Part 1An Interruption
1Elle
To Gut
I cut the cod downward, behind the head and near the gills, to create a space in the cavity. The blade runs down its back in shallow sections until the body becomes thin enough to slice end to end. A sharp knife makes all the difference between a quick, clean cut and a massacre of choppy, gut-covered bits.
Smaller fish, like pollock or mackerel, can be opened with one quick swipe of the blade down the backbone. Cod requires patience.
“You’ve gotten better at that cut since you did it to me,” says the man I murdered last year. He floats a few inches off the ground, idling near the stairs.
I’m thankful our nets caught the cod. It will feed us much longer than the tiny perch they usually dredge up. I’m not thankful for the lighthouse keeper’s persistent presence.
“It would’ve been quick if you’d kept the knife in as good condition as I do now,” I counter. The blade was bent and rust-worn on our first meeting.
I travel the knife inside the fish, feeling the ridges of the bone like the edges of an accordion. I angle my blade to keep the piece intact when I reach the belly.
He ignores me. “Bad sign to catch such a big fish close to shore. A storm’s brewing.”
The lighthouse keeper has few pleasures now, but his favorite is to get under my skin. As my knife did his. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of success. I focus on carefully sliding the blade until the white piece comes loose from its host.
He approaches the counter. The floorboards don’t creak, yet I hear his steps.
“It’s surprising that you haven’t learned to sense the storms, girl. Should’ve taken weeks. You’ve failed for an entire year. Impressive.”
Loathsome man. Always trying to guilt me, tear at my resolve. But there’s no point giving in after the sin has long since been boiled to the bone.
I place the slab of cod meat aside and dislodge the second piece. Sunlight streams through the kitchen window and onto my back, warming the light cotton of my work shirt. Once the lighthouse keeper’s, now mine. It fits me better than bleach-stiffened dresses ever did.
“How do you tell?” he asks, as though I’ve responded. “Changes in the wind. The birds. The salt on the air. Perhaps your senses have dulled, along with your humor.”
I’d like to see him stay pleasant in my shoes. He can lecture and taunt all he wants through the veil of death. He doesn’t have a debt racked up with the damned.
He looms over the other side of the counter until the end of his blood-soaked beard almost tickles my forehead. He’ll stay persistent until Liney comes back inside. Sermons may have suited him better than solitude, given the judgment he rains down.
He can’t hurt me. Not how I’ve hurt him.
“Make yourself useful, if you must act up.” I point to one of the small windows across the room, near the chesterfield and fireplace. The lighthouse’s ground floor is only one large room, quartered by the kitchen counter. “The shutters have been stuck open all week.”
The lighthouse keeper doesn’t move. Droplets of blue-hued blood splatter onto the counter, inches from the cod’s exposed spine. I look up. My rough gash across his throat is dripping.
“Must you? Now?” I’ve become numb to his tactics, inconvenient as this is.
“Is my wound offensive to you?” His low voice is a pale echo of the night we met. The night he died. “Are you feeling culpable? Dare I hope, regretful?”
I swallow down an always-lingering spark of anger. The lighthouse keeper is no more a threat than motes in sunlight or foam on waves. I breathe out slowly through my nose. If I’m not careful, my rage may call on the dark power beneath the lighthouse. It’s too great a risk to use frivolously, and I have no reason to believe it could touch a ghost. I’ll never risk my sister’s safety here on his account.
“Liney will be back any moment.” Her name usually distracts him. “Fix it. Do you want her to freeze in this storm of yours?”
She won’t see the bloom of blood that has spread across the counter. It’s notherburden. Liney has no idea of the gruesome history on my hands. She can never know all I’ve done to protect her, to bring her here. She knows nothing of the lighthouse keeper’s fate. In her mind, our parents are alive, searching for us.
I’ll do anything for my sister. Anything but tell her the truth.
The lighthouse keeper wrinkles his nose.
“Fine, I’ll do it,” I snap, throwing the second slab of cod aside. “And when I break them off completely and Liney gets frostbite, you’ll surely be proud of yourself for standing up when it counted.”
His pity for my sister is a helpful tool.
