I refreshed my account again: fifteen thousand followers.
“Look at how hard this woman works. Look how exhausted and beautiful she is.This,my friends, is the true American dream. Not that hamster wheel nightmare out in the cities. Don’t let the media fool you …”
I found my voice. “Caleb.”
He looked at me, and I handed him my phone. “Holy shit,” he whispered. Twenty thousand followers.
As Caleb refreshed—twenty-two—and refreshed again—twenty-four—and refreshed again—twenty-eight—I was just beginning to process what that man had said.Exhausted and beautiful:Did I look exhausted? And why was that a good thing? And had he said I bake all our bread from scratch? I could count on one hand the number of times I’d done so in my life. The picture I’d shared on my account of a sourdough loaf had been a loaf I’d picked up at the store. He was talking, now, about my kitchen, saying I didn’t use microwaves because they were radioactive and caused cancer. I thought of the microwave in our pantry, ugly, hidden from view, and said quietly, “I think there might have been a mistake, here.”
Over the next twenty-four hours, I would gain over three hundred thousand followers. I was so stunned by the number that it took me quite a bit longer to realize how many of them were angry.
This shit is so fake
Lol this woman looks miserable
Religious cult alert, ding ding ding!
This is not real life!
Over coffee the next day, Caleb and I scrolled through the comments silently. “Wow,” he said finally. “That’s a lot of angry women.”
35
Today is Abel’s thirteenth birthday.The day he becomes a man. We sit around the table and sing to him. He doesn’t receive any gifts. He looks properly shy from all the attention. “You’re a man now,” Old Caleb says, but he isn’t, not really. His voice has yet to crack. I’m still taller than him by a foot.
Together, we eat our eggs and biscuits, and the children guess what kind of man Abel will be. “Brave!” Noah says.
“Gentle,” Mary corrects.
“HUGE!” Maeve shouts. We all laugh at that.
After breakfast is over, Old Caleb looks at Abel. “Are you ready?” he says.
Abel looks terrified. He swallows and nods.
Mary, Maeve, Noah, and I stand on the porch, watching silently as Abel and Caleb walk slowly down the hill. Abel is old enough, now—for what? Only Old Caleb knows. The rest of the children simply parrot what he has told him. They’re off tothe far woods.They’re goingeverywhere.
What I am thinking:It’s easy to go everywhere when you’re the one who sets the traps.
“Good luck,” Noah shouts to his brother when they’re almost out of sight. Abel turns halfway to shout something back, but thenOld Caleb puts his arm around Abel’s shoulders, steering him forward, and soon the two of them are away, out of sight, off to a place only men can go.
Trust in the Lord,I remind myself. Outwardly, I am smiling. Inwardly, I feel like how Noah looks right now: desperately sad for having been left behind.
“Well,” Mary says. “What an exciting morning.” She turns to Noah and says softly, “It’ll be your turn before you know it.”
“No it won’t,” he says. “It’ll be years and years.”
“When will it bemyturn?” Maeve asks.
“Never,” Noah mutters irritably, and now Maeve’s face has fallen, too.
I turn to the children. “Say, why don’t we have some fun today? We could go pick some flowers, or play cowboys and Indians, or—” I look around for inspiration. What do pioneer children do for fun? My gaze lands on the horse, standing in the far shadows of the paddock. “What about the horse? Why don’t you take turns riding the horse?”
“Flower picking is for little girls, and horses aren’t meant to be ridden,” Noah says exasperatedly. “Do you understand anything?”
I laugh confusedly. “What do you mean, horses aren’t meant to be—”
He bellows in return. “You don’t understand anything!”
