The harsher the trial sent by God, the more he valued the servant. And he never gave his servants more than they could bear. That morning\u2019s sermon had reached the congregation, but Mrs. Mitchell felt certain, from the few times the preacher\u2019s eyes accidentally met hers, that God spoke to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The kitchen door creaked open, cutting violently through the farmhouse\u2019s empty stillness. She listened to the heavy tread of her husband\u2019s boots as he wiped the worst of the mud on the porch, a bear standing his ground. \u201cSupper ready yet?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old crank got caught, and Mrs. Mitchell rolled up her sleeve a little more, braced the bone of her elbow against the counter, put her shoulders into the effort. \u201cYes,\u201d she answered to the swirl of spinning ice cream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He creaked through the kitchen, and she glanced up to watch him observe the set table, the food lining the counters, her progress on dessert. \u201cHurry up, he\u2019ll be in from the barn soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded, shoulders high, and Mr. Mitchell pulled out his chair, groaning with the effort of sitting. Fiddled with his pipe but didn\u2019t light it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Such a bitter man, that Mitchell, <\/em>people whispered when she went into town alone on Sundays. No life but his work. No love for his neighbors, or for his Maker. <\/em>Mr. Mitchell, she\u2019d heard from his own lips, thought he didn\u2019t have a Maker. And if I did<\/em>, he\u2019d grinned, I can\u2019t see what business he\u2019s got with me<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The silence returned, save for the creak of the aged ice cream maker and minor readjustments in Mr. Mitchell\u2019s chair. After twenty-six years of noise, she never could have imagined how much she\u2019d hate silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s taking that boy?\u201d Mr. Mitchell muttered. There was no malice in his tone, his gray-flecked mustache almost quirked into a smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019d only just hid the completed dessert in the ice box when the kitchen door opened and shut gently, swallowing the whisper of footsteps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t you look sharp,\u201d Mr. Mitchell said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy\u2019s hairline sat slightly damp from cleaning up for supper. \u201cCleaned my ears and all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell chuckled, and Davy\u2019s ears went redder. Glancing away from the farmer, the young man\u2019s eyes accidentally met Mrs. Mitchell\u2019s. He quickly looked down to the floorboards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFood\u2019s ready,\u201d she told him, laying the fixings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNeed\u2026 need some help?\u201d he shifted weight in his lanky legs, ready to bolt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSit down,\u201d Mr. Mitchell ordered lazily, and Davy obeyed while she set supper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She considered the grain of the table as they ate, wondering what type of wood Mr. Mitchell had made it out of. She knew at the very least he did craft it; he bragged often enough at his construction of the house, over a decade ago, from the floorboards to the windows. She only wished he hadn\u2019t decorated it himself. The whole house was lined with animal skins and furs and antlers; eerie trophies from his hunting days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When his plate was clean, Mr. Mitchell excused himself by ruffling Davy\u2019s hair, and saying \u201cI\u2019ll be right back\u201d before leaving them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His sudden absence startled his wife and hired hand enough that they accidentally made eye-contact again. Davy, naturally, looked down first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then muttered \u201csupper\u2019s good, ma\u2019am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh. Thank you, Davy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He focused upon his plate, the Davy Travis she\u2019d come to know. It\u2019s just his nature,<\/em> Mr. Mitchell had explained early on, you gotta prove you won\u2019t bite.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt was an excellent service this morning,\u201d she nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy nodded back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWould you like to come with me next week?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He glanced up, a smile reaching his nostrils. \u201cThank you, ma\u2019am, but I don\u2019t reckon it\u2019s the life for me,\u201d he repeated, same answer as always. From what she\u2019d heard from town, he hadn\u2019t been in a church since his father\u2019s funeral four years prior. When she\u2019d looked in his closet, the nicest things he owned were for a Davy four years younger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI could take out your clothes, Davy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLeave him alone.\u201d Mr. Mitchell\u2019s weight creaked the floorboards behind them. Davy\u2019s head popped up, and her hands tightened in her lap. \u201cI said you could go to that damn place, didn\u2019t ask you to convert nobody.