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The light was on in the attic again and I knew that Grampa was up there with his chickens. I stood outside of the house and stared up at the humped silhouette that moved back and forth, something large and wilted dangling from its hand. The shade was pulled up, but the thin curtains were closed. Before Gramma had died, she’d been wanting to sew some new ones for the attic, but now that she was gone, there was no one left who really cared all that much about appearances. I missed Gramma. Things had been so much nicer when she had been alive. The porch creaked and then Da came out, a glass of ice tea in one hand and a barbeque fork in the other. I watched as he sat down heavily in one of the old rocking chairs. It creaked loudly, but it didn’t break. “Kirsty-Anne. You’re late, girl.” “Yes, Da. Sorry.” He snorted and took sip from his tea while scratching his crotch with the barbeque fork, never mind the holes it made in his trousers. After he was done, he lifted the fork and pointed at the screen door, towards the stairs. “You know what day it is, Kirsty-Anne.” “Yes, Da.” I said, my voice level, my tone neutral, my hands folded demurely in front of my lap the way a lady should keep them. Da didn’t care for me to act unladylike. He said that Ma wouldn’t have appreciated me turning out like a heathen, like the way he says that everyone in town acts nowadays. That’s why I wasn’t allowed in town. Too many bad influences, he’d tell me. Too much for a young lady’s mind. It was Sunday and the stairway creaked as I climbed, slowly, upstairs. Some days I wished that the stairs would just break when I was on them. In the closet beneath the steps Da kept his farm tools and hunting knives. If the stairway broke in just the right place, I’d fall on top of them, land on my back in just the wrong spot. I’d go to heaven, be with Ma and Gramma. They missed me, I was sure of it. They’d probably be glad to see me. I was a good girl. Da always made sure of that. And all good girls go to heaven… I reached the attic and knocked softly, three times, to warn Grampa that I was coming in. When I opened the door, I immediately smelled the stench of one of Grampa’s accidents. I couldn’t see any spots, though. Hopefully he’d gone into his trousers and not on the floor like last time. I hated cleaning up his messes, but I always did. Da surely wouldn’t and it’d be cruel to not take care of the feeble-minded. “Grampa, where are you?” I asked. The attic was lit by a single bulb that hung on a cord in the middle of the room. There were lots of shadows to hide in, lots of angles where you could lose yourself. I walked over underneath the bulb and looked around. Over in the far corner to the east was a trail of feathers. Slowly, carefully so as not to startle him too bad, I crept over to the corner. He was sitting on an old chest filled with Gramma’s things, stroking one of his dead chickens over and over again with his wrinkled hands. Grampa had lost his ability to think right ever since Gramma had passed away, but Da refused to put him in a home. He said they were corrupt and hell-filled, with scantily dressed nurses to seduce the old men from their souls. So Grampa spent most of his days in the attic or his bedroom. Da gave him the chickens to look after, which Grampa usually did well enough, except that sometimes he’d take one into the attic to play with, and he’d stroke it until it was dead. We had those for supper, then, with mashed potatoes and biscuits. It was Grampa’s favorite meal. He’d been killing his chickens more and more, lately. Da still didn’t take them away, though. “Grampa,” I said, taking the bird away from his feeble hands. “It’s that time again. You need to go to your room.” He didn’t look at me or even act like he heard me, but Grampa slowly got up, trembling all the while. The smell that greeted me was sickening, as was the brownish wet spot on Gramma’s old trunk, but I could clean them both up soon enough. I watched Grampa hobble away and then went out into the upstairs hall to find a wet washrag. “Where are you going, daughter?” Da was standing by the stairwell, his belt in his hand, trousers loose. He looked more and more impatient these days and he smelled like alcohol. I guessed that his iced tea contained a bit more than lemons and herbs. “I’m going to get a washrag. Grampa messed himself up again in the attic.” Da nodded as if he accepted that, but he pointed towards the attic door with his barbeque fork. “Afterwards, Kirsty-Anne. We need to get this done, first.” I nodded and clutched at my hands, tightly, and tried to control the rise of animal panic that clung to my throat. I should be used to this by now, after all. Da and me had done this since I’d found myself bleeding in the woman place, since I turned twelve. It’d been almost a ritual since then, every Sunday for the past three years. Taking a deep breath, I walked into the attic with Da right behind me. He turned me around and then began to twist his belt in his hands, tightening it up and then loosening it again in free, violent spirals. I guess he set down his fork, beforehand. Something to be grateful for, I guess. I stood ready, my hands together in front of me, my posture straight and tall. “You’re nothing,” Da said. “I’m nothing,” I agreed. The metal end of the belt whipped out from his hands and struck the floor beside me in a loud crack. I didn’t react. I’d had too much training in this area. “You’re shit,” Da said. “I’m sorry,” I replied. My voice didn’t sound sorry, though. It was smooth and normal, even as Da got closer and closer to me, his whiskey ice tea breath tickling my nostrils and making me want to sneeze. “You’re useless.” “Yes.” “You’re pathetic.” “Yes.” “You’re nothing to me, nothing to your Grampa, or your dead Mamma.” My breath got caught in my throat. Da had never used this approach before. Usually he never even brought up Ma unless he was praying. …But, in his own way, right now I guess he was. “I’m nothing,” I whispered as Da brought down his belt again. This time he didn’t miss and it landed on my shoulder, immediately causing a sharp sting. Knowing this by heart, I turned around without Da having to tell me to and I closed my eyes and counted the times the belt came down. This time he didn’t stop until thirteen, which was different. Usually he quit somewhere around ten. When I turned around again, Da had calmed down enough to wipe the sweat off his brow and was fastening his belt back into his trousers. My back really hurt this time, more so than usual, and when I ran my hand down my back I could feel the welts beginning to rise. It pained me to touch them. “Keep free from sin, Kirsty-Anne, especially the sin of pride. Young ladies are always going on about themselves. Keep free from the clutch of vanity.” I glanced up, surprised. Da rarely said anything after the beating was done. “I try, Da.” I replied, feeling the rips that the belt had made in the back of my dress. Da turned to go, but stopped before he reached the door. He turned around again and looked at me. I’d never seen such a strange expression on his face before. It was like he was in pain, even though it was me with the bruises. He looked like the old hound dog, Doozer, before Da had shot him out back for biting Grampa. “I do this for you, Kirsty-Anne. I do this to keep you in the grace of Jesus and free from sin. I don’t mean to hurt you.” I glanced down at the floor covered in chicken feathers and breathed in the air that still smelled foul from Grampa’s accident. “I know you don’t, Da,” I said, trying to remind myself that the pain was the way to God, “and I know you’re trying to save my soul. You’re a good father, Da. You look out for me.” I wished my voice didn’t sound so hollow, but Da simply nodded and left me to go find a wash-rag. I would take care of any cuts on my back later. First things first, Grampa needed cleaning up and it was the right thing to take care of him. I needed to do the right thing. Ma would’ve wanted me to. Only good girls go to heaven, after all, and every Sunday Da did his best to keep me humble and pure. |