Mary was standing in front of their bedroom window, her arms crossed. She always crossed her arms when she was frustrated. Jackson was sitting on the edge of the bed, running his hands through his hair.

“I wish you talked to me about this,” Mary said. “I wish you talked with me about all o’ these things before you do ‘em.”

“I’m sorry,” Jackson said. “I’m really sorry. He was just walkin’ up the road and I thought it was the good Christian thing t’ do, you know?’

She turned back to look at him. In her eyes, he could see frustration mingling with deep love. They had had this talk before, when he had invited Pa and Matthew to stay.

“I know why you do these things,” Mary said. She sat on the bed next to him and grasped his hand in hers. “And I know they’re not bad things to do necessarily. But I wish you talked to me about ‘em. I wish you trusted me.”

“I do!” Jackson insisted. He squeezed her hands and stared into her eyes. He loved her eyes – they were deep pools of beauty that revealed the contents of her soul. “You don’t think I trust you?”

Mary sighed and released his hand. She looked down at the floor and picked at her dress. At least she’s not crossing her arms, he thought.

“I think your actions are gunshots and your words are whispers,” she said. She gave Jackson a final, solemn glance before standing from the bed and leaving the bedroom.

For a long time, Jackson sat on the edge of the bed and ruminated, wondering what she was trying to say. At times, his thoughts dipped into the dark lakes of self-doubt, and he wondered whether she ever thought of leaving him. Taking Emma and John and finding a new plot of land upon which to make a home. He pushed the thoughts away as soon as they came though, recognizing their incredulity almost as fast as they entered his mind.

His head perked up as he heard a soft rap on his door. Curious, with a raised eyebrow, he cleared his throat.

“Come in,” he said.

To his surprise, Matthew opened the door. He peeked his head in, his feet firmly planted behind the threshold. “Can I enter?” he asked.

Jackson thought about it for a long while, but eventually acquiesced. With his eyes darting at the room, from the window to the desk in the corner, his brother stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Once he heard the latch click, he stuffed his hands in his trousers’ pockets.

“I came to apologize,” he said. “I think I was bein’ cruel earlier. Pa pro’ly be mad at me for sayin’ this, but you’re blood and you deserve more respect than I been givin’ ya.”

Jackson looked at Matthew, who was staring down at his feet. His tone was laced with sadness, but he could not tell whether his small speech was rooted in reality or in shame; one produced lasting results, while the other had the strength of a thin reed.

“I don’t think I wanna talk about this right now,” Jackson said. “You said your piece. If you still got a problem with that man stayin’, then you gotta figure it out on your own time. And as far as the crops go, I don’t wanna hear nothin’ else about it.”

“Why don’t you just listen to me sometimes?” Matthew asked. Jackson could hear a reed stem crack in his mind as his brother’s angered inflection usurped his tone. “You act like I’m just makin’ things up.”

“I don’t think you’re makin’ things up,” Jackson countered. “I just think you’ll believe anything that comes out of Pa’s mouth. You’re like a fuckin’ puppet on his lap.”

“Yet I seem to be the only one who remembers who killed Ma,” Matthew growled. “I seem to be the only one who gives a shit about defendin’ this family!”

“Don’t you dare bring her into this,” Jackson said.

“What, you don’ like the truth?”

“I don’t like you usin’ her name in vain is what I don’t like.”

“Maybe you don’t like it cause a Mexican killed her.”

Jackson stood from the bed. “It don’t matter what country he was from!” he bellowed. “You are so obsessed with other people you miss what’s goin’ on right under your nose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matthew retorted.

“What, you don’t remember Pa beatin’ on Ma whenever he got the chance? Whenever he decided to have a few too many drinks at the dinner table? Whenever he discovered we didn’t have as many crops as we needed? Whenever he wanted to ‘cause damn common decency and damn respect?”

Matthew opened his mouth to respond, but faltered.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Jackson continued. “You go on and on about Mexicans and folks from other places as though they the devil, gonna steal this farm out from under us, all while you get on your knees to pray to the man who beat our Ma and constantly feeds you lies about what’s goin’ on. I bet you wouldn’t be goin’ on and on about Luis if you hadn’t a’heard it from Pa!”

“Pa never beat Ma,” Matthew said, though his voice was faltering.

