Mother’s in the kitchen slamming pots and pans for a good ten minutes. She isn’t really going to cook. Soon, the Sisters will be here with lunch. Mother’s still not over having to cook our own supper last night. It’s unheard of for the family of the Moved On to have to cook their own meals for the first seven days. I imagine they’re busy with Mother Opal passing. Mother won’t talk about it but I know she’s annoyed. Imagine, dying on a day meant for the Moving On. Selfish, she would say.
There’s a knock. On cue, Mother sits in her big leather chair in the front room. It’s still raining hard outside, the curtains are tightly closed for mourning, and we have all the lights on indoors. The girls shuffle down the hall and plop down beside her, one at each of her feet. Mother taps each of them on the head in a familiar rhythm. The look of them sends shivers down my spine.
I get the door. I barely have time to move to the side before the Sisters slip in, heads bowed and covered. They shake off the outside and leave the rain on the front porch. They march to the kitchen with steaming plates and bags bursting with fresh fruits and vegetables, wrapped parcels of meat, packets of buttons and fabric, bundles of books and paper.
“Gifts from town,” they say.
“It’s the least the town can do, since—well…” I begin.
“Since what?” Mother asks.
Nobody owes us anything for the Moving On. It’s our duty to do it. Our right. Lightning flashes and before long the sky splits open. It’s a long drum roll stretching for what feels like hours. Of course, no one moves. If I could turn my head, I would see them frozen mid-step, some reaching for plates, one in front of the refrigerator, one wiping Mother’s brow, all of them probably staring at me. Like I would say it. The thunder rolls on and on. Since Mother’s not going to do it, I go to the utility closet. It’s a sliver of a space cut out next to the bathroom. I slide my arm in, reach past the cobwebs. My wrist brushes up against the water pipe. Still hot. It burns but there’s no sense complaining about it. Nobody’s going to help me. I pull the switch. The house goes dark. If Daddy was here he’d turn off the boiler too but he isn’t here anymore and I’m not about to fiddle around trying to convince it to light back up later. Turning the lights off will have to do. Superstitions.
It’s pitch-black and I can hear everything in stereo. If this was one of those old movies we watch once a month, this would be the time when I die. I hear my blood rushing through my body. Someone swallowing. Breathing. There’s a slight buzz in my ears. Electricity. It’s off so I don’t know where it’s coming from but it’s so loud I feel it. Someone’s moving close to me. The air around me is hot. It’s like someone’s taking up my space, moving into my skin. Each time the sky flashes, I see a foot, an arm, a step closer to me.
There’s a low rumble. It’s not the thunder but another kind of storm. A flash, a grin. I don’t wait for the rest. I run down the hall to my old room. I close the door lightly. It still sighs and clicks into place like a book dropping on a hardwood floor. I know I have about a minute before whoever it is finds their way in here with me. If Mother hadn’t complained There’s no need for locked doors when everything in here belongs to me, I’d have a bolt on the door and be safe. But, no. I roll halfway under the bed. Thankfully it’s still there. My first Moving On stick. The stick’s in my hand by the time I hear the soft push of the door opening a crack, a foot sliding across the floor. A toe snagging in the rug. I’m on my feet, stick beating as fast as my heart, raised high above my head. A flash, a smile, a shimmering thing.
“Your father would have wanted you to have this.” It’s a Sister. She’s whispering close to my ear. “Don’t tell anyone you have it. You’ll know when you need it.” She presses something small into my hand, warm from her fingers. My fingers curl around it. I’m thankful she doesn’t mention the stick so close to her head. I nod. I doubt she can see it. She taps my wrist. In reverse she shuffles from my room, back down the hall. I stuff the warm thing in my pocket. I hold on to the stick. Sooner or later, I’ll need it.
FOREVER later, the storm passes. My legs are stiff. I light a lamp and we go about the business of grief. The Sisters find places for things, set the table, and sit the girls and me down on the back porch so they can talk to Mother in private. They will thank her for the family’s sacrifice, offer to pack Daddy’s things—she has to decline this offer, it’s in the ordinance; that won’t stop them from offering, though—there’s an ordinance for that too.
The girls play Diamonds on the floor. The scraping of the metal against the wood grates on my nerves. I don’t mention it to either one of them. That’s the last thing I need. Grudges.
“Mariah’s cheating,” Rumor says.
“How can she cheat at Diamonds?”
“I don’t know, she’s not bouncing the ball up high enough. Of course she’ll catch it when it comes down.”
“I don’t think there’s a rule about how high you have to throw up a ball.”
“Don’t be stupid,” she says. “There’s a rule for everything.”
She’s probably right but I want to slap her anyway. “I think the rule is that you throw the ball in the air and if the other player can’t throw it up as high as you can, the other player is destined to lose. Fair and square.” I’m making that up.
Rumor shrugs. “If they don’t break it, can I have your stick? It’s real pretty.”
“Who would break it?”
