Beneath the Tree

By Miriam Lauren

What happens when you reach your lowest point and find yourself alone, with only your own thoughts to guide you—where do you turn, when even those, turn against you?

Born with a deformity in a community as small and isolated in place, as mind—Aron Walden has always been an outcast. His well-meaning parents attempt to help him fit in, but do far more to shield him from his harsh reality. Yet, lost in his love of literature and woodwork, Aron manages a fragile happiness. But when even that sheltered existence is shattered by their deaths, he’s left facing his biggest fear—surviving the unwelcoming world on his own.

Determined to carry on, he goes through the motions of living, clinging to his slipping routine on the family dairy, like a dangling lifeline. Until a powerful dream immerses him in pure love, making him acutely aware that he’s a man out of place—out of time. ‘It turned out he was right to worry. People need people in the end.’ Crumbling beneath his loneliness, he decides to kill himself. But when his perfectly choreographed death—rushing past his shocked neighbors in the turbulent river before plummeting the impressive fall—is interrupted by the cries of a young girl, Aron’s fate is altered. He throws himself to the mercy of the river, instead, to save her life.

One man's odyssey to find himself and realize his destiny—Beneath the Tree takes us on a journey of unbearable pain and deep, enduring love—filled with breath-taking flashes of self-discovery that reveal the best and worst choices made in desperate moments, the beauty and darkness of life and death—and the profound difference made by how we face each.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Miriam Lauren
• Release date: Jun 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985678807

Miriam Lauren

If anything defines me, its ideas. Stories. I’m fascinated with the goings on—just under the surface. Whatever it is about me, most times, I see things a differently than most. And who I am, isn’t really about what I’ve accomplished—it feels as if my life so far was just training, practice—preparation for my true purpose. To quote John Mayer, I’d like to think the best of me is still hiding up my sleeve ;) Writing is what best in me—I know it like destiny flowing from my fingertips. In the time its taken to put together this dream to make writing my reality, I’ve come to know spa-rk.com as part of that fate. Maybe I’m crazy. I know I am—a little. I think we all have to be, to survive this crazy life we live— without doubt, to take the risks required for success. At certain point your realize, it’s only by being brave enough to put yourself out there that you’ll achieve anything. So here I am jumping off the edge.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Only a cursory Verse for the Dead was spoken at the funeral. But he didn’t care much what was said. He’d never liked the minister or his religion and had only held the service to please his dead mother. At least he’d managed to arrange both the service and the burial graveside.

He could just breathe better outside, in the fresh air.

Of course, at his mother’s telling, Reverend Karas had recited a Full Gathering. Plenty had stood after to add something personal about Etana—always some neighborly thing she’d once done. Apparently, she was worth more exertion than his father. Though some would certainly stand for him, Aron knew it would number on one hand.

But Damon had always said a man only needed one good friend.

His mother collected friends like she did crucifixes. Religion was her passion, after her family. But she wasn’t a zealot so much as devout. In truth it wasn’t only faith that drew Etana. As the center of all things social and civil, the community revolved around the church. It was, therefore, inevitable it have large influence.

And Etana had thrived in her role as the great grandniece of the second wife to the first Reverend Karas.

It was said that Ebner Karas married Etana’s great aunt soon after his first wife passed. Abruptly after, he collapsed while tilling his garden and woke to claim he’d had a vision from God and was meant to go on a pilgrimage.

Gelda refused to accompany him, declaring it unseemly. But Ebner sold his business despite her and left on his epic bible study. Returning many years later with some of his flock in tow, he found his wife settled happily on the northern property.

He converted his home in town into a chapel and moved into the modest visitor’s quarters behind it. Thereafter, Gelda did as she pleased and Ebner as the Lord instructed. She attended every service and was given the respect the wife of a minister deserved. They were good friends and committed to each other in their own way—though they never lived together again.

When he died, he left her the land that was her home. A few years later she became ill and followed him, willing the loved property to Aron’s mother.

