As she crawled back through the fence, jobless, Abby’s head was bowed, nerves and excitement replaced by the weight of failure. How would she find help for Sammy now?
Her dress snagged on the sharp edges, adding one more item to the pile of mending she’d ignored since Hamish had passed. Everything, from her back to her hips to the space behind her eyes, ached with defeat.
It was time to walk the fence. A ridiculous job created just for her, since she couldn’t be trusted with anything else—too restless to work in the kitchen, too friendly to work with outsiders. The day Isaiah’d taken her off market duty, she’d lost some faith. Just a tiny bit, but enough to chip away at the steadfastness inside her.
There’d been other things since, her late husband’s suffering high among them, and now Sammy. Poor Sammy. They’d come back to the Church once he was cured.
I have to get him out first, don’t I?
Her shoes cut a noisy path through the yellow grass, skirting the chain link that separated the Church from the rest of the miserable world. She tried not to think of Grape Man’s face. How badly he’d wanted to be rid of her.
It was so different from the encounter she’d imagined. Probably because she’d pictured him like a member of the Church or one of the farmers who sold at the market: soft-spoken and civilized. Instead, he’d been as wild as this mountain, sharp as the craggy rocks above. Those hands, rough and missing a finger. Even his voice had been unpolished enough to prickle her skin, like rubbing an animal hide the wrong way. Uncomfortable.
After two long hours—about half a circuit of the fence line—she headed back toward the empty cabin she called home. Not for long, she knew, since Hamish was gone and some other man would be assigned the place. Possibly even the woman. Her stomach tightened at the notion. Who would she be given to this time? Daniel, whose beady eyes trailed her all the more relentlessly since she’d become a widow? Or James, another old man, even less suited to the duty of getting her with child than Hamish had been? No. There wasn’t a single palatable option among them.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this, doubting God’s will.
Seeing someone suffer would do that to a person, she thought as she skirted around Mama’s cabin, where she could usually find a warm meal. But not tonight. Not when she couldn’t possibly hide these feelings of betrayal and disillusionment.
So, of course, the door opened and Mama stepped out to call, “You coming? Made chicken pot pie. Pickled beans. Isaiah’ll be home soon. Come in and help me set the table.”
“Can’t tonight, Mama. I’m not—”
“What? You got something more important to do? Someone you gotta see?”
“No, I’m just tired.”
“Come on, girl. ‘They will greet you and give you two loaves of bread, which you will accept from their hand.’ Don’t make me ask twice.” Knowing she’d made her point, Mama disappeared inside her warm cabin. How could Abby refuse its pull when all that awaited in her own home was the lonely stench of sickness? It was still Hamish’s cabin to her mind, no matter how often she’d aired it out over the past weeks.
Giving in to Mama’s invitation was easy, although she knew acting normal after what she’d done wouldn’t be.
“Wash up and set that table,” Mama ordered.
“Yes, ma’am.” Abby didn’t mind doing as her mama asked. Better to be occupied, she supposed.
They worked in silence for a bit, the smells of pot pie taking her back to a time before she’d been wed to Hamish.
There’d been so much good when she and Mama had arrived at the Church. So much better than life before. As a poor, starving seven-year-old, Abby had gone from having one struggling mother to a whole family, where everyone pitched in for the greater good. All servants of God, preparing for the Day.
But then they’d taken her away from Mama and that… Lord, that had been hard after sleeping tight against her side all Abby’s life. No matter that they’d been snuggled in the back of their old station wagon. At least they’d been together.
“Got your head in the clouds again, girl? Always someplace else, aren’t you?”
“Just remembering how it used to be. Before we came here.”
“Why would you do that?”
Abby shrugged. “Just feeling sad, I suppose.”
Regretting the impulse to share, she looked away as her mother straightened her face, taking on that look she got before a lecture.
“Did not God choose the poor of this world to be rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom?” she asked, her earnestness breaking Abby’s heart. “Your husband, Hamish, was a Chosen One, honey. You know that. It was his time.”
“He didn’t have to suffer like that,” she whispered. As expected, displeasure stormed across her mother’s features, but Abby couldn’t help it. Nobody else had nursed Hamish through the worst moments. It had been her duty as wife, and she’d done it gladly. Until he’d begged her to help him. That was when her own faith had begun to flag. That exact moment when Hamish, the most devout man she’d ever met, had turned his eyes from the savior he’d built his entire life on and laid them fervently upon her.
“It was God’s will for him to suffer, Abigail. You know that better than anyone.” Mama lifted her arm and bared the scar, the Mark of the Chosen. “We suffer for our Lord, and when the day is nigh, he accepts us unto him and we will be saved.”
Make it end, Hamish had whispered—the man who’d lived life as her better. The man who’d beaten her when she’d eyed the clothing of a modern teenager covetously. The man who’d done his duty by her in their bedroom without taking an ounce of pleasure from the experience. If God could withdraw from so devout a man in his moment of need, how couldshehope for understanding?