“Your friends, silly,” Mariah answers. She puts her hands on her waist, squeezes. She’s so full of answers they overflow out of her mouth. I picture her not even trying to swallow them down. I should have known my little sisters wouldn’t be innocently playing anything, least of all Diamonds. “Now that you’re a weak ringer, you’ll have to prove yourself.”
Rumor shakes her head. Her braids shake with it. “Oh, Osira,” she says. “Just like your daddy.”
It would look like an accident. I could say I saw a snake slithering up the steps, mouth gaping, aimed at the baby of the family. The baby, of all things! That just before it made to swallow her whole, I swung my stick and saved her life.
Like I would do that. I lower my voice cuz she hates that. “He’s your daddy too.”
They both laugh. They stop at the same time. I’m shivering.
“Not anymore. Our daddy’s going to be strong and fearless, Mother promised.”
I tap my stick on the floor to drown it out. Our daddy. There’s something about the way they say it. The lilt in their voices, the singsong cheeriness, the hope, that lets me know I’m not included in our.
“Who called me a weak ringer?” I don’t know who it was who gripped my wrist, forced me to start ringing the bell yesterday after the Calling, but news travels fast in Curdle Creek. Each house has one phone, that’s really all you need according to the Charter Mothers. They share the same number so if you call one house, you call them all. Nobody with any sense would use that phone unless they want the whole town, as Mother Opal would say, rattling around their graves.
“Everybody,” Rumor says.
“Even you?”
“Who are we to call you out of your name?” From the grin on her face, the way she’s looking up at the sky, head tilted as if she’s trying to remember something, I know who started the rumor. They have a script, the two of them.
“I wonder who will be Mother’s favorite when I’m gone.” I turn to go inside.
I don’t get far. Mariah doubles over laughing. She nearly rolls off the porch, she’s laughing so hard and hugging herself like she doesn’t have an ounce of pride. Rumor stands in front of the screen door, hands on her hips. “It won’t make a difference if you come back or not, I’ll always be Mother’s favorite.”
I lean down close to her face, look into her spite-flecked brown eyes. “You would think that. If it were either of you, I’m sure Mariah would be the one.” I brace myself. She jumps up, bumps her head into my chin hard. I bite my tongue something fierce. Flashes of light dance across my eyelids. I close them. She waits. If I touch her, she will scream. Mother and the Sisters will swoop to her rescue. I suck my tongue, rub the cut with my teeth. “Always a sister, never a mother. Always a widow, never a bride.” I sing the childhood taunt as though her fate is just as sealed as mine.
“I am nothing like you.” The words are a whisper. “That’s why they’re planning to jump you tonight.” Rumor’s practically singing. “While everyone else is busy with the Warding Off, you’ll be sitting in the well. Nothing but that horrible stench and your own heathen thoughts to keep you company till morning. Guess you’ll be able to see what names are left over down there. Everybody’s talking about it.”
I turn to Mariah to check that it’s true. She nods. All right then. “I guess there’s nothing left to do but pray.”
They’re still giggling as I walk into the shed. I imagine them racing to the phone as soon as Mother’s back is turned.
A moan rolls across the sky. It is intense, soulful. As beautiful as the sound of screaming seagulls. The wailing. Mother must have accepted the position. It’s official. She’s the new Head Charter Mother. She will have fifteen minutes to mourn.
I close the door behind me and go to Daddy’s boxes. There are only six of them. He didn’t live a long enough life. A full life means stacks and stacks of boxes. Some people have so many of them that they have to rent out rooms in other people’s houses just to store them. Mother must have started packing even before the Calling. She’s used last year’s boxes, tape, markers, Waste not, want not, and all that so that his boxes are headstone-gray instead of this year’s earthy brown. Anything that’s not in here will be handed down to the girls, left to me, burned.
I know what I’m looking for and where to find it. Everything I need is right here in Daddy’s tackle box. Tucked between the stacks, I pull out the key the Sister slipped me. Slide it into the lock. Jiggle it the way Daddy used to do. From the box, I take only what I need. I bind the stones, candles and matches, knife and water pouch close to my chest. I stuff my pockets full of things like oat bars, a pocketknife, some beans, and a half-empty flask with more water. I set aside last year’s Curdle Creek Almanac, fishing cards with fish in bright colors hand-painted on the front, and dig below the rocks Daddy collects. Beneath all of his treasured things there’s a small, worn leather pouch. Inside, there’s a Well Walker stone. I recognize it from Book XIX. Superstitions. Don’t tell me Daddy really did believe in that old tale. If he did, he would have used it. Unless he thought he wouldn’t need it.
I close the box, restick the tape, push Daddy’s life back where it belongs. Three minutes later, there’s a click, the twist of the knob, the creak of the door. Light. Mother’s early. I can’t reach my pocket, can’t leave it here for nosy mourners to find. I slip the stone in my mouth. It’s chalky.