Etana appreciated her stable home and the prominence in the church even more than her great aunt had, but his father had a simpler way.

He was neighborly, but preferred his living room or his land to any outing. He attended services, but obviously didn’t put much stock in it. As a result, people didn’t approve of his habits—or his son.

Aron was his mother’s son too, of course, but she was steadfast to the faith and accordingly forgiven—whereas his father, with these ungodly ways, was surely responsible for the defect.

It was funny, actually, how dissimilar his parents had been. But they were devoted to each other. Aron had always envied them, even resented them at times. He was certain it was a bond that he would never experience.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice when the verse ended and the congregation had begun stepping forward to speak. It was hard keeping his eyes locked on the casket, but it made him uncomfortable to look at them. The heat of their stares prickled his skin. Focusing on the box allowed him to avoid the jury of neighbors.

The remainder of the service would be private at his request. He was relieved he could place the dirt and lay his father to rest in peace.

As anxious as he was for it to end, Aron really didn’t notice when everyone left.

He’d drawn so far inward that he was suddenly alone.

For a time he remained still, searching for a retreating back or the murmur of a fading voice. But everything was quiet.

He was alone.

Placing his hat on his head, he pulled the shovel from the pile of dirt. He thought of them as he covered the coffin. His mother had been raised by Travelers, which Damon found charming. But Etana hated being an outcast and rebelled against her liberal parents by becoming fiercely traditional. When she’d met his father, she’d wanted to settle—only her affection for Damon softened her enough to allow them to follow the road for a time.

On the move as they were, it took nearly a year for the news of her inheritance to reach them. The great aunt’s gift was the sign Etana had been praying for—Long Valley was the home she always dreamed of. His father knew it was well past time she got her way. They’d roamed for four years—even he was ready to stick.

So they made their last journey to their homey cabin at the top of the valley and seldom ventured beyond the town square, thereafter.

Aron stayed by their graves long after he replaced the dirt, trying to recall a memory that might spark any real response in him. But his eyes remained frustratingly dry. It made him feel worse, if that were possible—that he could not grieve for them, as they deserved.

But after a time he had to leave. Things still needed doing.

He passed the remainder of the day with chores. It was a familiar ritual he found comforting on other days. He fed the stock—cleaned stalls, pens and outbuildings—milked the cows and brushed Ham until his tan coat glistened and the horse found the half apple in Aron’s pocket. He fixed a post on the south fence and spliced the wire along the west line.

He was bone-tired when he twisted the final strand tight. It was still far too early.

The light was only beginning to dim outside when he sat to pass another night at the table. Flies buzzed the untouched dried meat and cheese he’d set out for supper.

But he wasn’t hungry—hadn’t been sleeping much either. No one cared what he did anymore. As much as it had sometimes rankled him, Aron missed the mothering.

The march of the pocket watch ticked on, confirming its lack of concern, and the wood of the kitchen chair dug into his back, reminding him he also plodded onward as if unmoved, which was the truth of his disturbance.

Still he remained, not sleeping so much as drifting and churning dark thoughts. It was his new form of rest. One he knew could send him mad if he allowed it. Sometime in the middle of the gray night, he grew desperate.

He had to find release from the pain trapped in him.

Rushing from the cabin, he strode into the dark with unknown purpose.

He didn’t quite recall coming to the graves. But digging his fingers into the freshly turned soil he knew, if he were to mourn, he would have to start with a much older pain—when he’d first understood it was his fate to never fit in. He would have to grieve for that boy and for everything that he’d lost that day in the mud . . .

It had been the height of the summer, and, thinking he was alone, he’d hunched over the mess, immersed in a favorite game. He could still remember how warm it felt covering his hands. When they’d found him with the clumsy blobs at the ends of his arms, they laughed and taunted.

It certainly wasn’t unusual. He was the Freak, a moniker given by Jakob, their feared leader. But suddenly, seeing his future in clarity, the wounds ripped new. He would relive this scene, or one similar, again and again, until the day he died.