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She held her breath, but his focus wasn\u2019t on her. He was passing Davy his parcel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, Mr. Mitchell-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He waved a hand, sitting again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A pair of freshly oiled leather boots, a surprise to no one after the cobbler visit. Davy tried on the boots, thanking Mr. Mitchell, who merely grinned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGlad you like them; why don\u2019t you go back for a moment?\u201d he suggested, raising his eyebrows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suspicious, Davy rose. \u201cOh don\u2019t tell me there\u2019s more<\/em>. Soon they\u2019ll call me spoiled.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell laughed, and Davy was very close to giggling, until his eyes caught hers again. He excused himself from her table, hurrying to his bedroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Once he\u2019d gone, she cleared the table to make way for dessert, while Mr. Mitchell lit his pipe. \u201cYou\u2019ve made ice cream before?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSometimes. Takes up a lot of milk and sugar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cEh, still not much of a birthday present,\u201d he muttered to himself. \u201c\u2019Specially for nineteen. I\u2019ve gotten better- four years ago, I took him hunting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell watched smoke rings float to the ceiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy pa had done the same for me, but Davy\u2019s pa\u2026 well, they were never close. He shot a squirrel, just one squirrel. Wasn\u2019t a clean shot, we had to put it out of its misery. I\u2026 I never thought he\u2019d be able to stop crying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs. Mitchell glanced through the parlor doorway, to the deer-head over the fireplace, hanging above her husband\u2019s seldom-used shotgun. It collected dust on the mantle, only ever used to slaughter supper. \u201cIs that when you stopped?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n His startled expression quickly went dark, reminiscence turning to smoke as his pipe puffed. \u201cWhat? Whatcha on about?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNothing,\u201d she whispered, knowing better than to curl up or show fear. Much better to stay still and unnoticed. Back when she was a daughter and not a wife, she\u2019d spent years blending into walls until she chipped with paint. But it was so hard in this empty house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He rolled his eyes, muttering about \u201cuseless women\u201d. She\u2019d only become readjusted to the silence when he exhaled a solid puff with an \u201cah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNever thought I\u2019d marry,\u201d he mused, as if they were having a conversation, \u201cbut things were getting tiresome \u2019fore I put out the ad. The farming, planting, harvesting, year in, year out, nothing ever changing. Couldn\u2019t sleep one night, on account of realizing that when I was gone, it would all be for nothin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He\u2019d never said it aloud but, given the frequency of their passionless lovemaking, she knew he wanted children. A baby would help break up the silence. And he\u2019d be a good father, she supposed, Christian or heathen, if his treatment of Davy was anything to go by.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019d set three bowls on the table and had hauled dessert back out of the icebox when Davy bounded back in, asking \u201ccan I have a hint<\/em> wha-\u201d and caught sight of the prize.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh God!\u201d Davy cried, scurrying towards the kitchen. \u201cOh my God- Mrs. Mitchell, did you make this? Thank you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She nearly jumped out of her skin; Davy was standing two feet away, hands on the counter, beaming ear to ear, and more than that, looking her in the eye. He was practically vibrating with excitement, uneven teeth exposed, laughter swimming in his irises.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her hands closed around the side of the bowl. \u201cI- you\u2019re welcome-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She pulled it from the counter, but there was sweat on her palm, probably from the sudden lightening that had shot down her spine. The bowl slipped from between her fingers, and crashed, fresh ice cream falling to the floor with a squish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A horrible second as the huge lump melted, pooling into the wood. Mrs. Mitchell gasped, Mr. Mitchell stood, but worst of all, Davy\u2019s eyes and mouth were wide in horror. She could only imagine how he\u2019d looked upon that writhing squirrel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI- it just slipped-\u201d she began to apologize. \u201cI- Davy-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell pushed Davy aside in his haste to strike her. As she hit the floor, she just missed the ice cream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou stupid cow,\u201d Mr. Mitchell snarled. \u201cDon\u2019t just lay there, clean it up!