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BLACKBELLY by Heather Sharfeddin
Published by Bridge Works Publishing, © 2005 by Heather Sharfeddin

CHAPTER ONE

"Easy now, I ain't gonna hurt ya." Chas McPherson, forty-one and looking it, heaved a nearly grown ewe onto her hind end. The thrashing animal immediately went limp, her legs splayed out like a collapsed marionette. The phrase, "Ever had a Blackbelly? They're mild...tender--not like woolies" rolled around Chas's head as he dabbed a cream on the ewe's eye from a tiny tube his fingers could barely manipulate. Mild and tender; not like woolies. He gripped the ewe hard between his knees and screwed the cap back on. He examined the animal's hooves, then slid his hand into the pocket of his muddied canvas jacket and exchanged the ointment for a pair of heavy, medieval-looking trimmers. He used the scissor-like instrument with quick precision to snip the hooves into sharp triangles. The phrase playing in his mind was one his father used to sell his butcher lambs, ever the salesman. When Chas released the animal, she remained motionless in a heap at his feet as if paralyzed.

"Git on now!" he yipped, giving the ewe a mild kick in the flank and sending her bounding back to the safety of the flock.

He slipped the trimmers back in his pocket and strode to the gate. The flock darted to the other side of the catch pen to avoid him. He unlatched the gate and swung it wide to let them out. They bunched together in a mass of wiry hair and black ears, pressing against the cold metal bars on the far side of the pen from the gate. Shrugging, he left them to figure it out and started for the barn. When he was some distance away, a single brave ewe bolted toward the pasture, leaping high in the air to clear a barrier at the gate only she could see. The others quickly followed, mimicking her precisely, springing over the unseen obstacle on blind faith.

Chas snapped the twine on an alfalfa bale and tossed it through the barn window to the feeder below. His sheep streamed toward it in a long single-file line, as if they'd forgotten that only moments ago they were terrified of him.

He paused and looked out on the Sweetwater River that ran along the southern boundary of his three-hundred acres and into the tiny hamlet that shared its name six miles to the west. A grove of black walnut trees stood leafless and bleak along its banks. The river ran dull and sluggish, like liquid lead under the gray December sky. The water was low, leaving a wide, black crescent where his animals waded up to their knees in mud to drink.

He poured a bucket of oats over the hay, then lumbered across the muddy yard toward the house. His eyes skimmed the decaying eaves of the building, looking at the hooks his father had spaced every six inches--for Christmas lights. He thought briefly of putting them up before the old man came home, as a welcoming gesture. But the idea dissolved with the realization his father wouldn't see the lights, only the grass sprouting from the gutters, or the thick slabs of moss on the shingles--keeping the roof in one piece, really. Assuming his father would even recognize the place, and that was a large assumption.

Chas stomped up the wide porch steps, loosening clumps of mud and sheep shit from his boots, which he kicked off next to the door. He dropped his jacket on a table already piled high with broken tools, tractor parts and chipped dishes never brought in from last summer's suppers.

He pulled two hickory logs from a disorderly pile in the entryway and added them to the woodstove in the living room. He stoked the fire up. In no time it burned so fiercely he opened the front door to let out some heat. He sat in the kitchen at a pine table gouged deep with time, his dirty breakfast dishes pushed to the side with last night's, and jotted notes in a small book where he recorded which animals he'd treated for which ailments and the date.

As he finished up, the phone rang. "Hello," he said.

"May I speak to Charles McPherson, please?" a woman asked.

"It's Chas. And you've got him."

"Um, my name is Mattie Holden, and I'm calling about your ad. I'm a nurse."

Chas listened.

"Are you still looking for a home-care nurse, Mr. McPherson?"

"Yeah. Where ya from?"

"Spokane. But I can be there with two day's notice."

"You ever been to Sweetwater?"

"No, but I see here on the map, it's not too far from Salmon City."

