Karl gnawed on the dried corn he found in the chicken coop. He figured the corn was worth getting his hands scratched by the aggressive chickens. His stomach gurgled, and the cow harmonized with it. Sitting with his legs outstretched, his toes knocked together. He cupped the small fistful of corn in his shirt and spit out a hard kernel butt.
He stared at the barn door, his jaw aching. Tante Klegg had been so swift to lock him in the barn again. Not that he could have stopped her. He could not stand without shaking.
Karl wondered if anyone “back home,” wherever that was, missed him. It had been the norm in Camp Chase to have a woman waiting. All the prisoners whined and pined after their girls. The girls who got away, the girls who never made up their minds, and the girls waiting for their return.
Karl did not have those emotions, which he trusted more than his memory. He figured if he could not remember proposing, he would remember loving. No fresh, expectant face came to mind when he had lain in bed those long days and frigid nights last winter in prison.
Not that it mattered now. Whether someone waited for him or not, he now had a captor younger than he was. His captor’s mother thought he had killed the president. His captor’s aunt was equal parts mystic and militant. And they locked him in their barn.
Karl slowed his chewing, allowing his saliva to moisten the kernels. He studied the barn door, not sure what mechanism locked him inside and not sure when they would return. He sighed.
From one prison to another, this one was far more comfortable. At least here he could cuddle into the straw, scratchy though it was. A breeze whistled through a crack in the log wall, providing slight relief from the humidity. All in all, it was an improvement over the stuffy, fevered prison full of moans and dying and death.
“Don’t know why I have to give him these,” Gretchen said, sounding martyred just outside the door.
Karl straightened, upsetting the corn to the dirt floor. He brushed his hair back and rubbed his face with the hem of his shirt. Blast it if he was not going to try to look presentable.
Gretchen yanked the door open, almost right off its rusting hinges. “Here,” she said, throwing clothes at him. “Put these on.”
Karl studied the dark pants and white shirt in his lap. He could tell he would need to roll the pant hems. “Thank you.”
“Thank my aunt,” Gretchen said. She slumped against the door frame and crossed her arms. “She wants you to clean yourself and come to the house for supper.”
“Why?” he asked.
Gretchen waved her hand, motioning she did not know and did not care. She disappeared, and for a moment Karl thought she left the door open for him to escape. She returned lugging a bucket of water with a ladle.
“I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here,” Karl said. “But I got no place to go, and I can’t keep going on what I got.”
“You’re staying,” Gretchen said. She handed him a ladle of water and watched him guzzle it down. “And you’re coming to eat dinner with us while we figure this out.”
Karl rubbed the clothes in his hands. Gretchen had done a lot for him. She had brought him into her family home without approval from her aunt and mother. She had hid him from sight when danger arose.
“Whose clothes are these?” he asked.
“My brother’s.”
Karl wished he had not gulped the entire ladle of water. “Sorry. Which battle?”
Gretchen’s expression soured. “My brother’s coming back any day now. If you don’t want clothes or food, then you can just sit here in the dark until we’ve decided what we’re doing with you.”
“No, wait. Don’t leave me in the dark!” Karl cried as Gretchen swung open the barn door. He held his palm to his throbbing head and whimpered.
Gretchen stopped, her hand clenching the handle. “Someone knows you’re here.”
Karl rubbed his forehead. “Who?”
“Alina, the pastor’s daughter.”
“Why was the pastor’s daughter at your house?”
“She’s supposed to be my sister-in-law,” Gretchen said through clenched teeth.
“Supposed to be?” Karl asked.
“When my brother returns, they’ll marry.” A breeze blew the skirt around Gretchen’s ankles. “I don’t know what you look like under all that dirt and blood. Use that water to wash up. There’s a rag on a hook in the corner.”
Karl glanced where she said the rag hung. “Near about killed myself trying to get this corn from the chickens. Would rather not tempt fate too many times in a day.”
Gretchen stomped to the rag, snatched it from the hook, and threw it in Karl’s lap with her brother’s clothes. “I’ll be outside.” She slammed the door behind her.
Karl drank a good amount of the bucket. He let the water run down his neck, figuring he was not about to keep the clothes he was wearing, anyway. It was a wonder how clean the water felt, even in the dark. There were no maggots or twigs or any such debris to pick out. Just clean and wet. He rubbed the water onto his skin with a tender touch because bruises were everywhere. He peeled off his torn jacket and sour shirt, slathering the water up and down his arms and chest.
“Better wash that head wound,” Gretchen called through the door. “Your temple’s covered in blood. My mother won’t eat if she has to stare at it.”
Karl complied. He was unsure he got it all, but his head did feel less sticky. Fire ran from his shoulder to his fingertips when he tried to slip the cotton shirt over his head. He gasped through the pain.
“Doing all right in there?” Gretchen asked.
“Never you mind.” He leaned back, panting from the exertion. “Don’t you dare come in here. I ain’t done yet.” He tugged at his pant buttons and kicked them off so he could wash his feet.
“You’re out of your head. Why would I come into the barn when you’re naked?”
“I’m not naked,” Karl grumbled. He yelped when the door opened. “I’m not dressed, either!”
“Well then, don’t make it sound like you’re ready!” Gretchen slammed the door shut again.
Soon enough, Karl had the pants on and rolled the hems so they did not drag beneath his feet. He knocked on the door.
“All right,” he said when Gretchen opened it, “take me to your aunt.”