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs. Mitchell gathered her bearings, a rag, and scrubbed. She could already feel a bruise forming on her cheek. She kept her eyes down, listening as the house creaked with Mr. Mitchell\u2019s footsteps, his barked apologies to Davy, and the whispered replies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time she\u2019d finished, Mr. Mitchell smoked his pipe in the parlor, angry swirls hitting the ceiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy watched her from the doorway, pale as the rabbit hanging on the wall behind his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she mouthed, not daring remind Mr. Mitchell she breathed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He shivered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy Travis was, according to the town, a bit slow. She couldn\u2019t be sure if there were no Travis\u2019 left in the county, or if none wanted to claim him, given his four years of association with Michell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But Mr. Mitchell, despite all his bitterness, had the right of the boy. He was quiet, but he wasn\u2019t dim. He was shy, but he warmed up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He showed it through a fire kept for her, or vegetables peeled without her asking, or even rarer, a spot of conversation. She loved listening to Davy when he got comfortable enough to prattle about nothing while she baked or hung laundry. It killed the quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hadn\u2019t realized what his attentions meant until the evening she dropped the roast chicken into the firepit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She shrieked. Fell to her hands and knees, ready to grab it with bare fingers, before Davy pulled her back. \u201cDon\u2019t- Mrs. Mitchell-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She crouched on her heels, vision blurred with tears as the boy managed to haphazardly drag the charred bird out of the coals, watched it smoke and simmer against the floorboards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMrs. Mitchell\u2026 ma\u2019am? Ma\u2019am\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was at her side, freckled face pale and gaunt, his hands uncertain on her shoulders as she tried to breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s all the racket?\u201d Mr. Mitchell boomed, fists already curling against his sides as he stormed in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy bounced to his feet, halfway through his sentence before even turning his chin up, \u201cI was taking the chicken off the spit and dropped it, startled Mrs. Mitchell clean out her skin.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She tried to make herself small and unseen. Mr. Mitchell\u2019s mustache twitched as he chewed the lie like tobacco.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell get up, you stupid thing,\u201d he spat to her. \u201cTry and salvage it. And you-\u201d he pointed at Davy\u2019s freckled nose. \u201cKeep a grip on those goddamn butterfingers, you hear?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy\u2019s shoulders were straight, his jaw locked, and eye-to-eye with a bloodthirsty predator, he scarcely flinched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Apprehension coiled deep in her gut when they sat down to eat a hastily made chicken soup, because that couldn\u2019t be the end of it. Not when a perfectly good supper was so perfectly spoiled, and the silence was so loud it was bursting her eardrums, and Mr. Mitchell glared, Davy ignoring him like a saint on a cross.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSoup was very good, ma\u2019am,\u201d Davy said, pointedly, helping her clear the dishes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She nearly broke a plate on top of everything else. \u201cOh. Thank you, Davy.\u201d She shivered unexpectedly from the mischief in his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But then he turned to Mr. Mitchell, and the prickle left. \u201cIt was very good, wasn\u2019t it? Mr. Mitchell?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n With a long scrape of chair legs against wood floor, Mr. Mitchell hauled himself up, and shook his head at Davy. \u201cDon\u2019t start.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy backed from Mr. Mitchell\u2019s full height. But when the man moved to the parlor, Davy kept at his heel. \u201cIt takes a sharp mind to think fast under pressure,\u201d she heard him impress upon Mr. Mitchell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf you hadn\u2019t been so eager to help, she wouldn\u2019t have had to.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n As they left her line of sight, she washed the dishes, shoulders tense, fingers wrinkling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat?\u201d she heard Mr. Mitchell ask, after a sharp silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A long pause. \u201cThe- I wanted you to look at the\u2026 feeding trough. Remember?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNot now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut- you said-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go help my wife with the dishes, hmm? Make a bigger fool of yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou<\/em> go help her! She\u2019s your wife after-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her sudsy hands slipped against the pot as palm against skin echoed through the small house. Still wet to her elbows, she ran to the kitchen doorway, peering into the parlor, not believing it had happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy twitched against the parlor fireplace, fingers to his cheek. Mr. Mitchell, to his credit, stared at his hand like it dripped blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He curled and uncurled his fingers, then pushed Davy off the mantle. \u201cGrow up, will you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy said nothing, but maintained his balance, silhouetted by the deer head. Mr. Mitchell turned on his heel, fingers shaking as he made for the stairs. Mrs. Mitchell finished up the dishes. Shuddered to hear soft hiccups from the parlor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They died out by the time she finished cleaning. But she stepped out of the kitchen the moment Davy left the parlor, trapping them in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His eyes were puffy, tears dried just around his thin nose. His cheek was slightly pink against its freckles. \u201cMrs. Mi-\u201d he hiccoughed, mortified, scrubbing at his eyes with his shirt sleeve. He ducked his head, about to retreat to his room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have lied to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy turned back, squinting. She ate at her lip. He awkwardly rubbed his palms against the hip of his pants. \u201cIt\u2019s all right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI know-\u201d Davy rushed out. \u201cI know he seems a hard man\u2026 but he\u2019s good. He\u2019s just\u2026 I don\u2019t know.