Chapter Text
The early morning greets Bob with damp cold that creeps under his blanket. His eyes are dry, aching as he presses his knuckles against his lids. The sun hasn’t yet risen, and Bob isn’t sure he’ll see it at all today. The cloud cover is opaque – an impenetrable shield separating the earth from the biting cold of the sky.
He can see his own breath puff out in small clouds as he gets dressed. He fights the weariness in his limbs, which seems to shackle his feet with lead at every step.
Bob creeps down the stairs, careful not to wake his family or Sadie, the family dog. He grabs his jacket from the large rusty nail beside the door to the basement and rubs his cold palms together. His sister Ruth must have stolen his gloves again, because when Bob pats his jacket pockets in search of them, he finds nothing but yawning emptiness.
He pushes open the door and the fly screen, both squeaking as he moves them out of the way.
He tilts his head back, regarding the still dark sky. He shivers and hugs his jacket closer around himself.
Bob grabs a bucket from underneath one of the shelves in the shed, placing it under the tap next to the door to the backyard.
He shifts from foot to foot while he waits for the bucket to fill, steam rising from the surface of the water.
He turns the tap off and grabs the bucket. His rainboots shuffle through thistle and weeds as he makes his way through the backyard towards the stall, past their small field and the chicken coop.
The old barn looms large over the horizon, a sanctuary of warmth and the quiet snorting of the animals that are just waking up. There is an old photo of Bob and Ruth hung in the kitchen where they’re both standing in front of the barn. Back then, when its coat of paint was still fresh, it was white. Now it’s a streaky brown, with flakes of white paint specked between.
The inside of the barn offers a welcome contrast to the icy winds tugging at Bob’s hair. He taps around in the dark for a moment, hand reaching for the light switch tucked between the barn door and the water containers.
The light switches on, bathing the barn in yellowish light. Flies buzz, and the animals blearily open their eyes.
He breathes in the warm, irony stench of freshly turned earth, animal skin and manure. He walks past the stables, glances over the low wooden doors inside. Bob unhooks their rusty locks, and ushers the animals outside. He pats the flank of their only horse as she trots past, her white fur caked in dried, grey dirt.
He only keeps hold of one cow, running his hand along her hide to keep her calm. He leads her into an empty stall to keep her still and puts the bucket of warm water on the floor, the heavy medallion around his neck swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
Bob grabs another empty metal bucket stored in the corner and whacks it against the wall of the stall until dirt comes crumbling out of it. The sound echoes in the otherwise silent barn.
He pulls out a cloth from the back pocket of his jeans and dunks it into the bucket of warm water. He wipes the cow’s udder down, to remove dirt and leftover manure, and to stimulate milk-flow. Bob rubs his dry eyes, and flicks some of the dirt under his fingernails into the hay.
He cracks his knuckles and gently squeezes the udder to squirt a few streams of milk onto the ground. He feels it becoming taut and warm beneath his fingers, the veins standing out against the rosy skin.
Bob grabs the bucket and places it under the cow’s teat. Then he closes his thumb and forefinger around the upper part of the udder, and squeezes the milk out, hand working downwards in a smooth, even rhythm. The spray of milk is thin, and hisses softly as it hits the metal of the bucket. The sweet smell of fresh milk and hay dust rises into Bob’s nostrils.
After he’s done, he strains the milk through a cloth into one of the glass bottles piled up at the entrance of the barn. He tucks his nose over the neck of the bottle, breathing in the animal musk that wafts past the smell of the milk itself. The bottle is body-warm, and Bob takes a sip. The milk tastes sweet, rich and thick, with undertones of grass feed and barnyard tang. The act is almost involuntarily intimate.
Her calf sticks its head through the iron fence separating the barn from the paddock outside, calling for its mother. It was born three weeks ago; it barely made it. It only broke through the amniotic sac after Bob had stuck his arms in besides, up until his elbow, and grabbing its hooves and pulling until sweat coated his brow. Afterwards it fell onto the floor with a dull thud, steam rising from its body. It didn’t move for a few minutes, and Bob was ready to give it up, but its mothers continuous massage with her thick, rosy tongue massaged its heart to life.