His parents had buffered him for a time, allowing him to pretend he wasn’t an outcast. But they were gone now and there was no one left to play make believe with anymore. He couldn’t lie to himself.

He was afraid of everything—life, tomorrow, endless days of nothing and no one . . .

He began to cry, not the furious wave he’d imagined, but slowly, drifting on the first breezes of a storm. As the sobs grew, the sound morphed into something he didn’t recognize. Still he raged. Until there was no thought—only pain and release.

Aron didn’t feel the outburst subside, but simply exhausted himself into oblivion.

He woke with a shiver, realizing he’d slept. Stiffly, he forced himself to his feet. The frost seemed settled in his bones and mud gritted his teeth. He spit out what he could and smeared it from his face with numb fingers.

He looked at the mounds of earth resting side by side. They’re together. There was some solace in it.

But he was alone.

Fear of this day had been with him longer than he could remember. Now, it was real and he was only more afraid. Still, he couldn’t let them see it. He’d go on, as he had before—on the outside, with them not caring to know if he felt anything at all.

***

He was used to waking to the taste and residue of stale vomit.

Creaking his eyelids open, he tossed an arm to block the harsh light that burned his eyes. The world was a glowing fog with corn stalks disappearing into it. His skull pounded with a dull ache. He leaned up carefully and settled back on his hands.

His tongue felt too big for his mouth. Need a beer.

He passed several seconds, gaining his bearings before he felt something soggy and realized his hand lay in cold vomit.

Jake wiped it on the front of his jeans as he struggled to his feet, head spinning. When his stomach suddenly fisted, he dropped his hands to his knees and clenched his eyes until it settled. He was slow when he retrieved his hat and straightened again. He massaged his pulsing temples as he squinted into the misty field. Joren Marshel’s land.

He was almost home.

Details of the night were sketchy after a point, but he recalled whiskey, losing at poker, and screwing a piece of Southie trash and the whore at the same time.

Did the occasion proud. The cracks in his lips stung as he grinned.

Replacing his hat, he started the short walk home.

Damon and Etana Walden had taken a long time to die—both long outlasted Jake’s parents. Butch had been dead for seven years, and his mother, nothing but a faceless, blonde smile that’d left when he was hardly more than a baby. She was likely dead too, maybe without a marker for her grave. He wouldn’t be surprised if Butch had put her there.

But Jake had reaped a realistic lesson from his parents and had prospered as a result. The Freak would be different. His parents had coddled him. Real life would kick him in the ass.

Do it myself when I get the chance. A harsh grunting startled him. When Jake realized it was his own chuckle, he broke into a howl that spooked a crow from a nearby post.

The thought cheered him, along with the anticipation of a cool draft and his feather mattress, and he felt much better by the time he crossed the bridge to his property. He quickened his step, leaping the step to the side porch and yanking the door open. It slammed behind him as he went straight to the keg to down a pint.

He had a special base fashioned for it after his father’s death—his first act as a new homeowner. Sighing, he drew another. He never regretted it.

It was his favorite piece of furniture, after his bed.

He settled at the kitchen table to yank the muddy boots from his feet. They dropped with two thuds on the bare wood floor. He threw his hat at the coat rack. It sailed the air, missing the hook and settling against the floorboard.

The funeral was entertaining—the boy, stone featured. Jake’s snicker echoed over the flare of his match as he lit a cigarette and took a long soothing drag. The Freak’s terror was obvious, wafting from him like the stench of a dead animal.

He had no one to defend him anymore and knew it. The knowledge was a warm buzz over Jake’s exhausted body.

When his eyes began to drift, he snapped his head straight and teetered to his feet to stumble to the bedroom. He steadied himself at the edge of the bed, staring at his sleeping wife. Lust stirred in his belly. She was the finest looking woman in the valley—besides Mara, but whores didn’t count.

A wife was needed for a son. He’d traveled far to find one good enough to carry his.

