a rifle in the hook of his arm. He swung the gun and the men fell back. Lee joined in, unbinding the rope. He held me so I might lean against him.

Tom shouted, “You can’t even aim that thing.”

“I heard about you,” said Ray. On the trigger, his good hand shook. “They say you went some kind of crazy.”

Tom made a grab for the gun. Lee pulled him up short, and Ray pitched the barrel at Tom’s throat.

“Stop it, the both of you,” I yelled.

“You’ve gone too far, boys.”

The group turned. Clark stumbled out of the fields. An ill man in his nightshirt and heavy boots, his cheeks slick, a coat loose on his shoulders. The others quieted. Ray lowered his gun. “My daughters saw the torches from our place,” said Clark. “Scared them to death.” He gave the men a sour look and took myself and Elliot aside. “Let’s go into the house and talk.”

“Eight hundred for those bonds, Hess,” Conners spit. “And that’s to start.”

Clark waved him off. “Get buckets for that fire or I’ll call the deputy on you.”

The three of us climbed the porch steps, Tom and Lee following. Ray stood his ground. “I’ll keep a watch.” Margrit huddled at the door, waiting. The fire behind us had faded, buckets or not. She wiped a hand across her eyes. In the hall, Nan had gathered the girls, Myrle sheltered between them like the child she still barely was. As we passed, Tom gazed at her in her gown. Elliot jerked the boy by the arm. Nan rushed the girls up the stairs at once.

In the kitchen we sat about the table in the lamplight. The men seemed rabid, a fever in them. I ached from the rub of that rope, blood in my mouth. Lee stayed quiet.

“No more rough stuff, eh, Hess.” Elliot tapped his fingers.

“Fires,” said Clark with a sigh. “That’s enough. Hess, the men just need to know you’re on their side. Everyone else has paid their bonds and more.”

I bristled. “Those bonds were not mandatory.”

Lee rubbed his neck.

“Eight hundred,” said Elliot.

Margrit stood at the stove. Already she had it filled with wood and started the kettle. Her smile was tight. “I don’t know what men like you would be doing out on a night like this,” she said. “Mary, now, she’ll never believe it.” Elliot cleared his throat. Margrit carried a tray of cups to the table. On the tray, a new lemon cake. Her knife shuddered as she sliced through it, scooped the pieces to our plates. “Ropes and torches,” she said. “It’s a hard thing when a wife is told something like that. A wife likes to believe better of her husband.” Elliot flinched. With a flick of her wrist, the plates fell in front of us.

“Hess,” started Elliot. “The bonds. ”

“I will not pay a dime after being abused like this.”

Elliot tried to gain Clark’s attention, but the man was intent on his cake. Tom sat with his hands on either side of his plate, breathing it in. Behind him, Myrle appeared in her nightgown.

“Myrle,” said Margrit. “You’re to go to bed.”

“But Mother. ” The girl was shaking.

Margrit drew Myrle under her arm. “Why not some cake? Will that settle you?”

Myrle nodded and took a chair in the far corner. Margrit brought her a plate, but the girl would not eat. She sat with her eyes on her lap.

“I suppose we are finished,” I said.

Clark swallowed. “All right.”

Elliot’s face was hot. “But he hasn’t paid.”

Clark whispered in his ear.

“All right.” Elliot cursed. “Another time, Hess. You could save us the trouble and pay in town yourself. See to it that you do. And the river. ”

The sound of laughter stopped him. At the far end of the table, Tom Elliot had picked up his fork with a piece of Myrle’s cake. He fed it to her, stabbed at the slice on her plate, and fed her another. The girl chewed, her eyes closed. A blush ran from her forehead to throat. As the boy brought her another bite, she laughed again.

“Well,” said Lee.

“What’s that?” Elliot said.

We watched, not another word between us. Myrle was so very small sitting there, her face bright. She sat far too close to Tom in the near dark. The boy gave me a glance as he brought the fork again to her mouth. It scraped her tooth. Myrle leaned in.

Elliot’s hand flew between them. Tom lurched to his feet, a hand to his jaw. Myrle cried out. Margrit took her in her arms and rushed her down the hall.

“What was that for?” asked Tom.

“You know what,” said Elliot.

“Now, now,” said Clark. “We’re finished here.”

They stood and I let out a breath. Margrit appeared in the door at the sound of our chairs. The cake on my daughter’s plate was crumbs. On the boy’s, it lay untouched. Clark picked up the piece between his fingers and slid it whole into his mouth. “A fine cake, Margrit. Very fine. Rhonda would say so herself. Apologies for keeping you. Those other men, the drink gets to them. They’ll be asleep on their feet by now.”

Clark swept his tongue against the inside of his cheek. The three turned and headed out, Elliot pushing at his son. By the door, Ray saw them off. We were alone in the kitchen with Lee then, my wife gathering the plates. I reached out to stop her, but her hands snapped away.

“Mother.”

“ Alles wird schlimmer .” She touched her fingers to my temple, my cheek. “More and more, Julius. When is it enough? You are all mad. All of you men.”

She left the plates and went to our room. Behind her, the lock turned on its bolt.

Lee and I sat at the table across from each other. His bulk took nearly the entire bench. Above us, Myrle sobbed, and Nan ran up the stairs to settle her. The room fell to silence.

“It will be all right,” I said.

Lee scuffed his boot on the floor.