I knew better than to argue with him. “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t want you exposed to that kind of trash.”

  I bit the inside of my lip to keep from answering.

  “I think it’s wise for you to stay within the confines of the estate. The girl’s father has a reputation in town of being drunk and violent. I don’t want you running into trouble.” My father had a way of speaking, soft and low but always with a hint of violence just under the surface. I knew that at any moment, his temper could flare. “It upsets your mother when you run all around the countryside like a hick.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The other thing is—Atlas is no longer young. He shouldn’t be running around that way either. If you won’t stay home, he won’t either. Do you want to be responsible for his demise?”

  I didn’t think being outside was bad for him, but I bit the other side of my mouth and stayed quiet.

  “Go up and change into your dinner clothes.” He waved me away as if I were a fly at a meal.

  Relieved, I thanked him and slunk out of the study. When I reached the stairs, I took them two at a time.

  4

  Luci

  * * *

  Christmas Eve morning, I woke to the wails of my baby sister. The light through our dirty windows told me that morning had come. I turned over on my straw mat and lifted up on one elbow to peer into the cradle. Sadie’s tiny arms and legs flailed, and her face, red and furious, was scrunched up like she was in pain. Hungry. Again. I didn’t know what I would do when we ran out of milk.

  Sadie raised the volume of her cries. The wail of hunger. I scrambled upright. I’d been so tired and cold last night that I’d fallen asleep still wearing Mama’s old coat and my boots.

  Adrenaline pumping now, I opened the door of the wood stove, praying for a few burning embers. A red-hot log stared back at me. I tossed two pieces of fir into the stove and blew to get them going. Sap from one of the logs sputtered and caught fire.

  I poured milk into a pot to warm on the stove. Mrs. Moore from the dairy had told me to heat it no hotter than a person’s body temperature and to test it with my finger. Next, I took a cloth diaper from the stack. Last night, I’d washed and hung them to dry on the clothesline I’d strung from one end of the room to the other.

  My hands shook from fatigue and hunger as I picked Sadie up from the cradle and set her on the mat to change her. I wiped her clean with a rag and put it in a bucket that I would later take down to the creek to rinse. After that, I’d boil them in another pot on the stove.

  Sadie continued to scream. How Pa could sleep through the noise was beyond me. As tired as I was, the moment she started crying, I jerked awake. His snores from the bedroom told me he’d come home sometime after the last feeding around three in the morning.

  I poured the now lukewarm milk into the bottle. Finally, I lifted a furious Sadie into my arms. She calmed the moment the makeshift teat was in her mouth. I sank into the rocking chair and watched her eat. Cow’s milk couldn’t be a proper replacement for Mama’s, but what other choice did I have? I didn’t know much of anything about babies. Mama had told me that she’d feed Sadie from her breasts. The idea had disgusted me at the time. But that was months ago, back when I was still a girl. Overnight, everything had changed. I had become a mother to this helpless baby and thus no longer a child myself. There was no one else but me to save her. I’d promised Mama. God help us.

  I closed my scratchy eyes and rocked. As light as Sadie was, she felt solid and warm in my arms. She was an especially pretty baby. At least she looked that way to me. Did everyone think that about their own babies? I smoothed the fine layer of her white hair, as soft as a down feather. I’d make her a hat from one of Mama’s wool socks.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She stared up at me with her new eyes.

  A wave of love surged through me. “You couldn’t help it,” I whispered. “You didn’t ask to be born or to make Mama sick. But what am I going to do with you?”

  After she finished her bottle, I burped her, then put her back in the cradle. Satiated, she closed her eyes and fell asleep. Did she sleep too much? Was she getting enough to eat? I had no idea. Please, God, guide me. I don’t know what I’m doing.

  As advised by the storekeeper, I’d put the beans in a bowl to soak. Now, I peeked under the towel. They’d soaked up most of the water. I hoped that was what they were supposed to do. I dumped all of them into our cast-iron pot and covered them with the last of the boiled drinking water. If I remembered correctly, they’d be done by suppertime. Despite everything, we would go to bed with full stomachs on Christmas Eve.

