Michelle Hoover - Bottomland

“You know what?” she said. “I bet Father’s hiding something in there. You know how he’s always keeping things to himself.”

“Not so much.”

“Aw, you know. Remember that time he didn’t tell you about the new seeds he picked. He told Ray, but he didn’t tell you.”

“I don’t worry about seeds.”

“But that’s the thing. He’s always locking doors. Drives a person crazy.”

I scratched my ear. “What about the barn? Nothing’s locked in there. You can do anything you like.”

“I’m not talking barns,” she burst out. “Look, if you open that lock, I promise I’ll tell you what I find.”

I shook my head.

“I’ll ask Ray then.”

“Ray’ll never do it.”

“Maybe he will.”

I sighed. The lock was more than Ray could fix. I knew that. The smithy fire was squaring low. I fed it, stirred the ash. The horseshoe, it’d be getting hard if I left it long. I might have to make it right over.

“Lee, you’re not listening. Don’t you care what Father’s doing?”

My ears were abuzz. It was a buzzing like the nerves in my feet. “I care plenty.”

Esther tried to smile, but her face didn’t match. Those freckles on her cheeks, every inch, they had a way of looking dark. “So then you know how to trick that lock. You’d do it, if a girl asked?”

I sighed again.

“Thanks. You won’t regret it.” She was out the door, taking off the hat as she went. She threw it in the air, caught it easy. When she snapped it on her head, it was frontways. I never got that hat back.

At the boardinghouse, George was away for four days. I had the sheets on a cot, a ceiling over my head. I didn’t dream any dreams. The other two men in the room, they roared good as dogs when they slept. Those nights after the meal, my stomach was sure full. I might have roared some too. But then George came back. He was the wife’s second cousin, the man with suspenders said. He turned up his eyes at that. Cousins had it good over strangers, even quiet ones, he meant. In the morning, I passed George as I left. He had his suitcase. I had my pack. He was small as a tailor, missing a circle of hair. A cold dome George’s would have been. No good for alleys. No meat on his frame. He had a room. But in a week or less, I’d have a home again and acres. I’d have my sisters too. They were better than cousins. Already I had our tickets in my pocket.

Snow came. A fine cold shake, growing thicker with the wind. When I closed my eyes, I got myself to imagining Esther and Myrle. They were behind one door or another. And the way they’d hold up their hands, ready to come home. Ray would grip me by the arm. And Nan, even Father. Didn’t think you could , they’d say. But you did it. You did.

I woke in the alley with wet cheeks, my boots soaked, jacket too. I bundled my blanket in the early light and walked. The snow fell for hours. The alley would be a cold floor by night, full of drifts. Not enough room to fit a man’s legs across. The snow glowed like fireflies against the city lights. The girls from the factories kept their eyes down. With their hoods over their foreheads and scarves tight, I couldn’t search for faces. At the factory doors, the heat let out in waves. I was cold in my throat, my ears, and walking tired. In France I’d learned to walk like that. On your feet and marching, letting your head slack. One man in front of you, one behind. You might march a mile or two and not even remember it. Now I wished I could walk to a place where the snow was gone, alleys too. My tickets turned soft as I fingered them. Still the print stayed clear. I put them quick in my pocket.

Before I left for the war, it was all of it snow. I’ll go to the office next week , I said to Father in the dugout. Sign my name . He touched my forehead. That hand of his, it was some warm. Your mother will never forgive us , he said. It was almost a whisper, his saying that. But Mother, she was the one who’d thought accidents were accidents. No matter Ray’s hand. There was no one to blame.

Father didn’t tell me don’t. He never really did. After he said his piece, he left me in the dugout alone. It was late. There was only a moon. Then the sound of footsteps by the door, but softer this time, and someone sniffling. I stepped out to get a glimpse. In the snow at my feet, the shape of my name, the words already filling. They looked carved by a mitten.

LEE DON’T GO

The moon pulled behind the clouds. The light was gone. Those words, I might never have seen them at all. Far off, the back of a black coat cut against the house. She must have run to get so far so fast. I imagined Esther’s face wet, how she’d wipe it with her sleeve. Esther had never been much for feelings. But even if I didn’t see it, I had that picture in my head. Even when I got to going the next week.

Already it was growing dark. Still the factory whistles for the night were hours off. The snow kept up and I was some cold. I was colder than that. I opened the door to a diner hoping for heat. The place wasn’t bright, but it was clean. A lamp on every table, scattered spots of light. I found a corner where I could sit with my back against the wall, my shoulder at the window, and see out. My face was scruff. I rubbed at my cheeks. The place was not so busy, but it was busy enough. The smell of eggs and biscuits. The ovens hot. My feet burned even as they warmed.

“Be right with ya,” the waitress let out.

I ordered coffee and toast, pretending at newspapers. The waitress chewed her lip. She didn’t have a pad of paper when she took my order. I wondered at that. Her hair she’d tied in a bun under a net, her nails bitten to nubs. Working here, she would smell of eggs and biscuits every night. I wondered if she had a room for herself, if she could pay for it for even a month.

“Want another?” The waitress stood at my table with her coffee pot. With a heavy head, I lifted my cup. The owner eyed me from the counter. I dropped two quarters on the table. He went to the kitchen then, and a radio sparked. A couple sat at the next table over. The woman had taken off her shoes and wrapped her foot around the table leg. “Don’t do that,” the woman said, pointing her finger at the man. “What?” he asked. She pinched the scruff on his chin and laughed. “What?” he asked again. Outside, a gaslight blinked against the glass, keeping time with the beating in my chest. The sounds in my head, they blinked too. My coffee cup was empty. The toast had gone to crumbs. I’d read the paper twice, but couldn’t make much of it. It would be quicker to find the girls if I didn’t sleep. It would be quicker without the dark. But a person shouldn’t wish for a thing like that. At home, the dark was a good place. Here it was something else. And during the war, it was worse.

Our squad, we made camp in the woods when a village wasn’t safe. In our last week, we’d camped five days. Me, Stan, Critters, and Sam Bullet. With the flu in the regiment, that’s all that was left of us. The paths in the woods were thick with mud, the sky wintry. In the daytime, it was a hard thing to find our way, and at night, a man couldn’t move save to follow the telegraph wires. All the same, those wires were ankle blades and mussed with shelling so we stayed put. “Hold your position,” staff sergeant had said. We hadn’t had a message since.

“God damn if I have to spend another night,” Critters whined.

We had a dugout in the woods, some two miles from the village. With the leaves gone, we’d lost our cover. Stan kept out of the trees, though he was lookout.

“We’re holding,” Sam Bullet said. He was squad leader, by the book he was, and as cold as his name.