Chas took a deep breath. That wasn't what he was getting at. "I can't pay you much."

The woman hesitated.

"This ain't a rest-home; it's a sheep ranch. You're gonna be a long way from any shopping malls and movie theatres."

"I understand," she said.

"You better."

"I'm sorry, sir, I-I thought you were looking for a nurse."

He scowled. Why the hell else would I put an ad in the paper, he wondered. "I am. Just making sure you've got the whole picture before you waste your time driving down here."

"Do you want to ask me any questions? I mean, about my experience?"

"You're a nurse ain't ya?" He looked around his house at the piles of clutter and filthy dishes. Before she could answer, he said, "You know how to cook?"

"Well...yeah. But, that's not what you're hiring for."

"I know what I'm hiring for. And if you're gonna live here, you're gonna do your share of the cooking!"

The woman went silent, and Chas sighed. She was the fourth to call, and he'd scared every one of them away. "Look, why don't you come down and we can talk in person. Then you can decide if you want the job."

She agreed, and he gave her directions. When he hung up, he looked at the mess again, seeing it in a different light, now that someone was actually coming. He'd need to do something about it before she arrived or she'd never agree to live here, but he didn't feel like getting started now. He pulled the rubber band from his hair, letting the greasy blond curls at the nape of his neck loose around his shoulders. Then he stripped off his clothes, leaving them where they fell as he made his way to the bathroom and started the shower.


Chas worked for three days, clearing decades of newspapers, magazines, ball bearings, twine, and grease-smeared auto parts that filled his house, moving his things to one of the two bedrooms on the second floor, and fixing the other for the nurse, deciding which room to give her based purely on which mattress smelled less moldy. In the room he'd been using on the main floor, he changed the sheets and swept the floor. His father would sleep here. He dragged piles of old furniture, books, and all manner of unwanted items, some as old as the house itself, into a large heap in front of his barn, where he set fire to everything. As the bonfire rose ominously, he went back for more. He found a box of women's clothing in the back of one of the upstairs closets; he guessed they once belonged to his mother. He hesitated a moment, looking at the dress poking out--small white flowers against a navy background--trying to remember her, then tossed the box into the fire whole. He stood and watched until the cardboard turned black and sparks took the darkening sky, then he went back to the house.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and stood at the front window, watching the fire. His sheep came to the fence and watched, too.


It poured rain the day Mattie came, coating the landscape in a dismal gray, punctuated by simple black tree limbs against the dull-white sky. Chas stood at the window and stared out at the bleakness, waiting. She'd said to expect her at noon; it was one-thirty. Was she lost? Had she changed her mind? He looked at his flock, hunkered under a cedar tree and thought to let them into the barn, but it wasn't that cold, just wet. He almost poured himself a whiskey, but decided not to risk it. He needed a nurse. Without her he couldn't bring his father home from the institution where he languished. And he owed the old man this--to let him die in his own home. It was all he could do at this point.

When Chas glimpsed the blue sedan, lights on in the middle of the day, bouncing down his pocked drive, he thought his resolution would fail. He glanced around. The house wasn't cluttered now; it was sparse. He'd purged it of trash and memories alike, as if there were no distinction. But he hadn't scrubbed anything. And now, as she approached, he saw the dust, the grit, the coating of neglect on everything. There was no time to clean. She'd decline the job; there was no question in his mind. He looked forward to the whiskey when she was gone.

"Miss Holden?" he asked, stepping off the porch, which had also been scraped clean of rusted parts, sheep shit, and a three-legged, sagging chair.

"Yes, but you can call me Mattie" the woman said, extending her hand. They shook, and she paused to look up at the century-old homestead. She was expressionless. She turned to survey the other buildings, the large sway-backed barn and its vast meadow cropped low by sheep. She turned back to Chas, but her eyes went past him, up the hill behind the house to the rock ridges that scraped the bleak sky.

