Page 18

I lifted my chin and climbed two bodies. Offal slipped between my fingers. The leathery hide tore away from the bones underneath. I rolled off the last horse. Saliva thickened. I left the contents of my stomach in the dirt. Annie’s song…

The lake before me, I lunged down the path. Prickly locust trees canopied the trail. I froze at a small foot bridge that stretched over a shallow ravine. Near the bridge, a man’s pale body lay on the rocky bed. Loose brush covered his head. Annie’s voice grew louder.

I scooted into the ravine. Bent over the body. Pulled away the foliage. A scream stuck in my throat. Large yellow-green eyes stared at me from my father’s taut face.

A red ropelike shape wormed away from his body. I yanked at the remaining underbrush that clung to him.

I fell back, hand over my mouth. My father’s bowels crawled from a gaping hole in his stomach. I followed the intestines up the ravine to the shade under the bridge. A tiny foot poked out from the shadow and wiggled in pink mary-janes with a red jeweled buckle.

The air felt thin. I gulped for more. Annie sat in a puddle of innards. Bracelets of dark viscera wrapped her wrists. She drew circles in the blood. Six lines spread out from every circle.

R-E-D, Red. R-E-D, Red.

That spells Red. That spells Red.

Ouchies are Red. Ladybugs are, too.

R-E-D. R-E-D.

She sang to the tune of Frere Jacques and blinked glassy alabaster eyes.

I shook my head. Scrambled to my feet. Slipped on blood-slick pebbles. Landed on my back. My back teeth ground together. I tried to sit up but failed. Tried to wake up but failed as well.

The entrails slithered and twined over my neck. They constricted. I clawed at my throat, my shrieks shallow.

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;

a broken and contrite heart,

O God, you will not despise.

The Holy Bible, Psalm 51:17

I jerked against the hands restraining my feet and wrists. Joel lay across my body and pinned me to the mattress. His cheek rested against mine. “Evie. Evie. Wake up. Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Steve hovered above my head holding down my arms. His spooked eyes met mine and he averted them. Eugene struggled to catch his breath at my feet. Joel’s face floated inches from mine, his eyes dark.

What had I done in my sleep to put those looks on their faces? My throat scratched. “You can let go of me now.”

Joel sat up and caught my wrists in his hands. He held them in front of me. Fresh blood dirtied the nail beds. When he released me, I touched my throat. Traced deep scratches in the skin. My shirt stuck to my chest, warm and wet with bile. The slaughterhouse stench burrowed in my taste buds.

My father’s eyes, open and waiting, fractured something inside me. Pain seared behind my forehead. Common-sense splintered away. I looked at Eugene. “Do you know how to get to the ravine at ol’ Paul Hurlin’s place?”

“I know it. Empties into the lake at marker L2. Good walleye catchin’ there.”

“Will you take me? I won’t find it on my own.”

We left for the ranch in my father’s boat before dawn. By the time the sun crested the skyline, we found my father.

Rigor mortis came and went weeks earlier. Sun-broiled skin hung on his body, stretched by the inflation of abdominal gases.

We rolled his body onto a gas-soaked woodpile. Despite the decomposition, I knew it was him. His St. Francis medal still hung from his neck.

I stood over him, my muscles straining under the weight of my artillery and vest. My eyes burned, and I willed the tears to come. But they wouldn’t. Just emptiness bubbling from my chest, forming a lump in my throat.

He told me once if forced to choose between his family and his god, God wins. My mother left before my sixth birthday. I never blamed him for putting her second to his god. After all, she left me too.

Eugene’s big hand squeezed my shoulder. “You gonna say somethin’, Evie girl?”

“I’m not a priest. He’d consider it blasphemous.”

He blew out a breath. “Your dad was a stubborn son o’bitch. But he loved you.”

I gave him a small smile, a bitter taste on my tongue. I wanted to feel grief. But hate consumed me. Hate for the religion that stole him from me.

In Catholic school, I questioned everything. My insubordination was dealt with by way of large doses of quality time with Father Mike Kempker and his flock of narrow-minded nuns. Countless prayer candles were lit on my behalf. But the disconnect between my father and I didn’t ignite until high school. At eighteen, I received an ultimatum: participate in his Vatican regimen or face banishment. I chose the latter.

After my A’s were born, we began visiting my father at the lake. He never turned us away.