The Night Sister

“Clarence,” Mama said with a sigh, setting down the chopping knife, “you’re getting mud all over my clean floor.”


“I’ve got a job for Rose,” he said. He looked terribly old to Rose, his face thinner, his hair sprinkled with gray. When had this happened? How had she not noticed it before?

Rose’s heart was beating so hard she was sure he could hear it. She was sure she could still smell the blood, taste it in the back of her throat, all mixed together with the scent of damp stone and mortar. She thought of telling them both everything, of taking Mama’s and Daddy’s hands and leading them to the tower, showing them the glass and blood, saying, “Our Sylvie is not who you think she is.”

But it had to be just Mama. Daddy would never believe her. Even now, he looked at her with annoyance, perhaps a strange apprehension. She was the daughter who told lies, who smashed birthday cakes. The girl who had told him yesterday morning she hated him.

Why, he might even think she was the one responsible for the blood in the tower.

Of course he would, the voice confirmed. Don’t be an idiot.

“I have to talk to Mama,” Rose said, her voice the quiet trickle of a stream running dry. “There’s something I need to show her.”

“It can wait,” Daddy said, voice firm.

She thought, No, no, it can’t.

“Go help your father now,” Mama said. “Whatever it is can wait.”

“But—”

“No arguments,” Daddy said. He looked so serious. She followed him quietly out of the house, across the driveway, and to the little workshop he and Fenton used.

Maybe Fenton was inside. Maybe her father had found him, hurt, stabbed, and he needed her help.

Then her father would have to believe about Sylvie! When Fenton told his story, they’d know what they were up against.

But when she stepped into the workshop, she saw only the workbench, rows of tools, the stack of tires, and chains for the tractor.

There, on the workbench, was a large wooden cross, nailed together and painted white.

“I want you to make a marker for Lucy’s grave. Paint her name and something about her. Something nice. I dug a place for her out back. A nice spot in the meadow. I’ve been working all day.”

Her father left her, and Rose dipped the brush into the can of red paint.

Red paint like red blood.

She had to hurry. Hurry and tell Mama what had happened to Fenton. Do it before Sylvie got home.

She looked down at the cross. Lucy deserved more than a rushed job, though. She thought of her father digging a deep hole, working all day, even skipping lunch, probably.

She considered for a few minutes, then carefully painted the words:

Here Lies Lucy, Beloved State Cow

You will live on forever in our hearts

You were the cow that changed everything



Then, as a finishing touch, she got out the black paint and put splotches on the white cross, making it Holstein-colored. One of the spots, right near the top, was in the careful shape of the state of Vermont. Daddy would be pleased.

When she finished at last, she quickly washed out the brushes with paint thinner and raced back to the house to find her mother.

Sylvie was already home, setting the table for dinner. She wore a blue dress with matching hair ribbons that made her eyes look like a summer sky.

Only a monster could be so beautiful, Rose thought. Only something trying to camouflage itself, to lull everyone into a sense of ease.

“There’s something I need to show you,” Rose almost whispered the words to Mama. Sylvie looked up, glared at Rose. Was she worried? Did she know what Rose had found?

“Not now, dear. I’ve got to get this casserole in the oven.” Rose looked at the counter. A glass dish was half full of noodles, tuna fish, and canned cream-of-mushroom soup. Mama was chopping celery and mushrooms.

“Please,” Rose whimpered. “It can’t wait.”

“I’ll be through in ten minutes,” Mama promised. “Go up to your room. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”