“Oh, he didn’t?” Jackson said. He closed the distance between him and his brother, pushing his nose into his face as he glowered at him. “You don’t remember Ma walkin’ around and hidin’ her face all the time? You don’t remember Ma bein’ too sick to get outta bed sometimes? You don’t remember the shoutin’ and cryin’ at night, or the time Ma tried to run off and Dad chased her outta the house naked with his shotgun?”

“You’re – you’re makin’ these stories up!”

“I am not,” Jackson yelled. “It’s why Ma never loved you. ‘Cause you was too busy listenin’ to Pa and his poisonous advice instead o’ helpin’ Ma like I did every day! I was the one who brought her food when she couldn’t get outta bed, who saw all those purple bruises on her face and legs. I was the one who stood up to Pa whenever he got drunk, who he damn near beat t’ death because I told him to keep his hands off Ma. Remember that? Nah, I bet you was off mutterin’ to yourself about how Ma didn’t hug you enough. You ever wonder why?”

Matthew’s bottom lip was trembling and his eyes were watering with rage. Jackson heard a voice in the back of his head pleading for him to stop, but he was mad now. He had held all of this in for far too long.

“So yeah, a man who happened to be Mexican killed Ma. Some random man came along one day and put a bullet in her, and that’s shit, and if I ever found that man you best believe I would wrap my hands around his sorry fuckin’ neck and squeeze ‘till blood ran out his eyes. But Mexicans didn’t hurt Ma. Mexicans didn’t beat Ma. That was our own pasty white Pa, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll actually become a man.”

Jackson grabbed his brother by the shirt cuff and wrenched the door open with his other hand. With a stiff thrust he pushed his brother out of his room. Matthew stumbled over his own feet and fell to the ground, his body slapping against the wood with a thick thump. He looked up at Jackson with tears speckling his eyes. Jackson slammed the door closed.

*

The stranger had uncuffed his briefcase from his wrist, but he had tucked it under his legs when Jackson and Mary had started to set the table. He looked oddly protective of it, almost like he was holding his soul inside of it. Jackson tried to push such ridiculous thoughts out of his head while he helped his wife serve small bowls of stew. Matthew, whose face was darkened with hatred, refused to make eye contact with his brother as he took a bowl to the back of the house, making a beeline for Pa’s room.

Jackson shook his head as he watched his brother leave. He shouldn’t have gotten so cross with him. Matthew was messed up, twisted and poisoned by his father’s destructive tendencies and intense hatred. Jackson always surmised that his bigotry stemmed from a hatred of himself, from an incessant need to feel bigger than everyone else when he felt miniscule and unimportant. He didn’t know for sure though, and Jackson had no real desire to figure out what caused his father’s evil thoughts.

“You still here with us?” Mary asked.

Jackson jerked his head toward her. He realized he had been holding stew in a porcelain dish without placing it on the table. He shook his head and took a breath, placing it in front of the chair that was before him.

“Yeah,” he said. “You hear the fight I had with Matthew earlier?”

Mary gave him a knowing look, but didn’t say anything. A moment later, John and Emma came out from their bedroom and approached the supper table.

“What were y’all doin’ in there?” Jackson asked.

“I was readin’, sir,” John said. “Tryin’ to strengthen my mind, like Mom always says to do.”

“She’s right, too,” Jackson said. “Best thing my Ma ever did was teach me to read.” He turned his gaze toward Emma. “And you, missus?”

“I was helping John pick out a book,” Emma said with a proud smile.

“Well aren’t you two quite the team,” Jackson said.

Before he could continue, Matthew returned from Pa’s room with his hands stuffed in his trousers. He still refused to look at Jackson, even as he sat down at the table next to the stranger.

“You look frustrated,” the stranger remarked as he did. “Is something bothering you?”

“I don’ wanna talk ‘bout it,” Matthew growled.

Jackson felt his heart skip a beat as he watched the stranger smile. For the first time, the stranger scared him. His smile was a little too interested, a little too joyful.

“You know, back at my home I was told I have a way with people,” the stranger said. “I get inside their heads and help them make sense of their situation.”

“You can’t help me,” Matthew said.

“Oh, come now,” the stranger said. “Try me.”

“You really wanna do this?” Matthew snapped.