He enjoyed other men wanting her. He caught them all the time, tongues wagging, coveting what was his. Knowing they’d never have her . . .

But her best quality was her training. Her father had been serious in it. She’d known the whip young, though he was careful not to mark her. She cooked, served, cleaned and obeyed. She knew how to tend to young ones. And when she gave cause, Jake’s action was swift and her submission, immediate.

She rarely made the mistake twice.

And she knew how to please him. He’d taught her that himself. The sweet memory excited him, and his hand idled to his stirring shaft, but he lacked the energy to bother. He slipped his jeans from his hips and tossed his shirt to the floor.

The sheets were far too inviting and cool as he slipped inside them. He moaned, snuggling into the fresh smell of his pillowcase.

He drifted into sleep with the vision of the whore, spread and welcoming him.

***

CHAPTER 2

Tripping on an exposed root, he stumbled into a pine. His knuckles rammed into rough bark, gouging a chunk from his flesh as the buckets he carried swung into the trunk with a loud slap.

He hissed and sucked his breath through clenched teeth as warm milk splashed the rim and poured into the bleeding gash.

Righting his feet, he pushed from the tree and settled the pails on the ground to assess the piece of skin hanging loosely from his knuckle. Blood blended with the milk and dripped pink from his wrist.

Aron pulled a worn handkerchief from his rear pocket and carefully wrapped the wound. Five weeks had passed since he’d buried his father and he still wasn’t sleeping.

It was making him clumsy.

Judging from the way the sun was heating—it was past time to leave. He took two buckets of milk into the cabin and put them in the cold storage then dropped the other two in the in the cart on the way to his workshop to bandage his wound and gather some pieces for trade.

Soon a small mound of food containers, tableware and furniture filled the back of the wagon. After he’d secured it, he double-checked everything. He was still stalling. He’d already put off the supply trip for too long.

But they didn’t say that habits died hard for no good reason.

Still, by definition, even procrastinators eventually finish whatever it is they’ve been putting off. When he’d realized the feed for the chickens and pigs wouldn’t last another day, he’d made the short walk to Kreiger’s to arrange a trade. Kreiger would haul it over following the afternoon meal. Squinting blue-green eyes, Aron judged the sun in the eastern sky—he had just over five hours to complete his dreaded task.

He whispered in Ham’s ear as he hitched him to the cart. Just a quick trip to town, buddy.

He said it to convince himself more than the horse, but Ham probably wasn’t anymore persuaded as he nuzzled Aron’s pocket for the treat hidden there. Aron grinned and gave him the half apple with a quick pat on his flank. Hauling his tall frame onto the bench, he covered his head with a wide brimmed hat and eased the mustang into an easy trot.

His parents’ property, now his, was the plot farthest north in Long Valley. Largely uncultivated and surrounded by trees, it was arranged primarily on the hillside with lower pastures on the river. It was good land, if somewhat far from town, and only one of two properties with acreage on both the hill and lowland sides of the valley.

As his actual homestead fell fully on the hillside, he was considered a Hill person. He supposed it was an advantage, the only he might have, as River people were considered lower class. Their homes, situated in the low-lying country on the west and south of the valley, regularly flooded and were constructed on stilts to accommodate. Eventually, the posts would rot from beneath them, and the River people would gather, build a new base, and literally move the existing cabin on a system of flat wagons.

It was a sight to see.

Visiting them often required some wading. The Hill people thought them uncivilized. The Southies, as they were called because most lived in the south end of the valley, were avoided by proper folk during the week and collected for on Sundays.

In comparison, Aron was wealthy—his holdings would give him some respect.

As Aron’s wagon cleared his property line, the valley widened into a patchwork of color and texture with a scattering of trees that thickened into groves along the banks of the water. Two roads snaked the quilted landscape, one following the river and the other, about a mile to the east, forging a direct path into town. His was the only homestead before the two met. He stayed left as he passed the junction, choosing the faster East road. The morning breeze still held the cool of the night, but by the time he returned it would be muggy. What do you say we take the River Road home, Ham? Have a nice break at the water hole . . . hmm?