\u201d He scratched the back of his neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her eyes locked on the soft, exposed skin of his collarbone. \u201cAging poorly?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy chuckled faintly, and she quickly leaned against the wall as its\u2019 warmth vibrated all the way to her knees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n His personal ad had read: \u201cErnest Mitchell, 36, farmer, looking for a wife: Hard-working, straight-forward, good-natured.\u201d In the year they\u2019d been married, she believed she\u2019d upheld all three points, as was her Christian duty. But from their vows in the courthouse to their negotiations over her church attendance, their relationship remained a business transaction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Save the summer afternoon when the doctor confirmed her pregnancy. There\u2019d been such warmth in his body when he lifted her in his arms, spun her about the room, laughing. She\u2019d laughed too, the first time ever in his presence. But all it had amounted to was, when he\u2019d set her down again, she experienced the full absence of him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To Mr. Mitchell, the news was akin to a good crop, or an expensive colt broken in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHave you thought of any girl names?\u201d he asked, opening a bottle of hard cider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWh-what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf<\/em> it\u2019s a girl<\/em>. I haven\u2019t any.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n To Mrs. Mitchell, the news put the full weight of a human life in her stomach. \u201cAgatha. For my mother,\u201d she responded passionlessly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMmm. Agatha Mitchell. Hopefully not,\u201d he smirked, passing Davy a glass. Davy gripped it shakily, eyes to the floor. He hadn\u2019t said a word, hadn\u2019t looked up since the doctor left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The guilt roiled in Mrs. Mitchell\u2019s stomach. \u201cWhat\u2026 if it\u2019s a boy, then?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She hadn\u2019t been asking about a name; but Mr. Mitchell supplied one, without hesitation. \u201cTravis Mitchell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy started, nearly spilling cider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell smiled, gently mussing Davy\u2019s hair. The man was oblivious, but she saw every nervous tick in Davy\u2019s jaw, the chewing of his cracked lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Don\u2019t baby him<\/em>, she chided herself. He\u2019s not a child.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell picked his gun up off the wall to shoot the \u201cfatted calf\u201d for supper (their old sow). She and Davy were left smothered in the silence of the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n By the time she’d found the courage to draw in breath, say \u201cDavy-\u201d the shotgun blast interrupted her. They both flinched as if it had shattered the window, Davy going green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2026 firewood,\u201d he muttered, staggering outside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was an unfairly hot summer day, the kind that might usually find Mr. Mitchell out in the dusty field, trying to grow crops by willpower. While she hung laundry in the backyard, and Mr. Mitchell kept in the slaughterhouse, Davy chopped wood. She watched the ax-head pierce the log, and the timber splinter. Trailed the flex in Davy\u2019s forearms as he brought the ax up again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That Sunday\u2019s sermon had discussed gouging out your eye to keep from sinning. Without even realizing it, Mrs. Mitchell\u2019s eye fell on Davy\u2019s hair as it clung to his forehead, the shirt molding his chest, the curve of his arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her husband stomped out of the slaughterhouse, whistling, happy as a fiddle, the dead pig slung over his shoulders. She imagined it sounded how a bullet felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYessiree, we are going to feast tonight!\u201d Mr. Mitchell grinned to Davy, carrying the butchered animal into the house. He didn’t stop to look at his wife, didn’t notice the infidelity of her rabbit-fast heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMa\u2019am?\u201d Davy asked, setting down his ax. \u201cAre you all right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell had gone in, but her fingers gripped the sheet so tightly she nearly tore its threads.