  “Just stay here for a minute without me,” I whispered to Sadie, even though she was still sleeping and didn’t respond. I grabbed Mama’s old coat from the hook and slipped my feet into boots. Holding my breath because of the stench, I took hold of the bucket with the dirty diapers, as well as the empty one for water.

  I used the outhouse before setting out for the creek. A thin layer of snow covered the ground and crunched under my feet. My bare fingers hurt from the cold. Overhead, blue sky peeked through the trees. The day would be cold and clear. Pretty but deadly if I didn’t keep the house heated. I shivered, thinking of my tiny sister.

  Kneeling at the water’s edge, I rinsed out the dirty diapers. My hands hurt, but I kept going, squeezing each of the four cloths dry and placing them back in the bucket. I filled the bucket with enough water to cover the diapers and trudged back up the hill to the house. I’d have to make another couple of trips for additional water. Carrying two full buckets was too heavy for me. I needed to grow stronger. How did one do that?

  Sadie remained asleep, thankfully. I set the tin bucket on the stove to boil the diapers, then put another piece of wood into the stove. For a minute or two, I warmed my hands before setting out again.

  My empty stomach growled as I scooped water into the bucket and trudged back up the hill. Merry Christmas to me.

  No feeling sorry for yourself, I thought. I had milk and enough flour and beans to last at least a week. Somehow, I’d figure out a way.

  Pa and Sadie were still sleeping when I returned. I brought in more firewood and put the bucket of water on to boil. Mama had said it killed whatever could hurt us, as long as we boiled it first. I whipped up a pan of biscuits with the flour and lard and put those in the oven. By the time I was done with all that, Sadie was awake and hungry again.

  Here we go. Round two.

  The boy didn’t come all that day. He’d promised, and I knew he’d meant it, but there were circumstances outside of his control. I recognized a kindred spirit. There were demons in his life, just as there were in mine.

  Before supper, I stoked the fire to warm our shack. To my surprise, Pa didn’t go out that evening. I served us both a bowl of beans and a biscuit. We sat together at the small table to eat. He ate without saying anything other than an occasional grunt. When his bowl was empty, he said, “You did good, girl.”

  “Thanks, Pa.” Pleased by the compliment, I smiled to myself as I finished my own bowl. For a moment, I forgot the direness of our situation or what I’d learned the previous afternoon about Mama. However, when I glanced at Mama’s empty chair, it all came rushing back to me. “Have you found any work in town?”

  His eyes narrowed as he lifted his face toward me. “I don’t need work. I got my poker game. I’ve been on a winning streak.”

  “You have?” If that were true, then where were the proceeds?

  “Sure. I’d be there now, but the bar’s closed on Christmas Eve.”

  No wonder he was home. I watched him through my lashes. He wore a flannel shirt and brown pants that hid the dirt and grime. His hair had been slicked back and combed; it was greasy enough that it looked like pomade. A stubbly beard covered his face. Small hazel eyes with drooping upper lids peered back at me. “What’re you staring at?”

  “Nothing.” I turned back to my bowl, lifting the last spoonful of beans to my mouth.

  “Last night, I had a stroke a bad luck, but I’ll get back on top tomorrow,” Pa said.

  Which was it? A winning streak or a losing one?

  “Do you think you could leave a little for me each week to buy food and milk?” I asked. “Maybe after you have a good night?”

  “Little girl, you have no idea how the world works, do you?”

  “No, sir. I don’t.” I knew only that one of us needed to make some money, or we wouldn’t last until spring.

  “I’ve been thinking we ought to do something with that baby. Sell it to a rich lady or something like that.”

  My heart thudded to a dead stop. “Pa, no. She’s my sister. I promised Mama I’d take care of her.”

  “She’s no kin to me.”