He left them be, after scooping up the afterbirth, steaming with the same heat as the fresh-born calf, veins and amniotic jelly still clinging to it, and chucking it into Sadie’s food bowl.
He thought it wouldn’t make it through the night, but somehow it did. Bob shoos the mother towards her offspring, closing the barn door behind him with a loud creak.
Back inside the house, he checks on the corn inside the dark cabinet next to the kitchen. The corn is kept in its husks, to keep it fresh and prevent rot as much as possible. He pets Sadie on the way inside but puts his finger under his nose when she gets up from her dog bed, the pungent stench of piss making his eyes water. She licks his hand, her blind eyes staring past him.
Sadie is actually Ruth’s dog, but she lost interest in her when she got old and started losing her teeth, so now it’s mostly Bob who cares for her. Bob sighs, and ushers Sadie out of the way to chuck the dog bed out the back door to spray it down with water later.
Beneath his wool sweater, gooseflesh rises on his arms.
His image is hung up next to the sliding door, right over the family altar. Red wax clings to the small wooden table beneath the picture.
Bob pays his respects to Him before he steps into the kitchen.
It is forbidden to attempt to show His direct image, so Bob’s family and the others show Him as He presents Himself in the divine visions Bob’s father has. His body is human at first glance, His torso is formed from clay, face covered in mud, the flesh of Mother Earth. The twigs stuck inside His earthy mask always remind Bob of a deer’s antlers – a mighty animal, regal and imposing. In each of His outstretched hands, He holds one of His two ideograms.
Bob lays three fingers on his forehead, and then gently places them onto the forehead of the muddy, shadowy image of Him.
He slides into the kitchen, opens the fridge door and makes a mental note to fix the flickering light inside. He pushes aside boiled chicken feet swimming in cloudy broth and an open bowl of cream, skin already formed on top, its yeasty smell hitting Bob in the face each time he moves his head.
His stomach growls, and he takes out a jar of his grandmother’s strawberry jam. He unscrews the lid and pulls a face at the white mold crusted on the sides.
He chucks the contents of the jar into the small compost bin next to the stove, for once thankful for the cold weather. Maggots find their way much easier into their home during the warmer months, when the summer heat makes the air stand still.
He slabs some butter onto a grainy piece of bread, cutting around its grey edges. The container his mother uses to churn the butter in leaves a stain on the food that never really goes away. Bob washes his breakfast down with a cup of goats milk that he strains through a cheesecloth to get rid of the pieces of hay and insect wings inside.
His eyes flicker to the calendar Ruth made with the kids at Sunday school.
A date is circled in red, drawing attention to itself, making its way into Bob’s consciousness forcefully.
He will remain thirty for only a few more weeks.
He scratches his arm and stills when his nails catch onto something stuck into his skin. He watches the spot on his arm wiggle and move. He grunts quietly.
The stairs creak under his weight as he walks upstairs to the bathroom. He finds his mother’s crusted tweezers lying next to the sink. He grasps the tick close to the skin, and pulls it away with steady, even pressure. It leaves a tiny, perfectly round wound that Bob runs under warm water.
Bob hopes that this is the last one before winter rolls around. It’s way too late in the year for ticks anyway.
-
The tick wound itches throughout the day, forming another perfectly round ring of reddened skin around the area of the bite. The wound swells, and the skin around it starts feeling hot and slightly hardened. Each time Bob’s blunt nails scratch at the wound, a new crust forms over it, dried blood and pus congealing to form a thick layer.
He stands in front of his wardrobe, the few clothes inside scattered around, barely folded. He still wears some clothes from his childhood, mostly shirts that have been way too small on him for years.
His childhood – which smells like wet cotton, mildew, and burnt milk.
He picks a shirt with long sleeves and tugs them down over his arms and the tick bite.