“You don’t want to be late,” Mother says. She sounds giddy, almost drunk with excitement.
My tongue feels thick, coated with a gummy paste. I keep my back to her. “I wanted to say goodbye to Daddy.” It’s just the sort of thing she would think I’d believe. Like his soul is packed up tight in a waterproof box just waiting to be of use again. I move toward the doorway. If I leave, maybe she’ll follow. The last thing I need is to see her picking through Daddy’s things like some sort of buzzard.
She moves to let me pass. “Did you hear me wailing?”
“Yes, Mother, you’re very good at it.” We are nearly shoulder to shoulder. Just a few more steps.
A smile flashes across her face. I want to say, You can do it, little smile, you can do it. To coax it out like a stubborn mule. But I know better. It can’t do it. A smile doesn’t stand much of a chance with Mother. It doesn’t hold long before slipping into a thin line. The stone sucks the spit from my mouth, dries out my lips. I feel them puckering.
Her breath is hot against my face. “Put some balm on your lips. You look like you’ve been kissing a chalkboard.” She hands me a compact. “You’ve got your Daddy’s lips. Keep it.”
I slather my lips with it. They drink it up. I know they are brown and smooth like hers. Quick, I spit the stone into my hand. “I know Mother Opal meant a lot to you. I’m sorry for your loss. Do they know how Mother Opal died?”
I’m close enough to hear her swallow. She sucks her teeth. “I have a feeling they know.” Mother winks. Her voice sends chills all across my arms. “Come get something to eat before you go.”
I put my hand in my pocket.
“I don’t think I have time.” It’s not that she would poison me, kill me so close to the Warding Off. But maybe a touch of castor oil to slow me down. She’s always been that little touch of spiteful. Mother Opal tried to warn Daddy. He didn’t listen.
“I’ve already packed you a bite.”
She’s so close to me it’s like we’re taking the same steps. She must know what my friends are planning. If I had somehow raced Romulus and Remus to the gate and been the firstborn, she would have loved me more. She’s snapping her fingers, doing a little bop when she walks. It’s as though she can hear my heart beating and it’s playing her favorite tune.
We’re just in front of the house. Mariah, always waiting, slips beside Mother and hands me a steaming bundle. “Can I have Osira’s dinner?” she asks.
Greedy. Instead of saying goodbye, she’s eyeing my food as if she and Rumor haven’t already halved Daddy’s portion and agreed to share both of our desserts. Mother tells her not to be rude, that she can have my dessert after the Warding Off. It’ll be a treat. Mariah whines until shadows creeping across Mother’s face tell her enough is enough. She runs back inside the house.
With this bundle of could-be-poisoned food warm in my hand, a pocketknife, the supplies I’ve tucked away, and Daddy’s stone, I’m as ready now as I can hope to be.
“Wait, let me do your hair,” Mother says. It’s just like her, wanting to send me off to my doom looking good. She’s already pulling me to the porch, settling herself on the steps before I can remind her that I don’t have time. I couldn’t get the words out if I wanted to. It’s nothing like the hairdresser’s hands moving quick, quick across my head, or Mae’s tugging and pulling so I have to twist my neck in awkward positions to be halfway comfortable. The feel of Mother’s hands working through my scalp, massaging, pulling and prodding my head is everything. The warmth of her hands winds curly hair around her fingers. Slender nails craft delicate parts, smooth sides, tease puffs into baby hair I haven’t had in decades. Even if the whole town never talks to me another day in my life, if I’m no longer slightly blessed, forced into being a farmer and trying to learn a job even a last-chancer wouldn’t want, this moment will be worth it. Mother braids my hair. I can’t see it but I know I look like a princess or movie star. I’m tempted to ask her if she knows about Daddy’s stone. Believes in Well Walkers. But she’ll say there’s no such thing, and I’d hate to waste this time with make-believe.
“Go on now,” she says too soon. “Don’t forget that food. It’s not for you, though. It’s for them. And don’t fuss with your hair. I’ll catch up with you after the Warding Off. If you see your father, give him a gentle send-off.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It’s really all I can say. Any more and she’ll know that I know she knows that if Daddy did run off before the Moving On and if by some chance he didn’t get away, the town will make him regret it. If I get to him first, I can be merciful. Send his soul off quick, almost without pain.
Since I’m the oldest, I get to set up earlier than Mother and the girls. Moving-On families always get to choose the best Warding Off spots. It’s only fitting. As you should be for the Warding Off, I’m dressed for flexibility. Plain blouse, long skirt, Daddy’s stone now hidden in an inside pocket, Mary Janes. I’m like a whisper. No one will see me coming or going. I walk down the path, trailing my middle-school stick behind me for good luck. I know she’s still there watching so I don’t look back. Mother Opal used to say The only way to move ahead is to turn your back on everything. Well, the only way I’m going to survive tonight is if I remember everything she taught me. Not that all that wisdom did her much good in the end.