Susan tried to find her voice.
“Would you like some help with the table?” she asked faintly.
She might have suggested diving headfirst into the well for the look Liyla’s mother gave her. Liyla wagged a finger.
“Nobody touches the food before supper,” she told Susan.
A short time later, Liyla’s father came home. He was a stringy, stoop-shouldered man with a face that looked sunburned with a recent waxing. On either side of his nose, his jaw and cheekbones jutted out as if some invisible hand had grabbed hold of his face and pulled. Liyla’s mother met him outside and must have explained the situation, because he only stared at the children as he took his place at the table.
Liyla ran and dragged in some of the dusty sawhorses from the yard.
“You all sit here,” she said.
She grinned as they perched themselves on the planks.
“Oh, me! What a party this is, right?”
No one set out any plates. Or forks or knives or napkins. The children were given a tin cup of water to share. They teetered uncomfortably on their makeshift seats as Liyla’s mother laid a wooden platter before her husband. It was piled with a large loaf of bread and the unfortunate chickens. The man sniffed at it and nodded, pleased.
As they all watched, Liyla’s father yanked the platter close to him, snatched a chicken, and thrust it into his mouth. Next to Susan, Jean’s jaw dropped. The man chewed the way the neighborhood dogs did, snapping chicken breasts in two with his teeth and tossing his head back to send the food down his throat. Crumbs of meat and marrow sprayed from the corners of his mouth. Susan slid her eyes over to Liyla’s mother, but the woman only watched with appreciation. Or maybe she was watching the chicken. After a minute, she reached for a piece that had fallen back to the platter. Her husband’s head came up. “Hey!” he snapped, flashing his teeth. “Wait your turn!”
She pulled back her hand as if slapped, raised her lip for a moment, then settled down, saying nothing. Susan stared at them, aghast. She caught sight of Max, who looked faintly green, and Nell, eyebrows so high on her face they disappeared beneath her bangs. Beside Liyla, Kate looked ready to crawl under the table, and Jean’s mouth was a perfect round O. Liyla herself only watched her father, licking her lips.
After another minute of tearing choice pieces from the chicken, loudly breaking bones, and swallowing, Liyla’s father nodded at his wife. She grabbed a chicken by one leg and plunged her face into it, ripping handfuls of bread with her free hand. Susan glanced at Liyla as the snap of chicken bones and the grunts of the diners filled the room. The girl only waited, leaning forward like a spectator at a race, eyes on her parents and the food.
Eventually, the woman gave a curt nod, and Liyla jumped at the serving dish. Susan watched her, at a loss.
“Well, go on! It’s your turn now!” Liyla said, chewing vigorously.
“Sss!” Liyla’s mother hissed. “No talking at the table!”
Looking at her siblings, Susan saw them frozen, waiting for her to tell them what to do next. Even Max looked dumbfounded. Gingerly, she reached for the bread. The loaf looked like it had been through an explosion. She pulled off a piece, then passed the loaf to Nell. Her sister did the same. It was lucky none of them wanted any chicken. Nothing was left of those two unfortunate birds but skin and some nasty-looking innards. The bread tasted like cotton in Susan’s mouth.
At last, Liyla’s father sat back, gave a table-shaking belch, and sighed happily.
“Good meal,” he said. “Issi, you’ve outdone yourself.”
The woman sniffed. “Genius doesn’t eat any better, I wager.”
“Sign of the future,” Liyla chimed in. “Useful is as useful does!”
The girl turned to Susan as if it were her turn to say something.
“Uh, the bread was very soft,” Susan stammered.
They looked at her, and Susan felt a flush creep up her neck. “Well, maybe we ought to get some sleep,” she said hastily. “It’s been a long day.”
No one said anything for a minute. Max was still staring at the table as if he’d just witnessed a natural disaster or a five-car pileup. She kneed him and he jumped.
“And the little girls are tired,” he said. “Really tired.”
Kate, who at home treated bedtime like a personal affront, immediately nodded. Second night in a row, Susan thought grimly.
Liyla’s mother jumped on the suggestion and hustled them behind the curtain. The girl’s unmade bed waited there, sheets half on the floor.
“Useful girl I’ve got, to give you her bed tonight,” she said.
“Useful?” Susan asked her.
The woman only nodded.
“Well . . . we’re very grateful,” Susan said.
She nudged Nell, who stood next to her.
“Yes,” her sister said. “Very.”
With a curt nod, the woman left them. Susan peeked around the curtain and saw Liyla’s father reach into a pile of broken chicken bones and miraculously produce an intact wishbone. He handed it to his daughter.
“Make it a good one now,” he said. “There’s never been a night better for wishing.”
Liyla grinned and snapped it in two, then stuck the larger half in her mouth, for sucking. Beside Susan, Nell grunted at the sight.
“Wonder what she’s wishing for,” she whispered.
Thinking of nothing good, Susan made no answer. Nell sighed and turned away, untying the blanket from her waist. She shook it out and spread it across Liyla’s mattress.
“Well, come on,” she said to the little girls.
They slipped off their shoes and climbed up onto it. The rest of them did the same until they were all bunched together on the bed.
“We’re closer than the chickens,” Max complained in a whisper.
“Yeah,” Nell said. “And look what happened to them.”
This time, the cry came in the night. From the window, the exile saw a crescent