  I stared into my empty bowl, trying not to cry. Think, I told myself. Come up with a reason to keep her. What would he see as a benefit to him?

  “I turned a blind eye to her comings and goings.” Pa reached into the pocket of his pants and brought out his flask, then took a swig. “But I’m not raising the baby of a whore.”

  “I’ll do it, Pa. You won’t have to worry about Sadie. But please, don’t make me send her away. I’ll do anything you want.”

  He appeared to ponder this for a moment. “Your mama was always after me for money. Nagging at me to give her what I made. She never understood I couldn’t give her what I didn’t have. Or that I had to reinvest in the business.”

  Was there any wonder she’d done what she did? She’d had me to take care of and no one she could turn to for help. I understood then exactly why she’d done what she’d done. She did it for me. I understood a little of that now that Sadie was mine. She would have done anything to keep me safe. Even the unthinkable.

  “Listen here, I can’t stop playing the game,” Pa said. “That’s not the way to be a winner. See?”

  I didn’t see, but it was best to keep that to myself.

  “The cards speak to me. They’re all I have in this cold world.” Pa took another swig from his flask. “I’ll tell you what. You can keep it, but that means you’re on your own. I’ll go my way and you go yours.”

  “Where will I go?” My voice cracked at the end of the sentence. I pressed my fingernails into the palm of my other hand.

  His eyes softened for a split second, as if he remembered I was his daughter. “What I mean is, you can stay here, but I’m not answering to you. I’ll come and go as I please.”

  How was this different than the way he’d lived with Mama?

  “You can figure out how to feed that brat and yourself too. You’re grown now. I shouldn’t have to take care of you.”

  Grown? Was twelve grown? It seemed the world had been telling me that again and again over the last few days.

  “This place was your mama’s, so it’s only right you stay here,” Pa said, as if he were a generous king bequeathing a home to a peasant. “But you’ll have to contribute to the household. You can’t get something for nothing. I’ll expect you to pay for the food we eat, since I’m letting you keep it.” He pointed toward the cradle.

  Again, how generous of the benevolent dictator.

  I studied the pattern the bean residue had left in my bowl. Was it in the shape of an angel? A hint from above that He would look after us?

  Pa shoved away from the table. “Did you hear me?”

  Before I could catch up with what was happening, he picked me up out of the chair and tossed me against the wall. I cowered as he lunged toward me. Instead of slapping me, he knocked my forehead with the heel of his hand. The back of my head slammed into the wall. I blinked as stars dotted my vision.

  “You say thank you when I give you something, you hear?” Pa asked.

  This close, I could smell the whiskey on his breath and the sour smell of his unwashed hair.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  He backed away. “Now that we have an understanding, I’m going to head out for a few hours. Moonshine Mike has a Christmas special for his regular customers.”

  Moonshine Mike? How many secrets did this town have? Clandestine professions and homemade booze? Oh, Mama, what did you leave me with?

  I rubbed the back of my head. The sound of me hitting the wall must have woken the baby, because she started fussing in the cradle. Still dazed, I moved slowly to the porch, where I’d stored the milk. From behind me, the floorboards of the porch creaked as Pa lumbered down the steps and into the night.

  Angel, if you’re there, I could use a little help about now.

  5

  Wesley

  * * *

  On Christmas Eve, after a meal of roast pork, potatoes, and carrots, Lillian and I were in the sitting room waiting for Mother and Father. They’d dismissed us from the table but had stayed in the dining room. I wasn’t sure why. They’d not said one word during our tense supper. Lillian and I knew better than to speak unless spoken to. The delicious food seemed wasted on us. Mother and Lillian barely ate. I managed to finish mine, but it tasted like chalk in my dry mouth. Father had eaten with his usual gusto, quickly, taking large bites and washing them down with whiskey. He alone seemed oblivious to the chasm that divided our family into three parts: Lillian and me, Mother, and finally Father.