Bob gets changed, swapping his dirty working clothes for something remotely clean, but that smells equally of rot and moth balls. He takes a quick glance at himself in the dusty mirror in his room. His black eye has almost completely faded. He tucks his hair behind his ears. He hasn’t shaved in a while.
His mother and Ruth wait by the front door; both dressed in the same floor-length dresses as before, but their aprons changed for clean ones. Bob’s father is nowhere to be seen. Bob grabs an apple on the way out.
They walk in relative silence, the only sounds accompanying them are the wet smacking of their shoes on the muddy ground and their strained breaths.
Its even colder when they reach the forest, Ruth checking behind herself that they weren’t seen. She carries a bundle of herbs in her bony hands. The pine trees groan and creak, bending under the weight of their branches.
The chapel is tucked beneath an overhanging boulder, constantly shrouded in shadow, hidden from plain sight. They get in line as everyone ducks under the low doorframe leading inside.
Inside, its dark, and the once high ceilings are now bowed with age, with moss growing in through small gaps in the walls.
The air is warm and damp, heavy with leftover offerings and the smell of decaying wood. The floor is covered in red carpet, stained nearly black over time from the soot from sputtering candles made from leftover animal fat.
The chapel is filled with rows of low benches that groan under the weight of the people sitting down. Bob walks up to the altar at the front, made up of a wooden table, scarred from years of use, covered by a sheet that was probably once white, but is now brown and stiff.
After planting the three fingers, Bob places the apple he brought under the sculpture, beneath His deer legs, right under the hooves, next to Ruth’s bundle of herbs and a pair of hare paws that someone sewed together and tied up nicely with white ribbon. The pile of things they brought before decomposes in a corner behind the altar, where He consumes through decay – the chapel, their offerings, and His subjects.
In this, He is patient, ever-waiting, ever-present. The rot itself breathes, its putrid breath gusting through the holes in the ceiling.
Bob sits between Ruth and his mother, tightly pressed against each other. Bob blinks, his eyes taking their time getting used to the dim lights.
Bob’s father is the last to enter, always. He walks up to the altar, his steps slow and muffled by the moisture-laden carpet. He’s wearing his best clothes, including thick leather gloves to hide his sores, and his hair is slicked to his head.
The quiet chatter in the room dies down as soon as he opens his mouth to speak. He raises his hands, back turned towards them, dirt flaking off his sleeves.
His voice bellows around the room, while His words are spoken through Bob’s father.
“Congregation!
We have gathered once more, before His veiled image, to remind ourselves not to frown upon the blisters on our hands. Each earthly pain, each mark, and each ailment is a reminder that we all just waste away until we return to our divine Mother Earth that once birthed Him.
When your backs bend under the hardship, reminisce on the soil bending with you. When hunger comes knocking on y’all’s doors this winter, be faithful in that this is His test in your faith.
You were not promised ease in this life, and we shall refuse to accept worldly modern aid to support us in our journey back into the earth. He takes and gives when it is due time. And patience is a virtue, dearest congregation.
The world beyond our humble community may chase comfort. But we, my humble brothers and sisters, we choose the harsh truth of hard labor and His will. Remember to stay faithful, humble and patient, for only what dies in the field may return in next year’s harvest.
And lastly, my dearest congregation, remember that rot is rebirth.
Rot is rebirth!”
The chapel answers with a quiet groan, the old planks creaking. Then, the community answers in a litany of throaty calls.
Rot is rebirth.
Then, Bob’s father turns around, his face coming into view. He is freshly shaven. The scar over his torn-out eye is yellow and puffy from infection.
He points at an old woman in the row before Bob and the rest of his family. His voice raises further.
“I can feel it! He wants to bless the sickness in your hands, for you have withstood the affliction within your bones for so long!”
Bob knows the old woman, her son owns the small grocery store downtown.
His father steps through the rows of benches and carefully takes her stiff fingers in both his hands, his fingers closing around the boney lumps and reddened joints.
He places them onto his face, right over the wound where his eye used to be, pressing it down, forcing pus to ooze over her swollen digits.
“As He enters through my eye, He can see your suffering! No, He can feel it, feel it within His own body, and He recognizes your hurt!”