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She sucked a breath between her teeth, and indulgently considered Davy\u2019s soft, sunken eyes, his slight nose and lean shoulders and frayed hair. It wasn\u2019t that Davy was handsome, at least by the standards of men in moving pictures. He wasn\u2019t like any man she\u2019d ever known. He smiled and fidgeted and grew ill at the sight of blood. Yet with a pig carcass in the kitchen, he worried over her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell celebrated her pregnancy until he passed out drunk in the parlor. She and Davy were left awake, she on her sofa, him curled up tight to the fire, staring into the flickering flames.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was getting late, but neither of them moved to retire. Normally, it would be Mr. Mitchell who would stand, stretch, and say \u201cearly day tomorrow\u201d. They were rather helpless without his direction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Eventually, she heard Davy begin to sniffle into his arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She knew it wasn\u2019t her fault, there\u2019d been nothing she could do as a Christian wife to avoid pregnancy. It didn\u2019t help her conscious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She slipped off the sofa and threw her arms around him. \u201cOh, Davy! I\u2019m so sorry!\u201d she choked, trying to keep her eyes dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy went rigid. \u201cM-ma\u2019am?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI won\u2019t let him forget about you,\u201d she promised. \u201cYou\u2019re not being replaced, you understand me?\u201d Mrs. Mitchell pulled back slightly, to meet his eye.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He struggled to, tears dragging over his chin. \u201cI know. He- says the same. But sometimes\u2026 I don\u2019t\u2026 don\u2019t know what I am to him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell snored, but she stared at the deer head. Its beady eyes met hers, and if she looked deep enough, she and Davy were reflected in the lifeless depths.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Their farm wasn\u2019t the only one slowly decaying; dust was continuing to rise everywhere. But on the cusp of winter, as the preacher led a prayer for crops, Mrs. Mitchell wished she could grab it and pin it to her husband\u2019s soil. God would likely pass over the heathen farmer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She sat alone in her pew, head bowed, stomach round. A few months ago, the congregants had congratulated her. But all the attention to mean Mr. Mitchell\u2019s unaccompanied wife felt more like a slap in the face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n If only she\u2019d persuaded Davy to come to church with her, at least once.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sermon that Sunday was adultery. One of the worst carnal sins a man could commit was straying from his wife. More unspeakable, a wife disregarding her husband\u2019s authority.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201c\u2026.And let\u2019s not forget,\u201d the preacher warned. \u201cIt is a command from our Father in heaven for wives to obey their husbands. Not only when their husbands buy them new hats or take them to pictures, but to submit-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs. Mitchell gripped the pew in front of her as she dragged herself up. The congregation gawked, and her head swam, like she was being churned into ice cream, or melting into the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To stay solid, she clambered out of her pew, and left the building as quickly as her round stomach allowed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs. Mitchell ran into the kitchen, tore off her hat, and glanced around. \u201cDavy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Neither he nor husband were in sight. She knew Mr. Mitchell didn\u2019t keep Sabbath, yet the fields were empty. She wandered to the parlor, catching her breath, a cramp in her stomach. Save for the animal skins, empty. The barn? Of course.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She drifted through the silent house, pulse racing, uneasy to be back so soon. She usually took advantage of Sundays to stay out as long as possible. Never in her life had she been eager to return home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019d always understood that love was a feeling. You felt it to your father, to your mother, to your husband, who gave you a roof, life, purpose. You expressed it by shouldering the burdens they placed on you. You gave back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy was the first gift she\u2019d ever truly received. Even if accepting him would keep her from God, she couldn\u2019t imagine a greater reward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The silence of the house was cut by a humming sound. She stilled for a heartbeat, and then the sound repeated, deep and throaty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She followed the foreign noise as it grew. It led her to Davy\u2019s ajar bedroom door, which she pressed open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Davy groaned again, almost sobbed. \u201cOh, God\u2026!