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Order this writing in the collection book Layers of Creation available for only 1795 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Before I Knew Their Names
Kathleen Fitzsimmons
I clutched the enemy in the palm of my hand. Its dirty face defied me with a dozen knobby eyes. I wielded the knife, peeling the gritty skin away in curly strips that twisted toward the floor. As each waxy yellow knob emerged, I dropped it into a bucket of water. My hands ached. I didn’t dare sit down. Grandmother had taken care of that.
“Was it worth it, girl?”
My lower lip jutted. I focused on the flashing blade.
Plop.
Plop.
Meanwhile, the staccato chopping of the butcher knife rang through the kitchen, the handle driven by her silent, seething fury. Grandmother could have cleaved a stone. A large Dutch oven waited on the burner to receive the ingredients for Brunswick stew. At least, that had been her plan for dinner.
Tears stung grandmother’s eyes as she reduced the wobbly chaos of onions into diced, peppery cubes. Her mouth was pulled in a taut, grim line.
“You are selfish, girl.”
The last of the garden’s yield lay piled on the sideboard: puckered lima beans, sad, shriveled tomatoes and a bowl of mostly tough peas that I picked and shucked after lunch. I flicked some babies in my mouth when grandmother wasn’t looking, their bright, green sweetness exploding on my tongue. It was a good thing she hadn’t seen me.
I was glad I took the bowl outside to work. Otherwise, I might have missed it. Oh, Grandmother’d be mad at me today, definitely next week, probably next month, too. I would have never forgiven her.
Grandmother muttered to the hot stove, her back turned to me as she cooked. The sweet-spicy sauce for the stew was thickening in a separate pan, the perfect matchmaker between vegetables and meat. Her wooden spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. She had made far too much sauce for what she had left to put in it.
I swung the broom wildly. Lily had hissed and flapped her wings. I nearly swatted her across the yard before she took off. Not a moment too soon, either. I was worried she didn’t know how to fly.
“I told you not to name it, girl. It wasn’t yours. You shouldn’t hold a fondness for things you can’t keep.”
Crazy old woman. I had never wanted to come here.
“How long’s the girl going to stay?” Grandmother asked.
Mama said it would only be a little while.
“LouAnn, growing girls eat a lot. We can barely feed ourselves as it is.”
Mama told me she would be back soon. That had been two Christmas and one birthday card ago. She still owed me one.
The sizzling surged as chopped ham tumbled into the pan with a metallic percussion. Smoked pork wafted through the air. My mouth watered but my stomach clenched. I would be having none. Not that I would have wanted any that night.
“Are you done with those potatoes?”
I blinked, holding back the threatening flood.
“Yes.”
“Wash up and set the table. Then you get to bed.”
I put the paring knife down on the stool and fumbled with the strings on my apron. The bow tugged loose. Jerking it over my head, I hung the apron on the nail by the back door. I bent down, scooped up the pile of dirty scraps and slipped outside. I sighed with relief. I had come very close to crying in the kitchen. I would not let her see me. I would not even shed tears for myself, though I would be hungry at sundown.
My first trip was to the pen where Daisy waited. Her once white coat was dusted cinnamon with reddish clay. She clambered up to balance against the top rail of the fence and regarded me solemnly. Her reflective amber eyes held more sympathy than any human I had encountered that day.
“Here,” I said, lifting my cupped hands to her.
Daisy made quick work of my offering. She flicked her long ears, tilted her face and stared at me. She only ate scraps and weeds. I patted her head and scratched her neck. She knew. All goats were wise. I pulled away and walked down the fence to the end.
The hatchet still stuck out from the corner post of the fence. When grandmother saw what I had done, she sank it there. Then she went inside and fetched the rug beater. I slid my fingers gingerly down my backside. The skin still prickled, fiery and hot.
I glanced at the cage at the end of the fence. The door hung ajar. The gray goose feathers stirred on the floor in the late afternoon breeze. I pivoted on my heel and scanned the four directions. The afternoon haze stretched unbroken by clouds, relentless and hot. Lily could be miles away. I hoped so.
“Girl, where are you? Get those plates on the table!”
I walked back to the water pump and worked the rusted red handle, my sinewy arms straining. The lever ran the piston up and down in long, squeaky strokes. When I got here, I asked where the faucet was. My cousins laughed. The first time I tried, I couldn’t pump a drop out. My toes scuffed the ground with each pull.
A trickle of water flowed. Barely. I rubbed my hands briskly, getting off the dust. Nobody seemed to know when the rain would come again. Right after I arrived, the couple of cows we had got sent to slaughter. Grandmother said hay was too expensive to keep them anymore. It was before I knew their names.
