Charlie looked up as the pair headed down the cellar stairs. “What’s wrong?”
“An accident—bad dream.” He was annoyed by his father’s sporadic concern. “You want to help her?”
Their father shook his head. “You’re so eager to be the man of the house—you go right ahead and be him.”
Noah felt his face turning red. He opened his mouth to launch a cutting diatribe but thought better.
They stood in the basement next to the washing machine. Moisture made the gown cling to Abigail’s skin, and Noah had to help her pull it over her head. He threw the nightgown into the washing machine before rooting through the contents of the dryer for something clean to wear.
“Here, put these on,” Noah said handing her new underwear and his old Limp Bizkit t-shirt.
“It’ll get ruined,” she protested.
Noah chuckled. “It was ruined the moment it was printed.”
The shirt came all the way down to her knees. Noah turned his head while she pulled off her underwear and swapped them for the clean pair. As she pulled them up to her waist, she hissed in pain.
He looked at her curiously. “Are you hurt?”
Abigail nodded.
Noah’s eyes darted around the room. “Is it painful,” he swallowed uncomfortably and tilted his head toward the floor, “down there?”
“A little.”
“What does it feel like?”
“It stings.”
Noah thought for a moment. “You might have a urinary tract infection. Mom used to get them sometimes.”
It looked as if Abigail were about to burst into tears.
“No, no, don’t panic,” he said waving his hands in front of her. “It’s not a big deal. Women get them all the time—guys too sometimes.”
“What do I do?”
“I’ll get you some antibiotics on our next run. Pills—they’ll fix it. For now, you’re just going to have to try and put up with it.” He paused, considering what else to do. “Why don’t you go wait in the bathroom and I’ll draw you a bath. That should help. I’ll change your sheets in the meantime.”
After his little sister had gone upstairs, Noah shook his head in frustration. This was something his mother should have been there to handle. He poured a half-cup of detergent into the washing machine, gently closed the lid, and then started the wash cycle.
Why am I the only person in this family who can keep it together? He thought.
It didn't happen that day or the next, but over the course of the week, Charlie started accompanying his son outside again. He didn’t go far at first—only several feet from the front door—but after a few days he moved out into the yard, and then into the backyard, and then out into the woods. Noah could hardly believe it.
Almost two weeks had passed before they encountered a corpse. The blue overalls that hung from one of his shoulders were spotted with white paint and blood. It stood with its back to them, staring into the branches of a rotting Dutch elm tree.
Probably after a squirrel, Noah figured.
He measured his old man’s reaction.
Charlie stood frozen, tightly gripping his shovel. Noah held out the machete and nodded to his father, but Charlie was oblivious. He was breathing heavily, transfixed on the corpse. Noah shook his father’s shoulder. The old man snapped out of it. He looked at his son with wide eyes, the color drained from his face. Noah nodded to him more emphatically this time and, after a moment's hesitation, his father replied in kind, exchanging the shovel for his son’s weapon.
Charlie looked down at the cutting tool he had once used to carve paths through the woods for his son, but now it seemed more like an alien artifact. Noah waited a moment, and when it appeared that his father couldn’t muster the nerve, he took a step toward the corpse. Just then Charlie put his arm out in front of him. He closed his eyes, and in one deep breath the decision was made.
Charlie sprinted. The corpse turned at the sound of rapid footsteps approaching. Its jaw slowly lowered in an attempt to moan, but before it could make a sound Charlie swung the machete at its maggot-riddled head with such force that its body spun around in a circle before falling limp to the ground.
Charlie stood over his kill, panting. Noah walked up beside him and examined his father's handiwork.
“I told you I could do it,” he declared bitterly as he traded the machete back for his shovel. His hands shook with adrenaline. “Tomorrow. He goes.”
Noah stared at the stiff body beside his feet as his father walked back toward the house with a sense of urgency. “He goes,” he said to himself.
IV
Noah tried to break it to him gently, but it was no use.
“You turn me out, you’re gonna kill me,” he said.
“Aren’t you worried about your own family?” asked Noah.
“Would you want to go back to a father who used to beat on you whenever he got drunk? Or a brother who broke your arm when he was tweaked out on meth? My fourteen-year-old sister miscarried last year—we still don’t know which one of my brothers did it to her.”
Noah swallowed. Rumors about the Bartletts had swirled around school ever since he could remember, but apparently reality had greatly exceeded the legends.
Alvin stared into space. “Christ, you should have seen what dad did to Billy when he found out,” Alvin trailed off, and then looked at Noah curiously.
“It’s a different world, Al,” said Noah abruptly. “People need each other now more than ever. Besides, it’s out of my hands.”
“I’ll bet it is,” he said looking toward the living room. He could feel Charlie sitting silently in his recliner staring into oblivion. Alvin lowered his voice. “You’d rather have him around than me? I
