Mom was always working. Whether the sun had just risen, tossing its golden rays into the house in long streaks, or the moon was high in the velvet, black sky and crickets outside had started to sing their song her mother was on her feet. Part of this amazed Emma; in her small, preadolescent mind she wondered whether her mother ever slept, much in the same way she wondered whether Mrs. Longtree, who taught at the school in town, ever left the classroom. At night, Emma sometimes entertained the thought that Mom and Mrs. Longtree never slept, but rather continued to work through the night on whatever project was at hand.

Dad worked a lot, too; his work was different, though. He would take John outside to tend to the crops. They would both come in for lunch sweating through their off-white clothes, damp patches underneath their arms and spotting their chests. They would huff and puff as they approached the table, and Mom would emerge from the kitchen with a plate of colorful food. She never looked tired, even though the kitchen was always boiling hot. Even after sweating the entire morning with flushed skin, she would radiate beauty when she walked into the dining room.

Dad often told her that Mom had the harder job. All he had to do was pick weeds, harvest crops, and help protect the land. Without Mom, the entire house would fall apart. Emma, no more than seven at the time, had asked why Mom was the one to do all the housework, and Dad’s face contorted with pensive curiosity. All he could say was, I don’t know. But, for Emma, that was a telling answer in and of itself.

Now on the cusp of fourteen, Mom was spending more time with her than ever before. She had said she needed to teach Emma the ins and outs of being a woman, of what daily work entailed, and how to stand up to bad men who would try and hurt her. Dad did his part to teach her that, too. At nine, he had showed her how to handle a gun (though he had refused to allow her to fire an actual bullet).

As she stood in the kitchen next to her mother and helped clean up from breakfast, she noticed that the matriarch of her family seemed more angry than usual: the lines in her face were more pronounced than ever before, and her jaw seemed to protrude and retreat as she focused on scrubbing their plates clean.

“Is everything okay?” Emma asked. Her voice was small and Mom told her to speak up, but she didn’t like throwing her words around like punches. She preferred to remain calm and vigilant, like Mom did.

“Yes, honey,” Mom said. She scrubbed the plate with more vigor before placing it on the pile of dishes between them. Emma was scrubbing the last one, so Mom wiped her hands on the dishcloth and began to dry the plates with tender care. Emma allowed silence to fill the space between them. She didn’t like when Mom was angry, as it rarely happened, but she also did not want to be pushy. The boy in her class who sat behind her talked a lot about pushy girls being the bane of man, or something like that, and even though Dad called that boy a ‘dumb son-of-a-bitch’ under his breath, the concern those words had stoked in her gut still burned.

Mom took a deep breath and stopped drying the dish she was holding. Emma watched her bite her lip as she thought about the words to say – she always did that: bite her lip and look down at the floor. Sometimes she even shook her head, dislodging a thought from her mind before it could escape her lips.

“Your Uncle Matthew is jus’ a very angry man,” she said at last, returning to task at hand. She rubbed the dish with more vigor. “He’s very scared and very angry, but he don’t like to think about why he’s that mad. So instead he jus’ throws that anger at your Dad or at strangers. Somethin’ he learned from Grandpa, unfortunately.”

“Why is he here, then?” Emma asked. She placed the clean dish on the pile. Mom handed her a dishcloth, and she picked up a dish to dry.

“Your Dad’s a loyal man. One o’ his only faults, I must say. He loves his family, and he’ll do anythin’ for anyone who shares his blood. When Grandpa lost his home cause o’ his sickness, your Dad didn’t even hesitate – he just invited them in. Gave ‘em beds to sleep in, food to eat, even work if they wanted it. If your Uncle Matthew wanted it. He seems more content starin’ at the farm across the river or yellin’ at your Dad than workin’, though.”

Emma finished drying her dish and grabbed another one from the stack. Her mother’s jaw was set again, protruding from her skin like a bit of wood. She could see, without Mom even having to say it, that Uncle Matthew staying was not her idea. Emma got the distinct impression that Mom had even tried to argue against it.

“If you learn anythin’ from your Dad and me,” she said, placing a dry dish on the new pile, “it’s that family is important. Family is always important. But nobody – not even your own blood – has the right to push you around and yell at you. When someone hurts you like that, you kick them out and let ‘em fend for themselves.”

Emma nodded as she moved the rag around the plate.

“John’s been mean to me lately,” she said.

Her mother turned to look at her, putting her hand holding the rag on her hip. “What do ya mean?”

“I mean he’s been mean to me for some reason. Makes fun of me. Pokes me when I tell him not to. Says I’m weak and stuff like that.”