Chas said, "Would you like to come in out of the rain?"

Inside, she pulled off her coat. When he didn't offer her a place to put it, she draped it over her arm. Rain seeped into her dress sleeve. "Your father is home?" she asked, looking around for evidence.

"No," he said. "No, I can't bring him home until I have a nurse. He's in Lewiston."

"Parkinson's, right?"

"Uh-huh. Late stages. He doesn't talk. Doesn't walk. Barely eats."

She nodded.

"I'd just rather he didn't die in that place. If ya know what I mean." He ran his hand over his stubbly chin and wished he'd shaved.

"Yeah," she said. "I know what you mean."

"Well, this is it. Your room would be upstairs. My father will take that one." He pointed at the doorway off the living room. "Taking care of him and sharing in some of the household chores--that's all I really expect."

"May I look around?"

He nodded and showed her the kitchen--surveyed her face as she looked in the sink, assessed the mildewed bathroom, and tested the bed in the musty upstairs bedroom. She hated it, he could tell.

"I'll have Sunday afternoons free?" She sat on the bed as if trying to imagine herself sleeping there.

"Uh-huh."

"No farm chores," she clarified.

Chas looked at her more closely. She didn't strike him as particularly attractive, but she wasn't ugly--his father would hate an ugly nurse. About thirty-five, he guessed. Her hair was pulled up in a tight bun at the nape of her neck; fine dark wisps escaped it, though. Her skin was clear and smooth, and she had the beginnings of deep crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Which were pale gray--icy. He wondered if an occasional request to feed a bummer lamb in the cellar constituted farm chores. Of course it did. He shook his head.

"And if things don't work out?" She tilted her chin up, studying Chas.

Surprised, he answered slowly, "You saw all those sheep when you drove up?"

She nodded, looking at the wall that blocked her view of the meadow.

"Well, this job is sorta like them. I can't just change my mind about 'em. I'm committed--for the winter anyway. I've got ewes that'll be lambing in a few weeks. Then a whole lot of work to keep the little buggers alive. It's like that. You want the job, I expect ya to commit to seeing him through--at least for the winter."

She frowned. "When are you bringing him home?"

"Soon as you can start."

"I can start now."

He stared at her. She was taking the job. He couldn't believe it.


Chas arranged for Mattie to start in a week. As the days passed between hiring her and expecting her, he wished he'd made it a month. He put off chores that beckoned urgency, like repairing the fence where the ram got tangled up and tore out several yards, leaving a gaping hole for the flock to meander through at will--if they were smart enough to find it.

He watched the contents of a half-gallon bottle of Jack Daniels recede steadily while he tried not to anticipate his father's presence--or the nurse's.


Mattie put two suitcases and a cardboard box in the trunk of her car--all she owned in the world. The landlady who lived on the main floor already had a new tenant for Mattie's second-floor room and couldn't wait to get the cleaners in. Mattie wondered why the woman wasn't just a little sad to see her go. She'd hauled out the old lady's trash every week for the past eight months, despite the fact it wasn't part of the contract.

Mattie checked the phone; it hadn't been turned off yet. She dialed her sister in Orlando, Florida. "Kathy, it's Mattie."

"Oh, Mattie, this isn't a good time right now. I'm on my way out to Jacob's basketball game."

"This'll be quick. My phone's about to be turned off, anyway."

"What? I didn't hear you. Mattie--I need to go. Can I call you later?"

"No, I'll call you."

"Okay. Talk to you soon." She hung up.

Mattie held the phone in her hand a moment, her lips pulled tight. "Yeah, just try and call me back" she said. She looked around to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything, then pulled the house keys from her keychain and set them on the ugly, green-formica table. Which she was glad she would never see again.


As Mattie drove south toward Lewiston, a book about Parkinson's Disease on the seat next to her, she went over in her head the proper care of a patient like Mr. McPherson. Chas had said his father was in the final stages of Parkinson's Disease, which meant he would be incapable of even the most basic tasks. He'd need feeding, diapering, bathing, massage. She promised herself to do her best in making this man's last days comfortable.