The horse snorted an agreement, lurching forward as the cart caught a small ridge. The five-mile trip would be a chore on a sultry afternoon loaded with supplies. But the better he provisioned himself, the longer he could put off the next trip.

Trading used to fall to his father. Aron was there to help load and unload, but the haggling was left to Damon. On the rare occasion he faced a neighbor in negotiation, Aron broke into an icy sweat, cheeks flushed and palms clammy. He stuttered, giving the impression he was stupid, and always made a bad trade.

It wasn’t skill or judgment impairing him. He was simply uncomfortable and allowed them to take advantage—anything to extricate him self from the tension.

His parents never said anything. They praised him, complimented his selections, but he knew the trade was bad.

It made it worse that they pretended.

More obvious that he wasn’t enough on his own.

But it made them feel better, so he went along. Pretense layered on pretense can mimic truth. It helped his parents to imagine his deformity didn’t change things.

He didn’t have to act anymore.

It did make it easier—especially in his new reality.

These days he felt almost anesthetized, numb to the buzz surrounding him. It started quietly, gradually shadowing his loneliness, sapping the little joy he’d still found in his work. Its advance so subtle, he didn’t notice it.

But recently he realized he simply lacked the energy to bother. His idleness wasn’t lazy—he just didn’t care.

***

The town square consisted of three structures clustered in an obtuse triangle. As a kid he’d wondered why they called it a square. When he’d asked, Damon had laughed that the Town Triangle wasn’t square enough for Long Valley. It became a private joke.

Tana darling, we’re off to the Town Triangle, he’d shout, winking at Aron.

Aron would wink back and they’d share a laugh. He grew out of the routine, but there were always others.

He had many good memories of his father who’d introduced him to his two passions—carpentry and literature. His talent with wood had come innately and the appetite for reading through the love of it—first as he listened to his father and then as the storyteller.

It was a habit they never grew from.

Thinking of it reminded him of that last day. But it seemed as though his thoughts always found a way back to his parents—more accurately, how they were now gone. Even though it didn’t evoke the raw emotion of those first weeks, he still found it a shock to his system, like he almost expected he might still wake to find it all a dream.

It was busy in the Square this morning, common for the clement months when cooler temperatures meant more pleasant trading conditions. With years of activity, the foliage had long disappeared. Worn and dusty, there was little shade. In the height of summer, even the shacks and lean-tos provided little relief from the heat.

Standing below one of the sagging roofs, Aron could already feel the glow of the sun heating the air. He watched people mingle. Clustered in small groups and twosomes, they gathered around shacks and wagons—men in the main area and women, adjacent. Aron looked on with curiosity, as did most of those in the Square, when he saw one of the Marshel twins haul a large, rusted object to the smithy.

Whatever it was, it was big. Aron thought it might be a door of a kind. A very unusual find, as most everything of value from the Time Before had been melted down long ago. Marhsel would get a good trade for it.

Bits and pieces of conversation drifted, speculating on both the identity and value of the ancient object, and it wasn’t until the spectacle was removed from sight that trading resumed.

Aron was arranged facing the tavern where his neighbors met to gossip, drink and eat. He’d been there only three times himself, each a Gathering after a Telling.

The church was to his right. It was a new chapel—the old structure torn down only the previous summer. Reverend Karas had spent months supervising the new construction. At the request of his mother, Aron had volunteered labor.

It was the minister’s dream that the chapel with its pointed steeple and sturdy bell be the focal point of the Square. But the eye would always be drawn to the two rusted silos towering over it. Relics of the Time Before, they were still used for grain storage during the winter months. And even as they depended on them, most said they should be torn down. They’re symbols of our affront to God.

As much as they liked to raise the topic, nothing was ever done. And after the first frost, there were always lines for storage and recorded deposits.