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She couldn\u2019t see Mr. Mitchell\u2019s face, only the back of his shirt. His graying hair stuck up in odd places, his fists clenched tightly into the sheets as he knelt forward, a man at prayer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was praying to Davy, who lay naked as a cherub. Davy\u2019s head was dipped back against the headboard, toes curled up in the sweat of her husband\u2019s shirt, fingers locked in curls of her husband\u2019s hair. His chest quivered with each gasping breath, moan, and scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She started screaming tool, staggering back into the wall, and Mr. Mitchell untangled himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs. Mitchell\u2019s remained intent on Davy, who caught his breath, limp. When he came back to himself, their eyes met, and she watched the pleasure pool out of his freckled face. \u201cOh God,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell acted first, as expected of the head of the house. \u201cWell someone\u2019s home early,\u201d he quipped, the springs of the mattress straining as he pushed off the bed, off Davy. Davy, sprawled stitch less on his dirtied bedspread in the middle of a Sunday morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStay there,\u201d Mr. Mitchell ordered, tripping over his trousers as he dragged them back on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She\u2019d taken a step back. \u201cHow long?\u201d The words didn\u2019t taste real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With a creak of bed springs, Davy sat up on his knees, flushed and shivering. \u201cGod\u2026 oh good God\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI s\u2019pose you think this changes things,\u201d Mr. Mitchell snapped, securing his belt. \u201cBut not from where I stand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Black and white as his ad in the paper had been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her Sunday shoes squeaked against the sanded floorboards as she scurried back down the hall, Mr. Mitchell barking at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOy! Get back here! Where are you going to go, eh?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She meant to go into the kitchen, and out the door, and then\u2026. But her husband\u2019s hand closed around her wrist in the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet\u2026 let go of me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell panted over her, his breath musky as he shook her, rattling her teeth. \u201cListen-!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019ll tell the police! They\u2019ll- they\u2019ll hang you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She wasn\u2019t sure what would be done to him. She\u2019d vaguely known about this sort of thing, but Sodom and Gomorrah had seemed as far away as Jerusalem or Bethlehem.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd what\u2019ll happen to you?\u201d he hissed, pressing her into the wall, two feet below a fox skin. \u201cWhat about the child?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She struck him, with her palm, with all the force built into her hundred-pound body. She sent his head lolling, for half a moment. The skin on his cheek went a pitiful pink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He let go of her wrist, and her blood ran cold. But when Mr. Mitchell met her gaze, he was even-tempered. Almost amused. \u201cWe wouldn\u2019t want to make a widow of you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m not a wife now,\u201d she hissed, wishing he would just hit her already. Hard enough to bruise, knock her to the floor, maybe damage the cancer growing in her stomach. \u201cAnd-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy else would he want you here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Mitchells both flinched towards the hallway, where a hastily dressed Davy stood, arms wrapped around himself. She searched for his softness, an apology in his eyes, a tremble in his lips. Maybe if she\u2019d seen it, she\u2019d be able to believe that lewd, writhing creature had simply been a bad dream. But his eyes were narrow, glaring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She might have borne it if not for that glare. It stripped her to her bone. It saw her exposed heart, chewed it, and spat it into the dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou disgusting maggot,\u201d she hissed, meaning it. She lunged at him, and Mr. Mitchell pushed her back, finally angry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey!\u201d Backing away, he put an arm tightly around Davy, the two of them blocking her from the kitchen. Davy shivered into Mr. Mitchell\u2019s shoulder, and her husband tenderly considered the boy, rubbing circles into the back of his neck. The worried line between Mr. Mitchell\u2019s eyebrows, the tremble to his lips, the damp of his eyes, all combined to a tenderness she\u2019d never imagined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She ran past them into the parlor, and wretched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The parlor was strange by day, sunlight casting itself across the deer head and gleaming off the rarely used gun. Bile dripped from her lip, and she clutched her stomach, trying to stay her trembling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGet upstairs.\u201d Mr. Mitchell stepped into the doorway. \u201cYou need to lie down-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Fighting the nausea, she put her hands to her ear, screamed, \u201cyou\u2019re the devil!\u201d He was still worried about the baby, about his little Travis<\/em>–<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOy!\u201d he barked. \u201cYou stupid-!\u201d he marched into the room. He was ten feet away when she ran towards the mantle, and her fingers curled around the shotgun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That made him stop, at least. She hoisted it onto her shoulder and aimed at his chest. She could see the white of his wide eyes, his flush of temper receding, the gray in his mustache twitching at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPut it down,\u201d he said evenly. \u201c\u2019Fore you hurt yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She knew what to pull to cock the gun. Knew which trigger would send the bullet flying. If it was loaded. Dear God, let it be loaded<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDamn you,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey-!