“I don’t think this is necessary,” Mary said.

“No, please,” the stranger said. “Better to let anger out than in.”

“Why don’t you tell that to my fuckin’ brother-”

“Not at the table,” Jackson said, his voice ringing out clear and strong through the dining room. His gaze focused on Matthew, who was still refusing to meet it. “Not when my children are here.”

“See what I mean?” Matthew muttered.

Jackson sucked in the rage he wanted to expel, pushing it down into his gut and holding it there until it burrowed into his bones. He shook his head and finished serving the table with Mary. She put her hand on his back and rubbed it in small circles before they sat down. Jackson invited the kids to sit as well.

“Nobody sits at the head of your table?” the stranger asked, gesturing toward the vacant seat.

Jackson shook his head. “I never liked it up there. Far too lonely.”

“Pa would sit there if he was better,” Matthew said.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Jackson said. “I figure if anyone gonna sit in that chair it’s gonna be the Holy Spirit hisself.”

The stranger shrugged, clearly confused, but did not push the issue further. Jackson gestured for everyone to join hands, which they did. After saying grace, they all dug into their food. Mary waited until everyone else had taken a bite before she took one of her own. She always did that, at every meal.

“This is lovely,” Jackson said. He grasped her hand under the table, and she squeezed it.

“Yes, it is,” the stranger said. “Some of the best stew I’ve ever had. You’ll have to give me the recipe before I leave.”

“Sorry, can’t do that,” Mary said. “Family secret.”

“You seem to have a lot of those,” the stranger said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jackson asked, looking up from his meal.

The stranger raised his hands in a clear sign of surrender. “I didn’t mean anything by it, sir. You have to admit that it’s been a bit of whirlwind since I arrived, though. When I walked in you told me not to go in a specific door. Then you have a shouting match. Just a lot of things going on that clearly haven’t been sorted out. That’s why I suggested we talk it out. It’s better to air out your grievances than to bottle them inside.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Jackson said with a sharp tone. “But I’d rather we not.”

“Fair enough,” the stranger said. “I didn’t mean to make things uncomfortable.”

Silence reigned over the kitchen table, permeated by clinking flatware on porcelain. Jackson looked over at his brother; he was focused intently on his food, refusing to look up at anyone else on the table.

A sudden gust of wind slid over the house. It rattled the windows as thick streaks of rain slashed against the glass with ferocious slaps. The stranger looked over at the window by the back door.

“What do you think is going on out there?” he asked.

Jackson looked over at the back door as well. “I don’t know,” he said. “Hopefully this storm passes soon. Not sure how much space we got between the river and the bank.”

“I’m sure there’s still plenty of space,” the stranger said. “I live on the river, too. Never once has my house flooded.”

“This isn’t a normal storm,” Jackson said. “I knew it the second I saw those black clouds.”

“You act like black clouds are the sign o’ the devil himself,” Matthew snorted.

“Yeah, well maybe they are,” Jackson snapped. “This ain’t no normal storm.”

Mary squeezed his hand once and he looked over at her. Concern had wormed its way into her countenance. She nodded at the children. He looked over at them; both Emma and John were staring at him.

Suck in the pain. Push it down. Let it seep into the bones. Deal with it later.

Matthew did not respond, and Jackson returned to his food.

Once their bowls were empty, Jackson gathered all the dishes while Mary went to put the children to bed. He tried to ignore how dark the house felt, even with the kerosene lamps lit. He rinsed the bowls off in the bucket of cold water in the kitchen and placed them on the counter once he was done. For a moment he thought about braving the storm to dump the water out, but decided against it.

When he walked under the arch and entered the living room, Matthew was spreading his sheets on the floor and fluffing a pillow. The stranger had cuffed his suitcase to his wrist again.

“Where should I sleep for the night?” the stranger asked.

“Hope you’re not against sleepin’ on the floor,” Jackson said. “We don’t have too much space unfortunately. My Pa takes up the guest room.”

“Yeah, that’s what happens when you’re coughin’ your lungs out,” Matthew muttered. “Not exactly a good time to sleep on a fuckin’ hardwood floor.”

Jackson ignored his brother. “We have some extra sheets and maybe a pillow somewhere. You’re welcome to both.”