Mom shook her head and muttered under her breath. “You don’t gotta put up with that,” she said after a moment of thought. “You tell your Dad, and he’ll sort John out straight. Maybe give him a whuppin’.”

“Did Grandpa not give Uncle Matthew enough whuppins as a kid?” Emma asked. “Is that why he’s so angry and mean all the time.”

Mom shook her head. “No, I don’t think that’s it. In fact, I think Uncle Matthew could be a nice person if he wanted to. If he realized what his fears were about, and he stopped blamin’ folks across the river or your father for his troubles, I think he could be a really nice man. But he’s just scared.”

“Scared o’ what?” Emma asked.

Mom shrugged. “Scared of all sorts of things, though I don’t know for certain. I’m sure he’s scared o’ Grandpa dyin’. He’s probably scared about food – he wants to make sure everyone’s fed. I’m sure he’s scared about us bein’ so close to the river. Any rainstorm got the opportunity to flood us out with a week straight o’ pourin’. Who knows why he is the way he is? All I know is I don’t want John or you takin’ after him and his ways.”

Emma refocused her attention toward the plate and the tendrils of water running down the porcelain surface.

*

John and Dad had gone into the house to wash up before dinner. After a long day in the farm, the rotten odors of sweat and grime coated their skin. Emma liked going out into the farm after they had worked it, though. It always looked so pristine and organized. The corn stalks swayed in the wind as the black clouds encroached on the sunlight overhead. To the left, she could see the bean plants. Nothing had been picked yet, though she saw a small pile of dead stalks and weeds next to the plots, indicating they were waiting until the storm got closer. No use in picking food and getting their sweat all over it when they could wait an hour or two and pick it then.

Emma walked down one of the paths through the corn stalks, making her way to the back of the farm where she could see the Red River. The waters seemed more dangerous than usual – frothing white caps rolling over each other as the crimson waves sloshed against the bank. There was still a large gap between the surface of the water and the edge of the bank – more than five feet. Yet, even with that distance, Emma felt fear creep into her heart as she realized how easy it was for one powerful storm to wreck their entire livelihood.

She looked at the black clouds overhead, riding a swift current of air toward their house. They were far denser and domineering than any clouds she had ever seen before. A mixture of fear and concern began to brew in her stomach like the coffee Dad drank every morning. He acted like there was nothing to worry about, as he always did before a storm. He would tend to the crops more often, and he would make sure he picked everything that was ready, but he would always do so while whistling.

Tearing her eyes away from the ominous shroud above her, she stared across the river at the dying farm. The fig tree stood resilient to the growing wind, its branches swaying ever so slightly. To her surprise, an older man, around her father’s age, walked out the back door of the house. His hands were in his pockets and his head was turned downward toward the arid corpse of the farm that had once been there. He made his way toward the fig tree and looked up at it. Emma wished she could see what his face looked like. Was he sad? Tired? Angry? She had seen him before, only once, and he had done the same thing: walked over to the dead fig tree and stared at it.

Her heart stopped as the man turned and looked at her, his eyes locking with her own. Fear was replaced with comfort almost as soon as the former emotion had appeared. The man had a kind smile – the kind of smile that you would feel comfortable approaching if you needed directions to town. She raised her hand in the air and waved at him, offering her own smile. He responded with a similar gesture and returned to his house, looking down at the dead plants beneath his feet.

“Why’d you wave at him?” John asked. Emma turned to see her brother emerge from the corn stalks. He had washed his face, but the damp stains on his shirt and the sour odor of perspiration still lingered.

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “He just seemed nice is all.”

“Yeah, I guess. Every now and then I see him when I’m tendin’ to the corn. Dad says his name is Luis.”

“Sounds like a nice enough name, I guess,” Emma said.

An awkward silence brewed between them as John walked toward the edge of the river bank.

“I feel bad for him,” Emma said. “He looks sad over there, just staring at that fig tree. I wonder if Dad knows why he’s so sad.”

“Uncle Matthew told me not to feel bad about him,” John said. “He said that he’s the one who’s stealin’ our crops.”

“Someone’s stealin’ our crops?”

“I think so,” John said. “That’s what Uncle Matthew says. Apparently, Grandpa says he hears people moving around the stalks late at night. Dad says they’re crazy, though. He says they don’t know what they’re talkin’ about.”

“I don’t think Luis would steal from us,” Emma said.

“You don’t know him.”

“Yeah, but he has a kind face and a nicer smile. People with nice smiles don’t do mean things.”

“I do mean things,” John said.