The old lady answers, her cries echoing off the chapel’s walls.
“I knew it! I knew He did! Tell him, Joseph! Tell Him I can feel him too!”
“He can hear you! He is close, He knows your pain!”
His father’s hands start to shake as he increases the pressure on his face and they wail unison. The wound discharges more secretion, now thin red fluid running over the wrinkly skin of their hands.
As blood starts to spurt, Bob’s father hisses, and jerks the woman’s hands away from his face. He takes a step back, chest heaving.
“Your ache is now blessed, dearest.”
Bob looks at the lady. Her face is wet with tears.
-
On the way back, Bob zips up his jacket and wraps his scarf tighter, the winds picked up, and their sharp bite threatens to crawl beneath Bob’s sweater.
Bob’s father mentions for Bob to stay back a bit, and for Ruth and his mother to go ahead.
“Robert, son.”
Bob stops chewing on his fingernail. “Yes?”
“Three weeks.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You ready?”
“How can I know?”
“Ah, you just know, son. I can feel it, you’re ready to become a man.”
Bob sighs, a heavy weight settling on his chest. “If you know, that’s enough for me.”
“Good man. You’ve been blessed; you’re in His favor. What could go wrong?”
The question makes something stand still in Bob’s mind. His father ignores his lack of an answer.
“You’re special, son. Don’t you forget. This is just as important to me as it is to you.”
With that, he trudges ahead. Bob puts his hand in his pockets, evading larger roots on his way out of the forest. He can feel a hole forming in his left sock.
-
“Pass me the hammer?”
Ruth rummages around in the toolbox at her feet, and hands him the hammer.
She puts her hands onto her hips, “You sure that post is straight?”
Bob wipes some sweat from his forehead. “Damn sure.”
The ground is muddy; Bob isn’t sure why its consistently this wet – it hasn’t rained in weeks. While Ruth and him trade tools back and forth, no more words are exchanged, but he can see her distaste in what he does, feels it in the way her face hardens whenever she looks in his direction.
They have fixed this particular part of their fence dozens of times, but things keep breaking faster than they can tend to them.
Afterwards, Ruth heads off to get shovels. The latrine next to the barn has filled with muddy water, and they have to dig a new one. The even rhythm of their shoveling – scrape, thud, scrape, thud – echoes in the air like a penance.
Ruth’s voice is breathless when she speaks.
“You met her yet?”
Bob stops digging and rests his chin on the back end of his shovel. “Who?”
“You know who.”
Bob sighs. “Yeah. Saw her sometimes at the chapel.”
“You nervous?”
The question isn’t asked as a means of concern.
“No.”
“Dirty liar.” She spits onto the ground, right next to their pile of nails.
-
Bob and his father wait in the living room while his mother and Ruth fix dinner. His father scratches his stomach, uncovering the lower part of his abdomen as he lifts his work shirt. The lesions on his hands and feet have traveled down to his midsection, rendering his skin a blotchy, light pink.
But Bob has faith. Illness is nothing but a divine test, for Him to see if His subjects are strong enough to endure any hardship He puts them through. And Bob doesn’t know anyone stronger than his father.
The kitchen stinks of gas and oil from the two-burner stove his mother stands in front of.
They sit down in their worn chairs, and Bob’s mother places a pot on the table, lifts the lid. A sharp, vinegary smell emerges. The color drains from Bob’s face.
Pieces of meat are slapped onto dishes. The plate placed in front of him is steaming. On a bed of potato mash rest parts of sheep stomach, lying in folds along the edges of the plate.
His mother pushes the plate further in his direction. “Don’t keep your mama waiting. Eat up.”
Bob swallows, warm spit collecting in his mouth. The frilly inner surface of the meat casts small shadows onto itself. He watches himself blinking in the reflection in the window behind his mother.
Ruth is already cutting into hers, knife scratching loudly along the plate. For some reason, she swapped the potato mash for some junk out of a can. She eats silently but watches Bob closely.