  Atlas was asleep in his bed by the fire. Lillian plunked away at the piano, playing “The First Noel.” She didn’t look up at me, concentrating on the music, her pale face pinched and drawn as her small hands flew up and down the keyboard. Too thin, her shoulder blades seemed without flesh under the fabric of her blue velvet dress.

  Lillian’s copper-colored hair had been pulled back from her face with a blue bow that matched her dress. Mother said a ginger should never wear red, even though Lillian longed for a red dress. At twelve, she was small for her age and looked even more so hunched over the large piano. Over the last few days, she’d been sick with a bad cold, which had reddened and chapped her nose. Dark half circles under her eyes seemed painted with a deep purple ink. She complained of difficulty sleeping. Fears of the dark and monsters plagued her. I could never understand how the black night was worse than the chaos and uncertainty we faced in our own home. Also, she was so often ill. I feared she was not strong. Lack of sleep didn’t help. The strain of trying to please Mother and Father took too much of her energy. There wasn’t enough left for herself.

  “The music is very pretty,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She spoke softly as her small hands moved over the keyboard.

  “How much longer?” I asked. Mother made her practice an hour a day, even on Christmas Eve.

  “I’ve already done my hour practice. Playing makes me feel better.” She fumbled on a note and lifted her fingers from the keys, then started back at the beginning of the song. Another rule. She had to start from the top if she made any mistakes.

  Atlas lifted his head briefly, as if to check on Lillian. Assured she was fine, he sighed and curled back into a ball. He looked like an old man tonight. The hair around his eyes had grayed, and he seemed thinner than he once was. I looked at him and then back to my sister. My two best friends seemed to be disintegrating right before my eyes.

  For our Christmas tree, Dax had cut down an eight-foot fir tree from the property. After trimming off the bottom branches, he’d nailed two crisscrossed boards into its sawed-off trunk so it could stand straight in the corner of the room. Garlands from the extra branches decorated the mantel. We were to decorate the tree after dinner. Now, it stood sparse, waiting. I crossed over to breathe in the spicy scent.

  I found it peculiar that Mother had such an affinity for Christmas. Delicate ornaments wrapped in tissue were safely stored in a box and brought down each year. Best of all was Mother’s snow globe collection. For the past eight years, Mother had ordered one each autumn from an Austrian company for the coming Christmas. She displayed them on the piano for the entire month of December. They were sentimental scenes: a white-steepled church, Santa with a bag of gifts, a Christmas tree lit with candles, a Ferris wheel, a snowman, Santa’s sleigh in the sky pulled by reindeer, tiny figures skating on a frozen pond, and finally my favorite, a cottage. Snow covered the roof, and the windows were painted yellow as if lit from inside. A large decorated tree had presents surrounding it, wrapped red-and-gold packages. The only thing missing was a yellow dog. For some reason, I imagined the cottage perched on a bluff overlooking the sea. I could almost see the ocean from its front room.

  I shook the cottage globe gently to encourage the snow to swirl. Staring through the miniature glass, I fell into the world. I was safe there. The snow swirled around us as Atlas and I ran to the edge of the yard to look out to the ocean, gray and foggy on this day before Christmas. We turned back toward the cottage. Atlas and I stood in the stillness and utter silence of the snowy yard and looked through the glass. A woman was at a table, icing gingerbread. She looked up and smiled. Luci, all grown now. Hair the color of wheat glistened, and her green eyes were no longer hungry or fearful. She raised her hand and waved. Another person joined her at the table. My sister. Also grown. No longer thin and brittle. She threw back her head, laughing. A man with floppy brown hair joined them, a bottle of champagne in his hand. He spotted me, watching from the outside, and came to the door, calling out to me. “Wes, it’s time to come inside out of the cold.” The words were as loud as the notes of Lillian’s playing.

  Wes. No one had ever called me by the shortened version of my name.

  “Wesley.” I startled at the sound of Mother’s sharp voice and landed squarely back in the real world. I placed the snow globe back into its place on the piano, then turned to face her.

  “Yes, Mother?”