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The force of the bullet knocked her off-balance, the echo of the blast ringing her ears. In ten seconds, she recovered, and saw her husband choking away plaster from the hole she\u2019d shot in the wall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDamn it, you bitch!\u201d he coughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cStop!\u201d Davy screamed from the kitchen, scurrying over as she frantically raised the gun again. \u201cMrs. Mitchell, wait-\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The gun was bulky and hard to aim with. Not to mention poorly maintained. Mr. Mitchell only used it for slaughtering animals. She pulled the trigger again and found that God had blessed her with not one, but two bullets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As she reeled from the blast, she slowly heard Mr. Mitchell’s scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Gathering her dizzy self, she blinked at the doorway, as Mr. Mitchell fell to his knees, face contorted. Pain. Agony. Blood, thick on his hands. She hoped she\u2019d shot him in the heart, if he had one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo! God\u2026 no!\u201d the man croaked out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He knelt over Davy, who was shivering. Convulsing. Like a rabbit shook by a fox over, and over again. Sweat beaded upon his thin brow, his chapped lips parting vaguely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDavy!\u201d her husband screamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Mitchell\u2019s hands were clutching the boy\u2019s stomach, blood slipping between his thick fingers. The thin shirt Davy had pulled on was already thick with red, and Davy\u2019s hand twitched awkwardly towards the mess.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The gun slowly slipped from Mrs. Mitchell\u2019s sweaty palms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, no, come on, don\u2019t,\u201d Mr. Mitchell whispered, keeping pressure on the wound, propping up the boy\u2019s head with his other hand. \u201cLook at me. Davy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He stopped twitching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n #<\/p>\n\n\n\n The squirrel Davy had put down must have twitched like that. Which was worse; a slow, painful death, or a sudden nonexistence?<\/p>\n\n\n\n When Davy had absolutely stopped twitching, or blinking, or anything, Mr. Mitchell\u2019s hand slipped off his stomach. Soft, deep breaths shook his back, finally ending in a deep wail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs. Mitchell fell to her knees, unable to feel them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ignoring the smearing blood, Mr. Mitchell cradled Davy\u2019s body. \u201cYou\u2026 bitch,\u201d he choked at her. \u201cYou stupid, stupid\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She stared at the hole in the plaster. Mr. Mitchell couldn\u2019t stand the first three times he tried, but then he managed, staggering against the lintel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn\u2019t even look at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A step over a body, and a slammed door later, Mr. Mitchell had fled his silent house. She wondered where he was going. To tend stagnant fields? To sob in the barn? To town and the police?<\/p>\n\n\n\n None of it would make Davy start twitching again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She crept toward the body, dragging herself on her knees. The blood was everywhere; staining his shirt, the floorboards, his cheek, his hair. And every other drop was marred with Mr. Mitchell\u2019s fingerprints.<\/p>\n\n\n\n His smile was almost a silent laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The barrel against her throat, she pulled the trigger. The empty gun jolted in her palms, barely making a dent in the crushing silence. She\u2019d been too greedy, taken too many things; why should God give her herself?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lying beside Davy in the doorway, wanting to hold him but still not daring, she pretended he was smiling at her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The harsher the trial sent by God, the more he valued the servant. And he never gave his servants more than they could bear. That morning\u2019s sermon had reached the congregation, but Mrs. Mitchell felt certain, from the few times the preacher\u2019s eyes accidentally met hers, that God spoke to her. The kitchen door creaked … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-177","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-issue-3-november-2020"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/177","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=177"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/177\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":178,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/177\/revisions\/178"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=177"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=177"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blackworksmag.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=177"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
Hannah Beairsto hails from the Poconos in Northeast Pennsylvania, home of ski resorts, waterfalls, and family fun. She spends most of her days holed in her room writing. She has no pets, spouses, or children to brag about, and would like everyone to remember her first name is a palindrome.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"