When Penny pulled open the big barn door, the squeaking hinges let out a sound that cut through the night and seemed to vibrate in the silence that followed. All the birds went quiet, listening. It couldn’t be helped; it wasn’t her fault that the hinge squealed like that. No matter how slowly or quietly she tried to open it, that’s the sound it made.
Penny stopped and turned around to the big house, watching. Dreading the moment when the lights came on upstairs, she drew in one breath and released it. The windows stayed dark, the birds starting chirping again, and Penny went inside the barn. The chickens fussed cluck-cluck-clucking in their coop, and Cow called out for her.
She let the chickens out into their outdoor pen and spread their feed around as a milky light broke over the horizon. Out in back, she tipped the water bucket into the trough for the pigs. There were only three, but they were huge, brown and white, dirty, rutting. There was something mean about them, something ugly. They weren’t cute and pink, like she used to imagine them. In school, she and her friends used to draw little pig snouts on the notes they wrote to each other and imagine that they wanted to have pigs for pets. But the truth was, none of them had ever even seen a real pig. Maybe there were other kinds of pigs. Pigs that didn’t have beady, intelligent eyes. Or ones that didn’t make horrible grunting noises, that weren’t twice or maybe three times as large as a girl.
She was just glad she didn’t have to feed them. Poppa did that. It was disgusting to watch them eat. She didn’t like pigs anymore.
Stay away from the pigs, the other girl had told her. She’d been blonde like Penny, with sweet, smiling eyes.
Why? Penny wanted to know.
The other little girl, who was skinnier and dirtier than anyone Penny had ever seen, swallowed hard and looked like she didn’t want to say. They’re mean.
Cow was still calling, low and mournful, but more urgently. Penny pulled the stool over and put the other bucket under the big pink udder. Then Penny petted Cow on her big nose and gave her a kiss. She loved Cow, her muscular softness, her gentle presence. Penny wrapped her arms around the cow’s big head—even though the cow was a little smelly—and gave her a hug.
Cow was the only nice thing. Her mom always asked when they were having a snack after school: What was your favorite thing about today? But Penny tried not to think too much about her mom, because it just made her sick inside, opened a big wide hole in her belly. Anyway, the answer every day now was Cow. If her mommy had asked, that’s what Penny would have told her.
She sat and squeezed the udders in her hand, they were soft and warm and malleable as clay. She was getting good at it and soon the creamy liquid shot in sharp streams, hitting the side of the bucket with a zing.
The work was hard, and it used to be that she had to take a lot of breaks—her fingers and arms burning with effort. But she was getting stronger. The other girl had showed her how to do it, the same one who told her to stay away from the pigs. She’d never told Penny her name, even when she’d asked. I don’t have a name, she’d said. Everyone has a name, Penny said. But the girl just shook her head and looked so sad that Penny dropped the subject.
“The trick is not to squeeze too hard. And don’t yank,” the girl said. “You have to hold the teat in your whole hand, thumb and forefinger closed around the top to keep the milk from going back up into the udder. Pull and let go. Pull and let go.”
But the other girl was gone now. Bobo said that there had been more girls, too. But they made Momma angry. They thought too much of themselves, or they made too much noise, complained, weren’t helpful. They were too pretty, made Momma jealous. Not ugly like you.
Penny slowed down toward the end, because she didn’t want to bring the bucket up to the house. She rested her forehead against the velvety brown cow, enjoying every squeeze. But eventually the job was done. So she kissed Cow and lifted the heavy bucket by the handle and carried it to the door that stood open. Her stomach bottomed out when she saw the two upstairs lights on, glowing like two staring monster eyes. All around the clearing was a thick, dark stand of trees.
Those woods are haunted, Bobo had said. Full of demons and ghosts. She didn’t believe him at first, but she knew now that it was true. In the night, when she lay sleepless, thinking of that faraway place, crying, she’d heard all kinds of things—screaming, weeping, angry voices yelling. Sometimes there was howling. Worse than all of that, on certain nights there seemed to be a strange whispering coming from the trees themselves. The sound was nowhere and everywhere. Even if she covered her ears, she could still hear it, the sound of a million voices talking ever so softly.
Still every night, she wondered if she shouldn’t just take her chances in those woods. Don’t bother trying to run. He’ll get you. And anyway you have nowhere to go. Bobo was right; her family was gone, she had no idea where in the world she was. In the end, she just lay there praying. We can talk to God, her daddy had always told her. He listens.