I follow the little white car away from the music studio and back to Anders’s house. I’m behind the big pine before he pulls into the driveway. After watching him step safely through his front door, I steer the bike back into the trees. I keep away from the road, deep in the shade, where no one will see how fast I can ride. I don’t know my own speed, but I’m faster than Anders’s car. Faster than any car I’ve ever chased.
The air whips past me.
It’s getting cold. Afternoon is turning to evening, the blue sky folding into violet. There’s a trace of smoke coming somewhere not far away. Burning pine.
There’s a spot where the ground folds, and a creek bed, just a muddy slash now, winds through a knot of giant oaks. I’m riding down the slope when I feel them.
They’re right behind me.
I slow the bike.
A hiss in the underbrush. Crackling leaves.
I place one shoe on the ground and whip around.
Something slides behind a trunk.
Something huge and dark and hunched.
Something that’s shaped almost like a human, but that gleams with thick black hair.
There’s still light in the sky. So they’re coming out earlier now. They’re getting bold.
“I see you,” I say. But I only say it inside of myself. They’ll hear me anyway. “I see you.”
The dark thing doesn’t reappear.
I climb off the bicycle.
Holding the handlebars, I walk toward the tree where the thing disappeared. I leave a few feet between myself and the trunk. Sticks snap under my shoes.
The air shifts as I get closer. Warmer. Hot.
I smell the smoke.
With a last step, I slip around the tree.
Nothing.
No hunched, thick-haired, bent-legged shape.
But on the trunk are claw marks. Fresh ones.
And lying on the ground, on a bed of fallen leaves, is a gift it left for me.
It’s a bird. A mourning dove. Pale gray against pale brown. Its head faces backward, its neck snapped. Its wings are spread but limp, the feathers ragged. There’s blood on the leaves around it. Just a few drops. All the blood that a small bird has.
They’re trying to scare me. Trying. All I feel is pity for the stupid little bird.
I am not their prey.
They can’t get rid of me, and they know it. And I can’t get rid of them. Not all of them. Not when they stay well hidden, slipping in and out of the gaps.
We can only touch the things that live between us. The smaller, more breakable things.
I take off the flannel I’m wearing over my black thermal shirt. Gently, with the soft fabric spread between my hands, I gather up the dead bird.
Then I climb back onto my bike.
There’s an old firepit behind Aunt Mae’s farmhouse that hasn’t been used in years. I rip up handfuls of grass, toss out clumps of moss. When the dirt is bare, I collect sticks and pinecones, old newspapers from the rain-bleached pile on the front porch. I get the big box of matches from the kitchen, the ones we use to light Aunt Mae’s ancient stove.
I place the bird on top of the heap of kindling in the center of the firepit.
The paper lights fast. The flames are so high and bright I don’t have to see the mourning dove dissolving inside. Only searing gold.
When everything is burned away, I head indoors.
“I’m going to do a load of laundry,” I tell Aunt Mae. She’s sitting upright on the couch, her hands shuffling a deck of cards. Half a game of solitaire is spread on the coffee table in front of her. “Would you like me to wash your blankets?”
“Well, that would be lovely. Thank you.” Aunt Mae rocks to her feet. She helps me wad up the crocheted blanket and the old yellow quilt. “While you do that, I’ll start on dinner.”
“I can make dinner, Aunt Mae.”
She waves me off with one hand. “I got a special treat at the grocery store.”
Aunt Mae hasn’t left the house in nearly two weeks. Too many long nights, too many bad dreams. Too many stares when she does go out.
But there are good days, too. Once in a while.
“You went shopping?” I ask her.
“Yes, I did.” Aunt Mae smiles at me. “I got us a frozen potpie. And some nice apples and French bread. And a red velvet cake. Just for us.”
So many things at once—so many treats—means money. My father must have finally come through. “You got a letter?”
Aunt Mae smiles wider. “It came this morning.”
She passes a slit envelope to me.
Dad is in Missouri now, I see by the postmark. Hannibal. Making his way down the river.
My father repairs boats. Unusual boats. Old boats. Wooden boats. Paddle wheelers and replica pirate ships. Between jobs he drinks too much bourbon and stands in the water, preaching and shouting about damnation and offering to baptize passersby. Once in a blue moon, someone takes him up on it.