The eastern plains of Washington slipped away and she found herself winding through the mountains of northern Idaho. A beautiful range of steep, rocky peaks flanked by icy, boulder-strewn rivers. Idaho, she thought, was double--maybe triple--blessed with beauty. So why didn't she know anyone who wanted to live there?

In Lewiston, she waited outside a low building with peeling paint and thirsty shrubs. An attendant lifted Mr. McPherson into the passenger seat of her car. When she glimpsed the old man's face, she saw Chas--not simply a father-son resemblance, but an aged prototype. He seemed unaware of what was happening to him, showed not the least alarm at being taken away by a complete stranger. But she imagined that somewhere in his age-spotted head with its thin, curly hair, he saw, he knew.

The attendant gave Mattie a wary glance as he shut the door. "Is he a relative?"

"No, I'm his nurse. This is the first time I've met him." He eyed the old man and stood back from the car, as if anxious to get away.

"Well, good luck with him."

Mattie turned to her new charge. "I'm Mattie," she said as she fastened his seatbelt. "Chas has hired me to take care of you at home. That's where I'm taking you, Mr. McPherson. I'm taking you home."

She drove quietly for several miles, but something about the man's presence compelled her to talk. He seemed somehow bigger than he was, even though shrunken and frail. He was positively imposing next to her.

"I've been to your house, Mr. McPherson. Don't worry, I'll clean it. It's a mess right now, but I have to live there too, so I'll clean it. Not because Chas hired me to be a housekeeper." Mattie shot the old man a meaningful glance. "I'm no one's maid. But it's bad. So I'll do it." She slipped a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. "I always seem to find myself in these situations. Where I have to do more than what's my job." She looked over at Mr. McPherson again. His blank face and frail limbs reassured her she didn't need to prattle.

"Chas calls that herd of goats, sheep. I wonder if he knows what he's doing? Even I can tell they're goats. He's got some problems--your son. That's pretty obvious."

The daylight was sifting away when Mattie turned onto the last road, a county road, long forgotten by the government. She wove her way around cavernous potholes big enough to swallow the wheels of her car.

"You grow up on that ranch, Mr. McPherson? I bet it was a beautiful place once upon a time. It's not much to look at now, though. Your barn's about to collapse right in on itself." She sighed and ran her tongue over her parched lips. "Guess you don't care to hear a lot of doom and gloom about the place you love. Someone could fix it up. It's not that far gone, but it will be if they don't hurry." She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

"I think it's real nice that Chas is bringing you home, Mr. McPherson. I'd do the same. If my dad was still alive, I mean." Mattie watched for the driveway, not taking her eyes from the road for fear she'd miss it and get lost. The longer she stayed focused on the road without looking at the old man, the larger he grew in the space beside her. She twisted the loose strand of hair around her finger, let it go, then twisted it again while she tried to take him in through her peripheral vision. "You seem a lot bigger to me than you are," she said. She didn't look his way this time, yet had the sense he was staring at her, though she knew it not to be true.

"My parents died when I was fourteen." She tapped the steering wheel in alternating intervals with her index fingers. "Where's the driveway? I hope I didn't miss it." She craned to see down the dark road behind her. Blackness. All the way up to the jagged tips of the trees on the ridge above. The canyon was deep--deeper than she remembered. And the ranches were farther apart. Miles, it seemed, between the faint yellow of kitchen windows, or the florescent blue flicker of televisions in darkened living rooms.

"Car accident. Lost 'em both, just like that." She snapped her fingers. "That's the thing about life, no guarantees." McPherson's hair was greasy and matted at the back of his head. She wondered if she should comb it before they reached the house, before Chas saw his father. "Guess you know that, though." She imagined the old man commanded a fair amount of respect from Chas, even in his current condition. He had an authoritarian air about him.