“Thank you very much,” the stranger said. “I greatly appreciate that.”

“Of course,” Jackson said. “Let me go get them for you.”

Once he had set up the stranger on the floor, he made his way toward John and Emma’s room. Inside, Mary was telling a story to them, her soothing voice switching between characters with ease. For a moment he stood outside the door and listened, cherishing the moment that had yet to be intruded on. Then, he opened the door and entered the room. Emma and John were in their bunkbeds, and Mary was sitting on her knees, the bottom of her dress spilling out around her. She looked up at Jackson as he sat down next to her.

He listened and watched his kids with amusement. Even John, who constantly insisted that he was getting too old for bedtime stories, was curled up in his blanket, staring at Mary with wide-eyed amusement.

Once Mary finished her story, Jackson kissed Emma on the forehead and ruffled John’s hair, wishing them both a good night’s sleep. He left the room and closed the door behind him.

Just as he was about to walk to his own bedroom and undress, a feeling overcame him: a desire for the warmth of joy and contentment that he had felt before he had entered the bedroom. With a smile, he tucked his hands into his pockets and leaned his head toward the closed door.

“Mom?” John’s voice. Low. Tired. Scared?

“Yeah,” Mary asked.

“Why are Dad and Uncle Matthew always fightin’?” he asked.

Jackson heard a rustle as Mary stood, presumably to move closer to the kids on the bed. He heard her sigh – it was a tired sound, one he had started to hear more often nowadays. One that worried him in the depths of the darkest nights.

Rain pummeled the roof with renewed intensity: thousands of tiny feet stomping on a wooden floor.

“Your father loves your Uncle,” she said. “You need to understand that. He’d take a bullet for him quick as he could. But your Uncle’s also just a very mad man.”

“Moms says that he’s so mad he gets mean,” Emma said. Jackson winced as he realized that Mary must have had the same conversation with his daughter sometime recently.

“That’s the truth,” Mary said.

“Sometimes I get scared,” John said. His voice was tender – something he only ever got when he was with his mother. He never showed Jackson his emotional side.

“You don’t need to be scared,” Mary said. “Your father and I will always protect you. And Uncle Matthew’s not a bad man. Not at his core. And even though he yells sometimes, I don’t think he would ever hurt any of us. We’re all family, after all. Family looks out for each other.”

A seed of guilt began to sprout in his stomach as Jackson listened to the conversation. Before he could hear anything else, he walked away from the door, through the living room, and down the long hallway. When he closed the door to his bedroom behind him, sadness washed over him in waves. He couldn’t push it down, either; the pain was there to stay.

Mary entered the bedroom sometime later. Jackson had already crawled into bed and pulled the blanket over his body. He was staring out the window, watching the spatters of rain that hit the window.

“You okay there?” Mary asked.

“Yeah.”

An assortment of rustling sounds filled the room as Mary undressed and slipped into her nightgown. She slid into bed beside him and kissed his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“I need to do something about Matthew,” he said after a moment of thought.

Mary sighed. “You heard what John asked me?”

“I did. It’s not okay for him to scare our children.”

“I’ve been telling you this since they moved in, Jackson,” Mary said. “I know you love Matthew, but he’s more than overstayed his welcome here.”

“I can’t just kick them out,” Jackson said. “Not ‘till Pa passes at least. As long as he’s alive, Matthew’ll just say it shows how I don’t care about them.”

Jackson paused, ruminating as he watched the rain and the wind wreak chaos outside the thin pane of glass.

“Once Pa dies, I’ll send Matthew on his merry. We’ll wash our hands of him.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Mary said. She kissed his shoulder again before turning over in the bed.

Jackson listened to the sound of the storm and the bellowing wind. After a while, his eyes grew heavy and he decided to close them. His dreams were filled with darkness and deceit, but even amidst the terror, he knew they were just dreams.

Perhaps he would see the sun in the morning.

His ears pricked up as he heard a high-pitched squeal – a labored scream that was foreign to his mind in more ways than one. He sat up in bed, and his heart jolted as he saw a shadow dance past the window at a frightening speed – faster than any wolf could have. No further sound came though, and eventually he placed his head on his pillow. At some point he slept, but that haunting sound and the agile shadow did not leave his mind.

Next Chapter: Matthew