In the letter, one ragged-edged sheet of notebook paper, he describes his latest job, working on a Mark Twain-themed tour boat. He writes about his truck, his trailer full of tools and parts, says he’s getting decent gas mileage but might need new tires soon. He talks about the water and the weather. He mentions the hundred dollars he’s sending inside.
Then there’s part of the letter that’s just for me.
Thea, I hope you’re doing good at school. Remember who’s watching out for you even when I’m not. Though you walk through the valley of the shadow, you will fear no evil, and surely goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life.
My father has no idea.
He may be Aunt Mae’s brother. But he’s not like us.
I slide the paper back into its envelope.
“Sounds like Josiah is doing well.” Aunt Mae watches my face. “He’s been working steadily for weeks this time.”
“Hmm,” is all I say.
“Be patient with him.” Aunt Mae puts one soft hand on top of mine. “Those who don’t have the gifts think that they want them. They don’t know the weight.”
I set the letter down.
I’ve been told all of this before. The lore of our family. The ways we aren’t just chosen, but made.
I don’t need to be told. I’ve always known what I am. Maybe that’s another part of the plan.
“Your father never had your strength,” Aunt Mae goes on. “I’ve never had your strength. I don’t know of anyone, not for generations, who was made quite like you.” She steps closer to me and takes both my hands. Her foot bumps the week’s empty whiskey bottles, setting off a tinkly music. She squeezes my hands once, tight, before letting go. “‘Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gifts.’”
I take Aunt Mae’s blankets and my flannel shirt and my second pair of jeans down to the clunky old washing machine at the bottom of the basement steps. We don’t have a dryer. Even if I hang everything up tonight, it won’t be dry by morning.
But we’ll make do.
When I climb back up the stairs, Aunt Mae is in the kitchen. The potpie is already baking in the oven. I can see the cake in its little plastic dome on the counter. As Aunt Mae brushes past me, getting plates, I smell nothing but talcum powder and shampoo.
By morning the sweet smells will probably be burned away in whiskey and sweat.
Aunt Mae knows the weight.
I help set out the dishes and fill empty jam jars with cool water. Aunt Mae hums something I don’t recognize. I’m not even sure it’s a song.
The egg timer by the stove has just pinged when there’s a tap at the front door. It’s so timid and small that I wonder if we were supposed to hear it. Aunt Mae is busy digging pot holders out of a drawer. I duck away.
By the time I swing the front door open, the man is halfway down the walk to his car.
He hears the hinges creak. Pauses to glance back.
It’s Martin from the Wheelhouse.
“Just hadn’t seen you in a few days.” He sounds almost sheepish. “Thought she might need that.” He points at the floor of the porch, near my feet. A brown paper parcel, the bag twisted tight around the glass neck of a whiskey bottle.
I pick it up. “Thank you.”
He nods. Glances past me at the pale blue house. Golden lights stream from the kitchen windows, reaching out into the twilight. “How’s she doing?”
“Really good,” I say. “It was a good day.”
“Good.” He’s still waiting. His hands are in his pockets. “That’s good.”
I take a step toward him, off the porch. “Do you want to come in? Have some dinner with us?” I gesture with the bottle. “Or just a drink?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I don’t touch that stuff anymore. Not since Mae saved me.”
He says it matter-of-factly. Like it’s something I already know. But then he notices the blank look on my face.
“She didn’t tell you about that?”
“No,” I say.
He nods, looking just past me. “Almost two years ago now. Late at night, roads still icy. I’d just gotten off a long shift at the ’House, and I’d had too much to drink. Along County N my car skidded off into the woods. Made it almost a hundred feet, I guess. Down a slope. Out of sight of the road. Hit a tree. Smashed me almost through the windshield.” He taps the side of his face, where the eye drags downward. “Cut my head. My neck. I probably would have bled out right there. But your aunt came along just in time.”
I smile at him. “She’s good at that.”
“So.” Martin halts again, looking beyond me, into the woods. The last tints of sunset have dwindled away. Fireflies are circling the edges of our yard. Little green-gold sparks flash against the darkness.
“Can we pay you for it?” I ask, lifting the bottle again.
Martin grins. He waves a hand. “Nah. Next time.”
I watch as he climbs into his car and drives carefully away.
I bring the whiskey inside.
Aunt Mae smiles when I tell her about Martin. She sets the bottle on the coffee table. In case she needs it later.
Just in case.
Then we sit down to our hot chicken potpie, with red velvet cake for dessert.