At last, Mattie spotted a battered mailbox missing its flag--Chas's mailbox. She could hear the river now as she turned down the lane. The sound soothed her, and the sight of the house, with all its lights ablaze, made her feel calmer. The figure pacing in the front window dampened her relief considerably though, when he caught sight of the car and stood motionless, watching. "We're almost home," she whispered. "Looks like your son is waiting for you."


Mattie waited next to the car for Chas to come out and carry his father inside. When he didn't, she started up the steps. As she reached for the knob the door burst open, and there, steeped in grimness, stood Chas. His eyes lingered on her face a moment in the pale porch light, then out to her car. And remained there.

"I'll need your help bringing him inside," she said.

She followed him into the yard. He opened the car door, then stepped back as if stunned by the sight of his father, who wore his same vacant expression.

"Hello, Dad," Chas said in a voice so tight Mattie's shoulder blades contracted into her spine. Mr. McPherson showed it no recognition. Chas hesitated, then bent and lifted his father out of the car, turning so abruptly he nearly knocked Mattie aside with his father's feet.

As he brushed past her, she smelled the whiskey. Great, she thought, a drunk. Then wondered if he'd share.


Chas cranked the come-along used to stretch fence wire so tight the mesh in its teeth threatened to snap. It would leave a nasty wound if he was in its path, and he knew it. But he worked his way down the fence-line, hammering large metal staples into the rickety wooden posts, three to each one, anyway. Occasionally, he glanced at the house, tried to see the nurse as she scrubbed every inch of it. It pissed him off, her cleaning. And it pissed him off more that he hadn't done it himself.

He'd hardly slept the night before, despite his whiskey stupor. His father had visited him over and over again as the night dragged by--not the father who lay mute in his bed now, but the father of his childhood. The stern instructor of his youth. Reprimanding him for his failure, for his neglect: the house, the barn, the yard. In the stark light of day, Chas looked around and had to agree. He'd done a pathetic job. If his father could speak, he'd have no good thing to say to him. Chas pulled the brim of his hat down low against his brow to keep the rain from pelting his eyes as he worked. His fingers ached with cold, and there was a measure of justice in the pain that satisfied him. He worked all morning outside, barely making a dent in the years of work he'd put off--or never intended to do at all. But his hunger eventually forced him inside.

She sat at the table, his father next to her in the high-backed wheelchair Chas had purchased at the last minute from an estate sale. A vestige of someone else's unfortunate journey, too anxiously gotten rid of for a fraction of what they'd paid. Chas didn't consider it a find, bargain though it was. When the day came to pass it on, he'd be inclined to burn it, himself.

"I made you a sandwich," she said. "It's in the fridge."

"You don't have to make me lunch." He stalked past her to the still hot coffee pot and poured the last of it into a cup. The heat stung his frostbitten fingers.

"Well, I didn't do anything special. Just thought you'd be hungry and I was making one for myself. Don't take it like I'm always gonna make you lunch." She shook her head and went back to feeding his father.

Chas leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. It wasn't his kitchen anymore. She'd taken over. She'd cleaned it, sanitized it, feminized it. Now he'd have to be careful not to make a mess or she'd be nagging after him. He watched her with his father a moment, then took the sandwich into the living room where he ate in privacy and watched his flock. Most were still huddled under the cedar, trying to stay dry.

After lunch he took his calendar from the wall and opened it to the back page, where all the known holidays in the modern world were listed. He ran his finger over the names until he came to Eid--December twentieth, next week. He pulled out his address book and flipped through it, listening to the nurse rattle on to his father about her ungrateful landlady. He paused and listened more carefully, for clues to her mental stability. Why would she take this job if she were sane? He found the number and made the call.

