He put the pot on the stove and stirred till the fat went soft. The thick smell of gamey meat filled the kitchen, clinging to his skin, his hair. This is so fucked, he thought, staring into it. Was it supposed to taste good, or was it straight-up punishment? Mark had not offered any insight; he’d simply handed him the bag. Shoulda just asked his mom, Ré thought. She’d have known what to do.
Réal had cooked hundreds of meals, thousands maybe. He was always thinking about food, making sure his brothers had enough. But he’d never thought twice before about what it meant to eat it. He’d never considered the trade-off the animal had made, its life for his. Right now, it felt like a pretty crappy bargain for the bear.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember the words he’d heard his aunties say so many times. “Gitchi-Manidoo,” he started, the name of the Creator coming awkwardly off his tongue. Of his three languages, this one was most like a newborn animal standing on skinny legs. “Gigagwejimin ji-zhawendaman maanda miijim, zhawenimishin gaye niin noongo.” Each syllable tick-tocked out in a slow beat—I ask you to bless this food and to bless me today.
“Miigwech,” he said. “Thank you. To this good thing that gave up its life here upon the earth, so that I can live. Miigwech, Gitchi-Manidoo, miigwech.”
He opened his eyes and stared into the liquid fat, but he didn’t feel any better, despite the prayer. He lifted the inner pot from the hot water and poured the grease back into the jar, raising it to the sunlight from the kitchen window. Viscous, amber yellow, sliding against the glass in long fingers. “Miigwech,” he said again, frowning, and tipped the jar to his lips.
It had been weeks since he’d last eaten anything that could think and feel. That might miss its time on earth. He held his nose and squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to breathe the animal stench. He tried not to see the eyes and snout of the bear, the bloody paws, the open belly, organs all pulled out. The butchery of such a mighty thing.
He tried not to see Shaun, lying in the glow of the arc light.
The grease hit his tongue—hot and slimy, coating his teeth and numbing his gums. His throat closed reflexively, gagging fat back up into the jar, but he tipped his head again and forced it down, gulping even as his body fought to reject it.
Fat leaked from the corners of his mouth, running warm down his chin and neck, spattering the counter. His toes curled against the tiles, his fingers into a fist, as he slugged it back, remembering Shaun’s busted face, his jaw ripped apart, blond hair matted with blood. Shirt torn, belly torn, tubes of entrails pulled out, soft, sweet organs chewed away.
The taste of blood in his teeth.
He was a sinner. A killer. Deep down, he knew exactly what he’d done, even if he couldn’t remember doing it. There was no other explanation for Shaun being as fucked up as that. If Ré hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he might never have believed a human body could look like that, twisted, butchered, broken open and just wrong.
It was all Black Chuck. He’d known his whole life this was coming.
The thing you feared the most always heard your call.
Réal dropped the empty jar and doubled over the sink, nearly puking it all back up the second he’d got it down.
Salt and slime coated his esophagus, acid sawing through him on a rusty edge. His stomach tightened, pressing everything up into the basket of his ribs. The veins of his neck and arms stood out. His muscles shivered and flexed. Ropes of spit spilled into the sink. He coughed for air, tongue hanging so far out it was like it was trying to grow legs and run away.
Tears stung his eyes. He knew he deserved all this and much, much worse, but he cried for himself anyway. He swayed and his knees gave, and he slid to the floor in front of the sink, reedy sobs scraping through his chest. Please, God, he begged. Please, Gitchi-Manidoo, let this be over, just let this be the end.
I never meant to hurt anyone.
I’m so sorry, Shaun. I’m so, so fucking sorry.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes till white sparks shot through the black, his chin dripping fat and spit and tears.
Despite his belly full of grease, he felt emptier than ever.
He knew this was nowhere near enough for what he’d done. He knew he’d never truly be absolved. But if this held the demon at bay—if it kept everyone else he loved safe from him—then at least he stood on the road to forgiveness.
Now all that was left was to walk it.
23
E
The doctor prodded Evie’s belly, making soft noises of concern. “Have you been to see anyone else yet?” she asked. “Your family doctor maybe?”
“No,” Evie replied.
“I see.” Something fluttered across the doctor’s face, but she didn’t ask Evie why she hadn’t seen her own doctor, and she didn’t chew her out for not coming to this clinic sooner. “And what are your plans here? Are you going to follow through with this pregnancy?”
“Um,” Evie whispered, squeezing the examination table under her. “Yes?”
“Okay,” the doctor said gently. Everything about her was soft and nonthreatening, Evie noticed, even her voice. That was good. Evie wasn’t sure she could handle it if the doctors at this clinic were anything but fairy godmothers. “And do you plan to keep this child, or would you like to talk about other options, such as adoption?”
“I, uh, I really don’t know yet,” Evie said, swallowing.
