In the time since she left, she had strived to move on and convinced herself she’d succeeded. And with Charlie born so soon after, there wasn’t much room to wallow. There was too much heartache in the looking back, so she had trained her sights on the many demands of now. Keeping Charlie fed and clothed, fixing leaks, patching plaster, minding the hens. She had made a certain peace with being alone—she’d been born that way, after all.
But now, having seen him, tenderized somehow and almost sweet, she wished she could see him again. She could smell him in her pores, her hair; the tang of his sweat and spit on her tongue. The throb of wanting him lingered. She found it impossible to untangle the good feelings from the bad: fright from affection, cunning from caring, loathing from attraction. What Kit couldn’t understand was why, after all he had done, his touch still rippled through her. Against all her good sense, she wanted him back like a severed hand. An old worry, felt anew: that she might never feel whole without him.
She was ashamed at the thought of how much she had needed Manny, that her need had almost killed her. Like an infant she had been glued to him, desperate when he dropped out of sight. It felt like a betrayal now, thinking of how she had loved Manny when her whole heart should belong to Charlie. Poor Charlie. How nasty Kit had been to her. She wished she hadn’t pushed her down or made her feel like she’d done something wrong. Something in her had burst when her two worlds overlapped. She had lashed out at her daughter, but she was only scared. Scared of the Manny she had left behind.
She pushed herself up stiffly. The chickens had retreated to their hutch for the night, but she could hear them clucking. A smudge of moon behind a passing cloud; a line of white egrets nestled on the fence. Something tickled her left leg and she looked down. In the glow of the front porch light, thousands of ants covered a deep oozing gash on her shin. She hopped up, staggered to the hose, and turned it on her leg. The spray blasted the wound clean and started a fresh bleed, red ribbons trailing down with the gush of water. With the ants and blood flushed out, she could see the depth of the wound. About four inches long, it cut through some of the meat on the outside of her shin and nicked the bone. When she bore weight on it, she could see the bare muscle contract and bleed. If she didn’t clean and suture it soon, there might be permanent damage.
“Goddamnit,” she said aloud and realized she must have hacked her leg while she was raging on the brambles. She went inside to mend herself.
The house was quiet but for the creaks and sounds of Kit limping across the floor. She stopped to listen for Charlie but heard nothing. She mounted the stairs, using the rail to bear her weight, and peeked in Charlie’s room. Books, pencils, and garbage littered the floor; her desk was overturned and her chair broken on its side. Kit could hardly blame her. The sheets, which had been peeled back, sat in a pile at the foot of the bed. On the bare mattress, Charlie lay, knees to chest, staring at her mother shamelessly. Too tired to begin to address the state of the room, or the fight that had inspired it, Kit just sighed. Charlie noticed the bloody leg and lifted her head.
“It’s fine,” Kit said. “I’m about to fix it up.” She turned and hopped to the bathroom. Where others might feel a sickening sting, Kit only felt thumping. She pulled out the tin tackle box filled with baggies of gauze, a bottle of alcohol, ointment, bandages, and a pint of bourbon for nerves. She sat on the edge of the tub and laid out her supplies. The leg throbbed; viscous blood covered the slit of bone. Kit doused the wound, the tools, and her hands in alcohol, then threaded a hooked needle she had pinched from Doc’s supplies. She took a nip of bourbon and a deep breath.
The door opened and Charlie peered in, a swish of black hair and worried eyes.
“You might as well help me,” Kit said, and Charlie sat down beside her. Kit took the alcohol and disinfected Charlie’s hands, too. “Here,” Kit said, pushing the sides of the gash closed to form a neat line. “Hold this steady while I stitch.” Charlie did as she was told, wincing when Kit first pierced the skin. When she was finished suturing, Charlie wrapped the leg in thick, clean gauze. Together they scrubbed the bathroom and wiped away the blood Kit had tracked up the stairs.
After the grisly excitement of their evening, they recessed to the living room and Charlie turned on the TV. A cooling breeze passed through the transom windows. Kit propped her bum leg on a chair and lowered herself next to Charlie on the sagging floral sofa Aunt Eleanor had bought a half a century ago. Sitting there in the dark room, Charlie breathing hotly by her side, Kit looked at her daughter, half his, and knew she should tell her something about this man who had appeared out of thin air. She owed it to her. But to reveal the truth about Manny would be to incriminate herself. One question would lead to another and the whole mess would be laid bare, hideous in the light. How could she explain choosing to live with a man she didn’t know, helping him rip people off and living on money that wasn’t theirs? The thought of explaining to Charlie where she came from and why Charlie had never met her father brought up a shame that Kit could not stomach.
She pulled her girl closer to her and squeezed so hard, Charlie shrugged her off. Kit didn’t know why Manny had come, or how long he would stay. Maybe he was changed, maybe he came in peace. She didn’t know how to sort through the mystery of her feelings for him. But there was a warning in the instinct that had overwhelmed her at the sight of him, to protect Charlie, and that’s what she resolved to do.
Chapter Twenty-Two
After he left Kit’s house, Manny walked the hundred yards or so to the main farm road renewed. There was a rightness to this moment. How surprised Kit had been, how her throat had pulsed, her pupils gaped wide open. He liked the changes he saw, the funny pageboy hair and the heft in her arms, the toasted color of her skin. She’d been working, hard labor by the looks of it. The smell of it, too. By God’s grace he had refrained from pinning her to the door and taking fourteen years of touch in a lump sum. Now, the urge to return to her—to pry her open with questions, to grope her all over—was so acute he felt himself listing forward, as if into a strong gale, to resist it. There would be time for catching up another day; he couldn’t rush her. If he was going to stay, he would have to find work—honest work. No mischief to mar the clean surface of his slate. With all these little ranches, someone was bound to need his help. He felt infinite patience surround him and walked toward town. His town. Their town.