"Mr. Teleghani? Chas McPherson." He paused, listening to pleasantries from the man on the other end. "Happy Ramadan. I hope your family is well." Another long pause. "I'm good. Listen, I noticed next week is Eid and you haven't called about a lamb yet." He listened as the man detailed his financial difficulties this year. "Yeah, hasn't it been that way for us all," Chas said. "I understand. I wanted to call and check, though. I always save the best one for you, you know that. Well, maybe next year."

He set the receiver back in its cradle and stood looking out the kitchen window at the mountains behind the house. Too little money this year for Teleghani to buy a lamb for Eid, he thought. What would he do with it now? He didn't need two butcher lambs, even with the extra mouths to feed. And one lamb through the sale ring would hardly be worth the trip. He picked up his coat and started for the door.

"I'm going to town to buy some groceries" the nurse called after him. "You haven't got anything here. Do you want something in particular?"

He glanced over his shoulder, but when he caught sight of his father, he turned back. "No." He pulled the door open, then said, "I have an account at the grocery store. You can charge it. But don't buy anything extravagant unless you plan to pay for it yourself."

"I didn't know you could get anything extravagant in Sweetwater."


CHAPTER TWO

The nurse cooked supper after returning from town with several sacks of groceries. From the loft of his barn Chas watched her unload the car. When he came in to wash up, he scanned the kitchen for his father.

She noticed. "He's sleeping," she said.

He pulled the lid off to inspect the aromatic spaghetti sauce with hamburger added.

"Don't get any ideas I'm gonna cook supper for you every night."

"You were gone a long time." He replaced the lid and sat down at the table. "Don't forget I hired ya to take care of my father."

Mattie stood over the sink, draining noodles. She glanced over her shoulder and scowled. "Keep your kitchen stocked and I won't have to go running after groceries."

His eyes came to rest on the back of her head--her tightly twisted
bun. Maybe it was too tight, he thought. Just what he needed...a mean nurse. She wore jeans today, and he could see her figure, her narrow waist and round hips--a little too round. She could lose a few pounds. He leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes go out of focus and took her shape in again. Maybe they weren't too round after all, maybe just a little plump. Some men liked that. He could be convinced with a drink or two.

"Shouldn't you put those goats in the barn before they melt away out there?"

Chas's eyes refocused. "They're sheep."

She gave him a sideways glance, eyebrows raised.

"Sheep tails down, goat tails up."

"What?" Mattie brought the noodles to the table and went back for the sauce. "You could make yourself useful and get some plates and forks."

He narrowed his eyes at her and remained in his seat. He might have been inclined to help had she kept her mouth shut. "You can tell the difference between sheep and goats by whether their tails point down or up. Sheep tails point down."

Mattie waited for Chas to get the plates, prompting him with a blatant stare. When he didn't move, she went for them herself.
"Sheep coats woolly, goat coats smooth."

His lips curled at the corners briefly. "You ever see a bighorn sheep?"

"Yeah. Well, on TV."

"How woolly was that?"

"Different kind of sheep. That doesn't count."

Chas twisted his face, trying to understand her logic. "Bighorn sheeeeeep."

"Whatever," she said, sitting down across from him.

"Those out there," he nodded toward his pasture, "are Barbados Blackbelly sheep. They're hair sheep. And that's the beauty of 'em; I don't have to shear."

"What's the point then?"

"What d'ya mean, what's the point?"

"If you don't get any wool. What's the point?"

He sighed. "For meat, of course."

Mattie set her fork down. "Eew."

"What do you think happens on a sheep ranch? Where do you think meat comes from? Even that beef you just added to the spaghetti?"

"From the store."

"Uh-huh, from the store." He rolled his eyes. "Next time you're down there, maybe you should pick up some lamb chops. I'd like to taste those store-bought ones that you don't have to kill a sheep to git. Maybe I'll start raising that kind."

"I'm starting to see why you live alone."

Chas snorted.