“You don’t have a nice smile,” Emma said. She looked up at her brother and gave him the look she made when she was kidding – a raised eyebrow and a slight grin. He returned it. “Anyway, Uncle Matthew is mean. I don’t expect him to know who’s nice and who’s not.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” John said.

She looked down at the raging current underneath as the sound of slapping water and rushing wind filled her ears. A cold drop hit her in the middle of her head – was it rain, or just her imagination? Mom always said she had a big imagination, the kind of imagination writers used to make their thick books.

“Looks like the river’s mad,” John said.

“Yeah,” Emma said. “Clouds look really bad, too.” She pointed up at them. As she did, a strong gust of wind rushed through the air, burying a chill into her bones.

“Look, Dad said I should come out and talk to ya,” John said. He looked down at his feet. “I’m real sorry ‘bout bein’ mean to you and stuff. Sometimes I don’t even know I’m doin’ it, you know?”

“It really hurts,” Emma said. She tried to keep her voice low and unassuming, even though she wanted to yell at him, much in the same way he had at her. “I know you think it’s just words, but they hurt when you yell ‘em at me like you do.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m just jealous is all.”

“Jealous?” Emma asked, her incredulousness overtaking her tone. “What do you got to be jealous about?”

His brown hair ruffled in the wind. John had the same hair Dad had – brown, stringy, and thick. He was trying to grow a beard, too but he was less successful in that goal. Brown hair spotted his cheeks like plants that were trying to sprout, though without much success.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Dad’s nicer to you than he is to me sometimes. You know, when we’re out here tendin’ to the crops, sometimes he yells. He don’t beat me or nothin’ like that. His yellin’ just gets to be a bit much. And then when I come in for supper, or when I see him playin’ with you he’s all nice and gentle. I just get jealous sometimes.”

Emma hugged her brother, wrapping her arms around his stocky frame and holding him close. To her surprise, he hugged her back.

“You don’t need to be jealous o’ your own sister,” Emma said as she released him. “And I don’t think Dad is tryin’ to be mean, either. He’s tryin’ to teach you how to tend to a field, you know? He’s tryin’ to make sure you know how to take care o’ your own farm one day. It’s kind o’ like how Mom is with me. Sometimes I don’t do somethin’ right in the kitchen and she has a fit, but I know she just wants me to do the best I can.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said.

As if to usher them inside toward warmth and food, rain began to sprinkle down from the heavens in cold drops. Emma looked up toward the sky and watched as the dark, ominous clouds began to move over their farm, diluting the power of the sun and casting cold shadows in its wake.

Emma turned and followed her brother back through the corn stalks toward her home. The smell of rainwater and electricity was in the air, and the sound of rustling stalks filled her ears as slick leaves brushed against the sleeves of her dress and grass tickled her ankles with dew.

She emerged from the corn stalks just as John opened the door to the house. He moved his arms in wild gestures as he ushered her inside. Drops began to fall with more force and in greater succession. Emma tried to push away the biting cold her damp clothing sank into her skin.

As John closed the door behind them, Emma looked down the hallway toward Mom and Dad’s room. Uncle Matthew was closing it behind him with delicate care. Once the latch clicked, he turned to walk down the hallway. She caught his gaze, and for a second she saw what she thought was fear in his pupils. The look changed and he pushed past them.

John and Uncle Matthew exchanged a few words, but she could not focus on them. All she could focus on was the slight bulge in the back of Uncle Matthew shirt – the bulge that looked like a revolver.

In the pit of her stomach, terror began to gnaw again. She could not explain it, nor could she really understand why she was so scared, but she knew whatever Uncle Matthew was doing in Mom and Dad’s room was nothing good.

The feeling, the fire in her heart, was fed more dry wood as she watched her Dad walk in the door with a stranger. He was formal looking, with his black jacket, black suit, and black briefcase, which was cuffed to his arm. She wondered why that was – did people try and steal his briefcase from him? What was he guarding?

He smiled at her, his white teeth gleaming in the dim, yellow kerosene lights that Mom had placed throughout the house while she had been outside. The light outside was dimming, the sun weakening with every gust of wind that rattled against the wooden walls of the house.

She could tell, even without hearing a single word from the stranger’s mouth, even before hearing what he did for a living or where he was trying to go before the storm started, that this man – this stranger – did not have a nice smile.

She turned to look at her brother, maybe to tug on his sleeve and whisper in his ear, but she could not shake the feeling that the stranger was staring at her, watching her with prying eyes and steely resolve.

In the end, all she could do was stand there while Dad introduced the stranger to them.

Next Chapter: Pa