He touches his food with his fork, watching it flounce around on his plate.
A crease forms in the brow of his father. His one functioning eye stares at him from the side. Ruth also casts him a look.
“Didn’t you hear? Your mama made a special dinner, just for you and your dear sister. So don’t be ungrateful – eat or it’ll get cold.”
Bob knows that his father is right. Nothing should be wasted – any food is sacred. A pang of guilt rushes through him when he thinks of the jam he threw out that morning.
He nods slowly and squeezes his fork until it hurts while he cuts off a small piece of slimy flesh from his portion.
“Good boy”, his mother says.
It takes way too long for Bob to chew one single bite. The rubbery meat slips around in his mouth, forcing him to hide his heaving. Its so salty his tongue goes gritty while he chews. His stomach jerks as he swallows.
When he closes his eyes, he imagines a plate full of fries, fresh from the frying oil, sprinkled with paprika and nutmeg. Maybe some ketchup.
He can feel the toxins from the food make their way through his body, little dirty particles that swim through his bloodstream like the current of the small river behind their house. Bob watches a small speck of potato mash that dropped from his plate and onto the checkered tablecloth.
Bob grips onto the leg of the table, right into a splinter, and forces his brain to focus on the pain instead of the food in his mouth. He feels the small piece of wood pierce his skin, and pretends that the hiss he sucks in through his teeth is because the food is still hot.
His father is almost done with his portion.
Bob clears his throat and forces himself to hurry, so that his distaste wasn’t seen or heard. He continues chewing, moving his tongue out of the way to avoid tasting his food as much as he can.
Ruth kicks him under the table. Bob ignores her.
His father talks about work at the meat processing plant, and his new overseer, who made them work double shifts for two nights because of their understaffing problem. Bob and Ruth nod along, while his mother strokes her hand down her husbands arm, avoiding his hands.
Bob knows better than to interrupt his father while he laments about work.
When he was little, he sometimes complained about his father’s boring work stories. His father’s answer was Bob’s head in the crook of his arm.
When Bob’s done eating, his father claps him on the back, the rough, blistered skin on his hands itching even through the layers of Bob’s clothing.
-
Bob throws up his dinner in the corner of his room, unable to make it to the bathroom in time. Sadie immediately went to lick it up, the offal amidst the fetid sludge of stomach acid likely a delicacy compared to the scraps they usually feed her with.
He puts Sadie outside and wipes up the rest of the bile on his floor.
The air smells stale and sour, burning the delicate membrane inside Bob’s nostrils. He could hear his family moving around downstairs, and the hushed voices of his mother and Ruth.
He would apologize for his disobedience tomorrow, after sleep had softened the harsh edge of shame burning inside his gut.
-
The next morning, Bob is inside the chicken coop, digging around the hay for eggs. It started to rain during the night, so the chickens are all still bundled up in their nests. The inside of the coop stinks of chicken shit and ammonia, sometimes so harsh that it burns through his gloves and leaves sores on his palms and fingers that stay there for days.
He picks the still sleepy chickens up, digs his hands through their nests, but comes out mostly empty handed. The chickens only managed three small eggs. Bob isn’t sure if it’s the seasonal change, or if the chickens are simply getting too old to lay.
He leaves their feed, a damp mixture of cracked grain, kitchen scraps and ground-up eggshells. Last winter, they were short on food and the chickens started pecking at each other, tearing out small chunks of flesh from their sister’s bodies. Bob hopes to prevent that this year.
Sadie is lying outside, next to the shed. When she hears Bob approach, her tail begins to wag, but she doesn’t move.
The inside of the house is cold; his mother hasn’t turned on the heater yet. The more they save, the more they have next year.
Bob is toeing off his shoes, as his mother taps him on the back. Her grey hair is tied into a tight knot at the back of her head, pulling on the skin of her face.
“Drive me to the grocery store, will you?”
Bob nods. “Gimme a minute.”
“Better hurry.”
-
Bob parks his pickup truck right next to the entrance of the store, so that his mother wouldn’t have to walk far. He tucks the hood of his sweater over his head to shield himself from the slight drizzle as he opens the car door for her and helps her out.
