Betsy put her hands out, hoping to calm the animal, but its cloven hooves thundered across the vinyl flooring as it closed the ten feet separating them. Betsy saw twin images of herself reflected in the goat's oddly shaped pupils. Her mouth was open, and she may have been screaming, and her hair hung in wild, slick ropes around her face. She didn't have time to step away even if she could have made her legs move.
The goat hit her low, its head just above her womanly region, driving into her abdomen. The nubs of the horns pierced her like fat, dull nails, not sharp enough to penetrate but packing plenty of hurt. The unexpected force of the assault threw her off-balance, and she felt herself falling backward. The kitchen ceiling spun crazily for half a heartbeat, and she saw the flickering fluorescent light, the copper bottoms of pans arranged on pegs over the sink, the swirling patterns in the gypsum finish above.
Then she was falling and the world exploded in sparks, and she thought maybe the pie filling had leaked onto the element. As she slid into the inky, charred darkness, the smell of warm sweet potatoes settled around her like the breath of a well-fed baby.
'Tie's done," she said. Her eyelids fluttered and then fell still.
"Honey, what are you doing?"
Katy turned away from the squash casserole she was making. Her hands stank of onions. Little jars and bags of spices were strewn across the counter: basil, pepper, dill weed, cumin. Eggshells lay in the bottom of the sink, slick and jagged. The clock on the wall read ten after six.
"I'm making dinner," she said.
"I hate casseroles." Gordon took off his tweed jacket and folded it over his arm.
"I found the recipe in the cabinet. I thought…" Katy brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Her face was flushed.
"Where did you get that dress?"
She looked down and found herself in a dress she'd never seen before. It had an autumnal print and was a little more frilly and feminine than the austere styles Katy preferred. The dress was dusty but it fit her body as if it had been tailored. Why was she wearing it to cook?
"It was in the closet, I think. Must have been something I packed years ago and came across while I was cleaning."
"You look nice." Gordon went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Merlot. He didn't stop to kiss her as he passed. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat at the butcher block table that stood in one corner and served as a stand for several houseplants.
"About this morning," Katy said. She focused on slicing a red onion. Any excuse for tears was welcome.
"Let's not talk about it."
"We have to, honey. We're married."
"I lost control. It won't happen again."
Katy slammed down the knife. "I want it to happen again. But I don't want it to be cold and strange."
If only Gordon would stand up and come to her, take her in his arms, nuzzle her neck, and make stupid promises, she would have accepted his earlier behavior. She even would have defended it. After all, Katy had her own problems. She wasn't exactly coming into the marriage as a virgin.
"Where's Jett?" Gordon asked.
"Jett?" Katy looked down at the raw food and spices. Jett was probably in her room studying. She had walked through the front door hours ago. Katy should have checked on her, or at least called up the stairs to make sure her daughter knew she was around. That was Katy's part of the deal. She would be an involved parent while trusting Jett to stay away from drugs and giving her daughter some breathing room.
"She's in her room," Katy said.
"I have a job for her."
"About the eggs," Katy said.
"Forget it I'll have Odus do the farm chores from now on. It wasn't fair for me to expect you to take on extra work. You have enough to do here in the house."
In this house that seemed more like a prison. Katy had to think back to remember the last time she'd left the house. Grocery shopping, three days ago. Most of her time in the house was spent in the kitchen, and she'd never liked cooking before. Now she was making casseroles.
"How was your day at the college?" It was the kind of thing a normal wife would ask, and she wanted very much to be a normal wife.
"Long," he said, then finished his glass of wine. "Try telling that idiot Graybeal that Methodists weren't the only denomination to use circuit-riding preachers."
"Graybeal? He's the dean, isn't he?"
"Yes, but you would think he's lord of the fiefdom to see him swagger around, whipping out his shriveled intellectual dingus."
"He's probably just jealous because of your book."
"No, he thinks foot washing belongs to the realm of human sacrifice and snake handling. Anything that's not Hindu, Buddhist, or Taoist is all lumped together under 'God worship.' "
Katy stared down at the yellow grue of the casserole. Should she add an extra quarter of a stick of butter? "I thought 'God worship' was the point."
"Graybeal thinks Christianity is a cult. A popular one, to be sure, but a cult nonetheless." He was falling into lecture mode. His voice rose slightly in pitch, the words carefully enunciated.
Katy was pleased that he was spending time with her instead of hiding away in the study, but she wanted to move the subject over to something a little closer to home. "What job did you have for Jett?"
"I want her to feed the goats."
"I thought Odus was going to do the farm chores."
"I mean tonight. Odus doesn't have a phone. I'll probably have to drive over to bis place tomorrow, or catch up with him at the general store."
Katy wiped her hands on the dish towel that hung from the oven handle. "I'll go get her."
"No, you're busy." His upper lip curled a little, as if he had smelled an unpleasant odor.
"I thought you'd like this," Katy said. "It's your family recipe."
"I hate onions," he said. "They give me indigestion."
Such was marriage. You didn't learn the important things until after the knot was already tied. If you tried to be respectful and cautious, you didn't jump into the sack with the guy you were going to marry until the vows were made. At least not the second time around. You figured there would be kinks and quirks to sort out, but older people were wiser and more experienced. Or maybe just slower to admit mistakes. Gordon rinsed his wineglass and left the room. "I'll talk to her." "Be polite," Katy said. "She's trying, you know." Gordon didn't answer. Katy opened the refrigerator and took out a pint of heavy cream. She had never bought cream in her life, though she had picked some up at the grocery store Tuesday. It was almost as if she knew she would need it for the recipe she'd found this afternoon.
Odus eased his truck into the gravel lot of Solom Free Will Baptist Church, parking beside the Ford F-150 driven by Mose Eldreth. Most likely the preacher was taking on an inside chore, mending a loose rail or patching the metal flue that carried away smoke from the woodstove. A dim glow leaked from the open door, framing the church's windows against the night sky. Odus cast an uneasy glance in the direction of Harmon Smith's grave, but the white marker looked no different from the others that gleamed under the starlight.
Odus didn't hold much stock with Free Will preachers, but at least Preacher Mose was local. Preacher Mose knew the area history and, like most of the people who grew up in Solom, he'd heard about Harmon Smith. After all, Harmon had a headstone in the Free Will cemetery. That didn't mean the preacher would talk to Odus about it. Like Sarah Jeffers, most people in those parts didn't want to know too much about the past.
Odus went up the steps and knocked on the door. "You in, Preacher?"