Mattie pulled the old man into a sitting position, then eased him from the bed to the wheelchair. "No offense, Mr. McPherson, but your son is kind of a jerk." When she had him situated she carefully folded his hands into his lap. She took a comb from the nightstand and raked it over his scalp, smoothing the curly, white wisps that usually flew out in all directions. "He seems like the kind of guy who doesn't handle conflict well, if you know what I mean. Like he'd just as soon rip your kidneys out than listen to a different perspective." She wheeled Mr. McPherson into the living room and positioned the chair at the window, where he could look out on the meadow. The rain had given way to snow--silent and peaceful--transforming the gloomy ranch into something resembling a Christmas card photo. A light burned in the barn, and Mattie wondered what Chas did out there all day while all his sheep, if indeed they were sheep, made snow trails in the pasture. As she pondered his perpetual absence, a dark red sedan coasted down the driveway toward the house.

A woman in her mid-thirties got out and picked her way across the muddy yard in a pair of suede pumps. Mattie watched the woman's feet. Suicide, she thought, to wear such delicate shoes in this weather. She opened the door before the visitor knocked.

"Hi, my name is Pam," the woman said, extending her hand. In her other, she gripped a clipboard with tattered pages. "I'm an aide at the Sweetwater School." The woman looked past Mattie into the house, as if hoping for an invitation in.

Mattie kept an open gaze on the stranger, not guarded, but not inviting.

"I'm collecting signatures to petition the school to eliminate the ritual Christmas celebrations."

Mattie frowned.

"We'd still have a holiday celebration, of course," the woman added quickly. "But we have children of other religions attending the school, and it isn't fair to them...focusing solely on Christmas."

Mattie shrugged and reached for the clipboard. "Okay, I'll sign it." She paused. "Does it matter that I don't live here? I'm the
homecare nurse."

"No, anyone can sign."

"You might try Chas, too. He's the one who lives here." A noticeable tremor ran through Mattie's hand as she handed the clipboard back. She nodded toward the rickety-looking structure across the yard, diverting the woman's attention. "He's in the barn."

The aide looked in its direction, then back at Mattie with doubt.

"Probably ought to come back in boots." Mattie said.

"I'll be out in the area tomorrow. Will you tell him I'll be
by?"

"Sure." Mattie watched her leave, then turned to Mr. McPherson. "Well, how 'bout that? We just saved some kids from being left out of the holiday celebration."


Despite her declaration to Chas, Mattie had fallen into a routine of preparing all the meals. What else would she do with all her extra time? And she needed to eat, too.

It was nearly dark before he came in. Mattie wondered if he waited until she took the old man to his bedroom before returning. His absences coincided precisely with the time his father spent in the common area, except for lunch, which Chas ate alone in the living room like some freakish recluse.

He washed up at the kitchen sink, splattering black, soapy water across the clean porcelain. Mattie clenched her teeth as she watched him. Couldn't he see it was clean? How hard is it to rinse it down when you're finished? The constant cleaning required to keep the house livable astounded her. Chas tracked mud from the door to the sink with every trip, except for the rare occasions he left his boots on the porch. The firewood he dropped in the entryway was infested with bugs and the dry bark found its way into every corner of the place, even upstairs stuck to the bottom of his socks. His jacket stank of animals, and the odor lingered even when he was gone. She watched him scrub his blackened fingernails to no avail. His hands were rough and cracked, and she doubted even soaking them in bleach could sufficiently clean them.

"Who was that this afternoon?"

Mattie had forgotten the visit.

"The woman in the red car," he said with irritation. "Who was that?"

"Oh. Just someone from the school with a petition. They want to change the winter holiday so it's not about Christmas. She's coming back tomorrow so she can talk to you."

He leaned against the counter and dried his hands. "What the hell else would it be, but Christmas?"

"Just a holiday celebration...without the religious stuff. To include the families that aren't Christian." Mattie finished setting the table and opened the oven to check the potatoes.

"Sounds like a witch hunt to me."