The bell on the door of the grocery store chimes as Bob’s mother walks in, with him in tow. The irritating sound of the neon lights above them makes Bob squint against the headache softly pulsing against his temples.
They leave wet footprints as they make their way through the small store, quiet music playing over the intercom.
His mother stops to examine the various canisters of palm oil stacked on top of each other when Bob notices him.
A person Bob hasn’t seen before.
A blonde man in uniform, badge glinting in the neon light, hat tugged low, the upper half of his face obscured from vision.
The man is very tall, with wide shoulders and a permanent frown etched into his slight underbite. He’s tapping something into a smartphone while running his hand through the scruff on his jaw.
Bob points at the man, his voice low.
“Who is that?”
His mother’s mouth turns into a hard line.
“New sheriff. Place is about as safe as it gets, still pigs keep sniffing around.”
His mother grabs his arms, turns him away from the stranger, and looks him in the eyes.
“Go get some soup. You know the kind we like. I’ll be right here.”
Bob heads towards the soup isle, head turning left and right to keep looking for his mother, who is now comparing two different kinds of salt by weighing the packets in her frail hands.
Bob squats down in front of the row of soups, letting his eyes wander over the endless rows of red labels.
From the corner of his eye, he sees a pair of dark brown boots coming to a stand next to him.
“Pass me one of those?”
The voice is deep and hoarse, as if it hasn’t been used in a while. A shudder works its way up Bob’s body. He doesn’t dare look up.
“What kind?”
“I don’t give a fuck. Anything tomato will do.”
Bob grabs a can and lifts his body up, along with his gaze. The man has a wide stance, thumbs hooked into his utility belt, gun in its holster. He tips his head back a bit as Bob stands up, revealing a middle-aged face, freckled, with chapped lips and blue eyes surrounded by dark circles. He’s chewing on a toothpick.
“Thanks.”
As he goes to grab the soup from Bob’s grasp, his eyes fall onto the amulet hanging from Bob’s neck. Something miniscule washes over his face, something Bob can’t place.
The man grabs the soup but doesn’t move away.
The neon light hums above them, flickers. Bob clears his throat and looks at his dirty shoes. His wet clothes leave a spot on the grey linoleum.
The sheriff now watches Bob with open interest. Bob’s nails dig into the fleshy part of his palm, leaving little crescents in their wake.
They are close enough for Bob to catch a whiff of the man’s scent, a mixture of leather soap and cigarette ash. He scrunches his nose.
“You from around here?”
Bob jerks, and almost drops the cans of soup he grabbed for his mother. He casts his eyes down again as he speaks.
“Yes, Sir.”
The man extends his hand.
“Sheriff John Walker.”
Bob gingerly takes Sheriff Walker’s hand. The sheriff’s handshake is short, but firm. His hand is warm, the skin rough and dry. His eyes bore holes into Bob’s head.
“And you are?”
“Robert Reynolds, Sir.”
The sheriff’s eyebrows perk up, and he juts his chin into Bob’s direction. The toothpick in his mouth moves. “Reynolds you say? The little farm up north belong to you?”
“My parents, Sir.”
“You work there? Live there with your parents?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“– Robert! Boy, come here!”
Bob tears his eyes away from the sheriff, as his mother’s shrill voice cuts through the silence. Sheriff Walker takes a step back. His mother is storming towards them, face twisted in distress. She grabs Bob’s arm, nails digging into his sweater. She throws a dirty look into Walker’s direction. He tips his hat at her.
“Ma’am.”
“We’re leaving. C’mon, now, go.”
She yanks Bob out of the store and makes him drive them home. They don’t buy anything.
In the kitchen, she tells him that they’re never going into that place again.
“All this strange folk in there, Robert. I always told you not to talk to strangers.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You better be. Poor baby”, she coos, stroking his cheek.
As he lets his head hang, his eyes catch into a small dish placed in the middle of the dining table.
It holds toothpicks.