But winter seemed far away on this beautiful day. Squinting at the yellow orb again, Aron adjusted his hat for the changing angle. It seemed that those who would come to him had already done so. He’d seek out the rest and get back on the road.

Before he could act, he noticed Lefty exit the saloon and walk toward him. Lefty was direct in his approach, clearly after something and studied his feet as he neared. A common occurrence. People examined anything to avoid Aron’s eyes and his disfigurement.

Of course, the awkwardness only increased the awareness of it. And, in some cases, he was quite sure that was the intention—though certainly not with Lefty, who was as well intentioned as they came.

Aron. Lefty’s head momentarily bobbed from his feet. I been waiting to see you in town since . . . well, since Damon passed. It’s a shame about him and yer Ma, too. I’m real sorry.

Aron nodded. Thanks.

He waited for him to continue, focusing on his feet as well. It always seemed the easiest response.

I’ve been running real short on beer mugs, hell, when it’s busy . . . Anyway, I was hoping you might have more of the ones you made me a couple years back. He glanced behind him. But I don’t see ‘em.

Aron surveyed the items in the cart. I have a few back at the farm. I’m not sure how many—Three or four, I think. How many you need?

A dozen, I guess. Lefty scratched his head with his one arm. Anything you got, sure would help.

The ones at the farm would be the best I could do right away. He rocked back on his heels, calculating the time it would take to cut, treat and carve the wood for nine more. They both studied their feet again.

I could have the rest in four or five days.

Two grown men having a discussion with the leather on their feet, his mother’s voice chided gently. The back of his neck pricked in goose flesh. For just a moment, he felt her as if she stood right next to him.

It passed quickly, leaving Aron disoriented. He mentally shook his head and tried to return his focus to Lefty, but was having difficulty paying attention. Lately, his thoughts seemed to have a mind of their own.

I’ll have the Marshel boy come by the farm this afternoon and pick up what you got. . .

What’s Lefty’s real name? Aron had never known him as anything else. A long time ago, Lefty’s parents had owned the spread just southwest of Aron’s property. They died when Aron was very young. He had a vague picture of them in his mind, but little else. Sometime after, Lefty relocated to the tavern and Kreiger took over the property.

Damon had told him Lefty lost his arm in a hunting accident. Deep in the mountains, he was impaled with an arrow, and infection set in before they could get him to old Doc Synan. To save his life, they’d amputated. Apparently, he became ‘Lefty’ thereafter.

Sometimes, Aron felt a kinship with him. From time to time, he saw kids staring at Lefty’s empty sleeve with the same morbid fascination they directed at him. But at least, Lefty’s affliction was due to tragedy. Lefty was born the same as the rest. Aron had been different from birth. ‘Different’ was the way his mother liked to refer to it—or special. You’ve been given a special gift, she would say. But others didn’t share her sensibilities—unease, fear, even hatred, was more accurate.

. . . Jake wants to use his credit with you to pay for the rest, Lefty finished.

The reference to Mallory snapped Aron back from his thoughts. No one had more hatred for him than Jakob. What?

Like I said, Jake and his buddies got carried away—busted up a few things. So he promised the twins he’d cover all four chairs to keep their Pa in the dark . . .

Aron had missed the mention of the chairs and turned back to his cart to unload them.

I guess you owe him anyway, leastaways, that’s what he says . . . said to give me what I need and he’d call it even.

Aron was pretty certain Lefty knew there was no credit, but Mallory pretty much got what he wanted. He earned the treatment by being the largest property owner in the settlement, which he inherited from his father’s father, along with blood connection to the original family that settled the region generations earlier.

These days, his was the black sheep of the royal families for the near complete disregard he displayed for all things respected. Money and power the obvious exceptions.

Aron had just settled the last chair when Lefty’s eyes lit on something behind him. Here he comes now. Good deal, you can settle directly . . .