"There're a lot of people who practice other religions. It makes 'em uncomfortable to have all this Christmas stuff going on."

"Well they shoulda thought of that before they moved to Sweetwater, where people celebrate Christmas." He threw the towel on the counter and sat down. "I suppose you signed it?"

"Just because you're Christian doesn't mean you have to force it down someone else's throat." She put the potatoes on the table next to a dish of steamed green beans and two cod filets and sat down.

Chas squinted at Mattie a moment, then dug into the food without waiting for her to offer it. "Who said I was Christian?"

They ate a while without speaking, Mattie wondering why he cared if he wasn't Christian. "You gonna get a Christmas tree?"

He held his gaze on her as he swallowed. "You're a bit
contradictory ain't ya? First you wanna wipe the holiday from
schools, then you turn right around and ask for a Christmas tree."

"It would be nice for your father. Give him something to look at."

Chas kept his eyes on his plate as he wolfed down the rest of his dinner.

"What kind of books does he like?"

He got up and dropped his dishes into the sink.

"How 'bout a clue? Give me something to work with here."

"Here's a clue: he was a Pentecostal minister for forty-five years." Chas pulled his coat on and headed for the door.

I guess that explains the Bible next to his bed," Mattie said. But he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him with a thud. "The only thing in the room."


It was the eve of Eid, and Chas still hadn't decided what to do with the extra lamb. He inspected the two he'd selected back in May--the ones he culled from the flock and grain fed since Halloween. He didn't really save out the best for the Teleghani family; it was the second best. He kept the best one for himself, and this year there was a clear difference. One had grown rapidly and put on good muscle, making Chas regret having castrated him--he would've made a nice breeding ram. But his stunted horns, which should've been a half turn in the first spiral by now, were simply two short spikes. Devil horns.

He wished he'd advertised the extra lamb in the paper. Now it was late in the season for that. The only people he knew who slaughtered an animal and ate its meat the very same day was the Muslim family. Everyone else would have a butcher hang the meat, let it cure for a week or two, then cut and wrap and freeze it. Too late for Christmas.

He backed his pickup into the barn, craning behind him to see through the darkness. He loaded the better of the two lambs into the bed. The metal gate on the stock rack slammed shut with a clang that made his head ache. He didn't tell the nurse he was leaving, but saw her standing in the window, so he knew she knew.

He parked on the road outside the Teleghanis' driveway. It was early yet; everyone would still be awake. But he hoped the darkness would allow him to slip in and out without being seen. The Teleghani clan lived on the outskirts of town on a small, one-acre lot. Just big enough to raise a few chickens and tend a garden that was the envy of every family in Sweetwater, with six-foot bean poles and straight, weedless rows of okra, cayenne peppers, eggplant--some of which the locals had never seen before. They were poor, with seven children. Middle-eastern, but he didn't know from what country. Had only wondered how they ended up in Idaho. He imagined sweltering sun, arid sand, and oppressive dictators might have brought them to this very different place.

He tied a rope around the lamb's neck and pulled it off the end of the lowered tailgate. The lamb struggled, pulling away from him until the noose was so tight Chas slid his hand under the creature to keep it from strangling. He finally carried it to the front steps where he tied the loose end to the Teleghani’s porch post, working quietly, hoping not to be heard. The house was as old as his own, and in no better condition. He hoped the animal wouldn’t rip the support out and collapse the porch roof during the night, but there was no place else to tie the lamb.

Chas ran the back of his fingers down the lamb’s nose trying to recall the words he’d heard Nuri Teleghani use before he slit the throat. A prayer. A statement of thanksgiving. Or was it a declaration of God’s oneness? He couldn’t recall – wasn’t sure he ever really knew. He turned his collar up against the chill wind and crunched back to his pickup in the hardened snow. As he pulled away, he looked back at the lamb again. And thought of his father, helpless and waiting for death.
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