In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [73]
Sister Lang took my arm and I stiffened. “Luke will be home any time. Let’s go make him some supper.” She grinned at me and started us both toward the house. I couldn’t say no.
Sister Lang gave me a knife and set me to peeling potatoes. Sarah hummed while she chopped onions, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her smock. They asked about my school, my friends, the boys I liked. I marveled at the lightness of their questions. Didn’t they know? Hadn’t my parents told them? I shrugged answers—“fine,” “okay”—and focused on the gritty strips of skin dropping into the sink.
When Sister Lang reached her hand to my face I flinched. She ran one finger behind my ear, smoothing back the strand of hair that hung over my eyes.
“After dinner, Sarah can curl your hair.”
I stood frozen, the knife and half-peeled potato in mid-air. Even silent and unsaid, it was a hiss, a vicious whisper: Leave me alone.
While Sarah chatted about Terry’s new job, I drew the blade slowly toward my thumb, wondering if I could hide the knife, secret it away in my sock or pocket. And then what? I couldn’t imagine stabbing or slashing, only the knife between me and whoever tried to get in my way. I’d only run if it got too bad, but I’d need the knife; it seemed important, more a key than a weapon. I could save myself with it, cut my way out or in, open cans like the bums did—one hard stab and twist. I could use it to fashion a pole, then find a string, bend a safety pin into a hook and fish the rivers to stay alive.
Luke’s voice from the door jolted me around. He nodded, dipping his head without moving his eyes from my own.
“Howdy.”
Cold water ran down my wrists and into the sleeves of my shirt. I turned back to the sink, steadying myself against the counter. His voice was deeper, his hands bigger. In his dirty work clothes, holding his thermos and black pail, he looked like a man—like my father and uncles coming home from the woods. Then the image of how I must look to him hit me: a girl standing with the women in the kitchen, scrubbing spuds. I pressed the sharp blade harder against my thumb, not so hard that the skin popped, just enough pressure to feel what was almost pain.
Luke pulled a chair away from the table and began unlacing his boots. I double-rinsed the potatoes, afraid to move from my place. I did not even know what the rest of the house looked like. Where had they put my bag? No matter which way I moved out of the kitchen, I’d have to pass by Luke, now working thick socks from his feet. From the corner of my eye, I could see his fingers move the cotton down his calves and over his ankles. How was it that a man’s feet could be so lovely?
“Done?” Sister Lang took the knife from my hand and pointed it toward the refrigerator. “There’s lettuce to be washed.”
A salad. Carrots to cut, tomatoes and celery. I took her orders, steadied by the chores I’d always despised.
“What’s for dinner?” Luke asked. I kept my head down.
“Steaks, potatoes and gravy,” Sarah answered. “Chocolate cake for dessert.”
He grunted, a small pleased noise. I listened as he moved down the hall. A door closed. His belted jeans clicked against the floor, water worked its way through the pipes. I imagined him beneath the hot spray, soaping his back and arms, suds running down his belly.
“Kim. Here.” A bowl hovered in front of me. I’d forgotten the lettuce. Sarah stood grinning and before I thought to glare I felt the heat rise from my hips to my throat and face.
Finally, we settled in at the dinner table, where Luke prayed beside me. “For this and all Thy blessings, we thank Thee. We ask that You also bless Sister Kim, who has joined us here today.”
I opened my eyes. For a moment I was twelve again,