Aron’s grip slipped, the chair dropping and tipping to its side. Rubbing his palms on his shirt, he felt the rapid thump of his heart. He tried to slow his breathing, but felt as if the oxygen had left the air. A metallic taste filled his mouth and his vision dimmed. He stumbled, then bent to right the chair.

Jakob’s booted feet blurred into Aron’s vision and he felt a surge of heat on his back. Lefty mumbled in the distance, voice hollow, as if he stood in a large empty room with the sound echoing the walls. Aron’s own harsh breathing and rushing blood roared against his ears.

Just breathe, breathe . . .

The back of his shirt suddenly yanked him up, the motion sucking him back into the bustle of the Square.

Chair too heavy for you, boy?

Ya okay? Lefty questioned the top of Aron’s head. He looks a might pasty.

He’s always pasty, Jakob said.

Aron’s tongue seemed huge for his mouth. I’m f- f- fine, he said. It’s j-just th-th . . . it’s hot. Aron used his handkerchief to dab at the sweat rolling over his forehead.

Jakob’s amber stare bore into him. Unlike others, Jake always looked him in the eye.

Aron shuddered, chilled by the icy gaze. His reaction was surprising. Not that it was unusual—panic generally plagued him when Jakob was around. But with Aron’s recent numbness, any feeling was shocking. The strong response was bewildering, but he supposed procrastination wasn’t the only habit hard to break.

And Jakob Mallory had tormented him as long as he could remember. When he was ten, Aron grew angry enough to fight back. Jake must have been about fifteen, and much bigger.

He’d beaten him unconscious. That’s when the fear set in. He’d even peed his pants every time he saw Jakob for a while following the incident.

I guess I’ll be getting on then. I’ll send Isac for the mugs this afternoon. Lefty slid all four chairs on his arm, hastening away with them clacking against each other. Aron watched him stumble off, wishing he could go along with him.

Where you been hiding, boy? A string of spit mixed with chew spurted between his clenched teeth. It landed on the top of Aron’s boot. Burrowing in your little hole, crying for your mama and daddy?

Aron had long ago discovered his best defense against Jakob was silence. Ignoring him, he turned to collect items he needed to trade.

Don’t be running off. Jakob gripped his arm.

I have t-t- trades to m-make. Quit your damn stuttering!

Jakob paused and rifled through his pockets, pulling out a new chunk of tobacco. He shoved it in his mouth and another greasy string of spit, splattered next to the first. Spittle rolled down Jakob’s chin and dripped onto his shirt.

Raising his gaze, Aron found Jakob sneering at him. Your mama didn’t teach you proper manners, boy.

Jakob snatched the forgotten handkerchief from Aron’s clenched fingers and mopped his shirt and chin. Are you sc-sc-scared I’m gonna hurt you, mama’s boy?

Jakob shoved the stained hanky back into Aron’s fist, clenching it tightly, spreading the sticky fluid onto Aron’s trembling fingers. The gouge in Aron’s knuckle burned beneath his grip. Aron strained to break free, feeling his face redden with the effort, but Jake’s hold didn’t break. He leaned in, his rank breath, engulfing. I will one day—I promise you that.

Jakob leaned back and slapped Aron on the face, twice—a pat, with a bit too much force. I won’t be owin’ you for what you give to Lefty, boy.

Take what you want. Just leave me the hell alone.

I’ve enjoyed doing business. Not that I need permission. I take what I want. He grabbed a set of mixing bowls. These make good targets.

He walked backward. Now, you run on home to your mama and daddy. Jakob chuckled. Oh, I forgot, you’re all by your little self, ain’t ya? Maybe you should go whimper to one of your fat cows. Jakob snorted. I’d get real used to that, cuz there ain’t no woman gonna take your mama’s place.

With that, he turned and swaggered into the saloon.

It took Aron awhile to stop staring at the slow rock of the door and ease his grip on the soiled cloth. He found a clean corner to scrub the spit from his hand and the stain from his boot.

His knuckle throbbed and fresh blood spread under the bandage, but it would keep until he made it home.

