I grasp the banister, feeling the worn wood beneath my fingertips, the dead calf still fresh in my mind. Noodle can’t find out about that. No one can. Not until I figure out where it came from. This town doesn’t need more reason to think we’re monsters.
“I must’ve left them behind.” I peer down the hall toward the kitchen to make sure no one’s listening. Mom’s hunched over the stove, still half in a dream, using all her concentration to keep the bacon grease from escaping the cast-iron skillet, and Jess is too busy being miserable to give a flying crap. If that girl doesn’t end up on the Maury show, it’ll be a miracle.
Noodle tugs on the hem of my shirt. “How many acres did you finish today?”
“Two.”
She purses her lips as she pulls two gold stars from her sticker bag, placing them in the little squares on the sheet of poster board she “borrowed” from Sunday school. Each square represents an acre for the harvest. We need every penny this year. One hundred and thirteen acres all squeezed into early mornings and after school. It’s a hell of a lot of work to handle on my own, and if the first frost beats me to it, we’ll be shit out of luck.
Noodle does the math, tapping out the remaining acres on the side of her leg. She counts everything. I read somewhere it’s a form of OCD, but I think she’s just too smart for her own good.
“Can you keep a secret?” I crouch down so I can look her in the eye.
She knots her hands on her scrawny waist. “You know I can.”
“Hey, what happened to your finger?”
“Just a paper cut and no changing the subject.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I had a little engine trouble this morning … nothing I can’t fix.” Her glance veers toward the window, and I know exactly what she’s thinking. “Don’t worry. I’ll catch up. And don’t be going out there.” I reach out to muss up her wispy light-blond bangs; she ducks out of the way. She doesn’t like anyone touching her hair anymore. “I’ll take care of it after school. Deal?”
She zips her lips and locks them, pressing the imaginary key into my hand, before skipping off to the kitchen.
“And put a Band-Aid on that, okay?”
A fly buzzes past. I watch it as it lands on the bare wall above the mantel in the living room, where the crucifix used to hang.
It takes me right back to that night.
Dad came home from the Preservation Society meeting all wild-eyed.
“Ian Neely knew … they all knew,” he said.
Mom just thought he’d gotten into Charlie Miller’s homemade rye again, but I knew he wasn’t drunk. He was alert, too alert, like he was operating on pure adrenaline.
As he lifted the heavy metal crucifix down from over the mantelpiece, he kept saying, “The golden calf … it’s the sixth generation … the seed.” He stared right at me when he said it with a look of disgust. Mom tried to get him to calm down, but he shoved her against the wall and stormed out of the house. I followed him to the edge of the untilled wheat, grabbing on to his arm to stop him. He turned, clutching the crucifix tight to his chest. “I have to stop the evil before it’s born,” he said, his eyes drilling me in place. “God forgive us, son.”
There was no moon that night. No stars, like they knew what my dad was about to do, like they couldn’t bear to watch.
“Fifteen minutes, Clay,” Mom calls from the kitchen.
Letting go of the memory, I rush upstairs, turn on the faucet, and strip off my clothes. I’m shivering my ass off waiting for the water to heat up, though it never makes it past lukewarm. One of the many perks of living with three girls. I step in the tub and tug the plastic curtain shut. The sound of the rusty metal loops scraping against the curtain rod reminds me of the hoof jammed in the cutting blades. It sets my teeth on edge.
I try not to think about it, but for the life of me I can’t figure out how the calf got there. Since the Neely ranch closed, the closest cattle ranch is two towns over in Monroe. It had golden fur, the same color as the wheat. Just like my dad talked about before he died. I’ve never seen a calf that color before. It couldn’t have been more than a day old. No way it could’ve wandered all the way over here on its own.
Unless someone put it there.
Wouldn’t put it past Tyler, Ian Neely’s son. It’s more than bad blood. Ever since Dad died, Tyler’s always staring at me in this strange expectant way. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to lose my shit like my dad did. Maybe everyone is.