Page 2 of Deacon

He doesn’t respond; he just goes up the steps and disappears inside. Ryland hangs up his phone, and I duck back into the hallway. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll taunt me a little, but not in a way that hurts too bad. If it’s a bad mood, he’ll eviscerate me over the meal until my nails are so deep in my palms, I break skin.

We sit at the table. Aiden starts talking to Ryland about something that went on at work. Bittern eats and tells me it’s good but nothing else. I clean my plate and get to picking up afterward, while the men talk at the table.

The moonshine and cigarettes come out. I go down the dark hall and into my room, shutting the door. Inside, in short stacks, sits my collection of insects, moths, and butterflies. I’ve been working on it since I was a little girl. They’re my one solace in a world that doesn’t make room for me.

I used to keep them under the porch. After Wayland, Aiden’s eldest, died and I got his room, I had space for more cases. Now, I put them behind the door and cover them with a drop cloth.

I lift it, just to look. Orange wings, iridescent shells, and yellow antennas glimmer in their cases.

A spot of beauty. A place to call my own.

In bed, I lay on my side, staring up through the window facing the road. Trucks whiz by sometimes. There’s a deadly curve a few yards past the house, and I sometimes hear their brakes wheeze as they take it.

A car pulls up outside, and I get up and look out. It’s one of Ryland’s friends, Braxton Whitaker. He’s from over the border, buthe works at the factory during the summers. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him, maybe a few years. I watch as he gets out of his truck and walks around the back door. Then, I hear his boots on the porch, and laughter sounds from the kitchen.

I lay back down. From here, I can see a sliver of the hall.

Aiden passes by, going upstairs. He’s headed to bed. Bittern follows, and I hear the door to his room click shut. Then, it’s just Ryland and Braxton in the kitchen, shooting the shit. They’re talking about women—in detail.

My stomach turns.

There it is—a greater awareness.

I listen for a while and hear all the words Bittern and I discussed. Then, I get up and shut the door, curling up against my pillows. There’s a blanket tacked over my window, but through the crack, I can see the outline of the mountains.

There are two places I feel at home: the one-room church three miles down the road, and the mountains. Without those two places where Aiden never goes, I swear, I’d lose my mind.

Nothing is consistent inside these walls. Outside of them, I have an anchor in these soft, green hills. In the dust that settles on church pews. In the beam of sunlight falling across my lap while the preacher drones far away.

I close my eyes. In my mind, I fall asleep curled up on the doorstep of the church, mountains folding me in like soft flannel sheets, dotted with the wings of butterflies.

My safe space.

The next morning, I run into Aiden as he busts out of the back door on his way to work. He’s having a cigarette, coffee cup hanging from his fingers. He clears his throat, and I pause, knowing he’s about to speak. I don’t know what’s going on with him, but he seems annoyed.

“Here,” he says, holding out his empty mug.

I take it. He has worn-out tattoos down his fingers. Burn marks. Callouses from the factory. Every man I know is beat up like him.

He waves a hand toward the hills. “All this fucking shit.”

“What?” I whisper.

“The farm,” he says. “I’d sell this land if I could get anybody to take it off my hands.”

I know he doesn’t want his family farm. That’s not the part that’s surprising. No, it’s that he’s talking to me like I’m human. Normally, I’m more of a maid, somebody he can point at when things go wrong.

“Property taxes,” he says, walking away and disappearing around the corner of the house.

That makes sense. He inherited the land, but the property taxes still flow out. I turn just as Ryland and Braxton walk out. That’s my sign to get lost. My stepbrother is terrible, and his friends are just as bad. I try to skirt around them, but Braxton blocks me.

I drag my eyes up to his smirk. He’s got the same colorless hair, the same washed-out eyes. I’d call him handsome, though. He sports a strong build, from his baseball hat to his steel-tipped boots.

“Hey,” he says, giving me a look that takes its time.

I’m in my sleep shorts and one of Bittern’s t-shirts—not exactly my Sunday best. Out of nowhere, I’m aware of every curve of my body.

He’s looking at me like he’s hungry and I’m something to eat. Alarmed, I duck around him and force my way into the hall. He steps aside, grinning.

---