Locating a supply of matches, he lit the hanky and watched the flames take hold. Fire burned with the resentment churning inside—the blaze licking greedily through the material and his anger.

When it threatened his fingers, he dropped the cloth and watched until all that remained was a small pile of black ash. He crushed it into the dust of the Square, until nothing was left but a hazy, black smudge. Then he hastened to finish his commerce.

***

Merry was bent over the stove when he arrived home. The aroma of stew filled the kitchen. Jake noted the order—the worn surfaces wiped clean, the floor swept and scrubbed, the cook stove free of drippings, and it pleased him.

He whistled as he hung his hat and, tossing the wooden bowls on the table, took his place at the head. By the time his back touched his seat, a large helping of steaming beef stew sat in front of him. He turned to smile at his wife, and frowned at the blood-spattered apron tied over her faded dress and the strands of loose, blonde hair plastered to her face. Do I need to tell you again what I expect of my wife?

I cleaned up before you come home, Jakob, she apologized. But then Mr. Herschel came and said you sent him for a quarter of that side, and I had to get all bloodied again . . .

You shoulda done it already, Merry. He pinned her with his eyes and she lowered her gaze. If you’d been working, ita been done yesterday.

You’re right, Jakob. Merry bit her lip. I’m sorry—I’m so new to it, I’m afraid of making mistakes.

You better learn quick. Soon you’re gonna have work in the fields, I can’t barter all that off—and the butcherin’ can’t fall behind.

Yes, Jakob.

If you can’t get your chores done, get your lazy ass up earlier. I didn’t marry a piece of Southie trash. Satisfied he had made his point, Jake dug into his stew. Now get me a beer and clean yourself up. You ain’t sittin’ across from me like that.

Merry hesitated.

Well, why aren’t you gettin’ my pint?

Shifting her weight, she chewed her lip again. You drank the last this morning, Jakob . . . you were gonna pick up more?

So, now I gotta do the damn woman’s work too?

No Jakob, it’s just that you said—

I didn’t say nothin’. It’s a damn good thing I plan for your ignorance. Jake pointed with his fork, flipping broth across the weathered floor. "I stashed an extra keg in the river, in the lower hole. Run and get it. But I won’t take up for you again, so don’t get used to it.

If I didn’t have such a fine day, you’d get the strap. He stopped her as she turned to follow his instructions. Run along—and pick three kegs up tomorrow, ya hear?

Yes, Jakob

Best you start thinkin’ bout how you’re gonna keep up with things ‘round here when we have a young ‘un. he said to her retreating back, shoveling more stew into his mouth. And clean up for hell’s sake.

Turning, she walked to the door, grabbing the knob just as a pounding shook it. Jumping back, she turned toward him.

Well, go on. It ain’t gonna open itself now.

She ran her hands quickly over her hair then smoothed them down her apron. With a polite smile, she opened the door. Evening, Sully.

Well, move aside and let the man in, Jake yelled. Come on in, you sorry bastard.

Sully hurried in with a grin on his face. It’s shameful I gots to jump in on yer supper, Jake, Sully yelled back, but seeing as how it’s yer doin,’ Lizzie kicked me out. I figure you owed me.

Well shit, Sul. It ain’t my fault you can’t keep your wife in her place. Jake snickered. She on a snit about you gettin’ home late?

Seems I forgot I was ta help takin’ the baby into the Docs. He shook his head and chuckled.

Jake scratched at his scalp with the prongs of his fork. You ask me, Sul, you need to take charge of that woman. But you can supper here. Get him a bowl, Merry.

Merry stood motionless by the door. . . . I wasn’t expectin’ company, Jakob. I’m afraid I didn’t make near enough.

Sully will have your share.

Merry opened her mouth and closed it just as quick, only to gnaw her lip again.

Dish Sul some stew before he starves to death, woman, Jake snarled. And get me more while yer at it.

She soon placed two heaping bowls in front of them. Once again, she headed for