inherited

Evie takes chances with her life. It’s a skill and a bad habit written into her DNA, making up her every choice and action from her first memory onward. Playing rough with the boys, acting out towards Dad, refusing to help Mom with the ever-growing list of siblings and chores. Something in her nature makes her resist, and she’s wise enough to know it. Even if she could control herself, she wouldn’t, although it lands her in hot water all the time. There have been too many nights spent bent over the back of Mom and Dad’s bed and whooped good—no spared rod for her.

“Who’d you learn that from, huh?” Dad would ask every time, no matter if Evie said a swear word or forgot to put on bloomers under her Sunday dress. “Why are you so bad?”

He talks as if someone taught her to earn this type of treatment. Whenever she opens her mouth to answer, his belt wavers in the air, fist clasped tight around it. But all she can force out is an, “I dunno”, which only serves to double her lashes. 

What worries her the most is the notion that something is wrong with her, because she can never quite guess if her actions are good or bad. No matter what, it always seems like she does the bad thing without even choosing it. No one had to show her how to misbehave, it comes natural to her.

After each punishment, Evie always spends time alone in her room, drifting. Dad says it’s time for her to reflect on her actions, to make peace with her sins, but she can never quite make herself focus hard enough. She takes a smooth stone from her windowsill and worries it under her thumb, rolling her fingerprint along its back, imagining it purring, arching up for her like an animal.

When he was still alive and everything was happy, Evie used to fish with her grandfather on Saturdays. Those were her days, away from the house and the noise. Despite what her father said or what her mother needed, when that big greytruck pulled up in the driveway, she’d peel out the front door, rolling her shorts up above her knees, no one to smack her wrist for her immodesty. Grandpa understood, could see how Evie thought and acted way older than her age, bags under her eyes from midnight wake-ups and heartbeat always too fast to be normal, even before she was ten. With him, she was not a girl or a young woman nor a big sister or a babysitter. She only had to be a child.

If Evie could have had her way, she would have escaped to the creek every single day. The water was a balm, cool on her bare skin, and the smells of sounds of nature mixed in with Grandpa’s grumbling and his tobacco pipe’s soft puffs. She drifted, bare feet sinking into the mud, eyeing the little minnows only for them to dart away at her shadow.

They would hardly catch anything, even though Evie worked again and again to stick worms on the hooks, their tiny bodies still writhing in her fingers. It made her proud, the fact she wasn’t grossed out. Like she could do anything if she held her breath and got over the messy parts. Whatever they did catch- usually thin chubs or mosquitofish- they threw back, letting them plop in the water to live another day. On the best days, she’d wear Grandpa’s fishing hat. The wide brim sloped down beyond her ears, hiding her snaggletooth smile every time her line got a yank.

“You’re a champ,” Grandpa would say. “My little fisher-gal.”

After they worked through the gas station can o’ worms, the real competition started. Grandpa rolled up his pants and joined her in the water, both searching for the best rocks they could find. Description of rocks. Evie would win every time, of course, and afterwards, there was always enough daylight left for her to stretch her body out in the stream’s belly, the water casting over her shoulders and thighs. She never had to believe she was terrible in the wide, warm sun.

Eventually, they would have to crawl out of the water and up the bank so Grandpa could cart her back home, rocks hidden in her pockets, secret little bounties for her collection. She didn’t know what her parents would do if they saw them, but she understood there was very little she could have for herself in that house. Even just seeing the dirt caking Evie’s legs and the filth crusted under her fingernails would make Mom sigh high and breathy and had Dad planning out her retribution. Only a scalding bath and a harsh scrubbing could get her clean again, all done against her will—usually kicking and screaming, which would then lead to another whooping.

In the liminal days between Grandpa’s death and his funeral, Evie took handful after handful of stones from her secret closet pile. She was supposed to be in bed at 7:30, but the noises from the house—babies and toddlers crying, mostly—keep her awake. Mom and Dad never seemed to notice them on the windowsill, their backs soft and smooth in the clear moonlight or heavy and hot from catching sun. She’d take any punishment, any whooping to avoid getting rid of them. The stones are a weight, a reminder. They sit, a promise that one day, she’ll be good enough for Dad to allow her to go back to the creek by herself.

On Sunday, Evie drifts asleep while Brother Amos’ high, rasping voice drones on about Hellfire, even though herr body aches from the wooden pew and the skin on the back of her neck itches, hair pulled tight to her scalp in an updo. Dad didn’t catch her, despite what he always said about having eyes on all sides of his head. If he had, her backside would be raw and red.

Evie dreamed the whole two hours, mostly about Heaven and Hell and God himself coming down through the thunderclouds and landing outside the church in the middle of the green grass. Vindication, knowing He made her equal and indifferent. But then, the landscape shifts from the dust-brown churchyard to a violent green field and Dad’s face takes the place of God’s. He looms in the crops, small head still attached to a hulking, heavenly body. The heat increases, and she knows deep in her soul the long summer is a punishment for her greed, for thinking she could be more than what she was born to be.

Evie wakes up when Mom thumbs her wrist. “I won’t tell,” she whispers. It’s all she can get, the silent support, the secret kept. 

Her dreams were right. As summer takes over, outside is miserable. Even in the mornings, the humidity chokes and drives anyone who knows what’s best for themselves inside. The air only gets worse as the day marches on in steady form, constricting Evie’s throat when she tries to play in the yard, making believe like she used to. Imagination comes harder these days, the greed of it not worth the aftermath. 

Green is everywhere, covering the lattices around the house, scraping up towards the sky. Stubborn, Evie keeps to her regular routine—helping Mom in the garden, then setting out for her daily walk, her precious thirty minutes of freedom. She loops Gus’ leash around his thick neck. The dog demands more attention from her, so she kneels, pressing her hands into his blonde fur.

“Quit bending over like that.”

Evie shoots up. Dad’s hanging over the porch rail, hands clasped in front of his chest. They hadn’t talked since the kickball game, but every time she passes by him in nighttime’s soft light, he scowls. Shame rolls in her gut. The overwhelming urge to yank Gus forward and run shakes Evie down, but it’s not worth the whooping for ignoring him. Instead, she pulls her shorts down, closer to the soft curve of her knees and smacks her lips.

“Sorry,” she says. “Just gonna take Gus out.”

“No good dog,” Dad says. And that’s the cue for her to leave.

Evie and Gus start by cutting through a line of backyards, all the way out to the main road. It’s not explicitly forbidden, but being out on the sidewalk all by herself is a secret nip of freedom and adulthood. The air sits so hot it could blister the back of her throat, but she trudges on. Once she makes it to the Come ‘n’ Save, though, Evie knows she’s stretched her own leash a bit too far. If she had the guts, she’d walk all the way out to her old creek out by the lakeside and camp there. But she could never get away with that.

There’s a high, reedy laugh coming from a gas pump. Evie flicks her eyes over to see a handful of teenagers, obviously from out of town. They always stop at the Come ‘n’ Save on their way to the lake, taking their sweet time, wearing their shorts and tank tops, their skin tanned and hair pin-straight. One laughs, leaned up against the store’s brick wall, holding a bottle of juice so red it could dye fabric. Spit collects in the back of Evie’s mouth. She wants to taste it so bad, imagines it’s fresh and cool in the heat. How would it feel to be on summer break—a real summer break, out of school? Brother Amos talks about the teens swarming the Piggly Wiggly and the McDonald’s. They’re idle, the Devil’s toys. Consistent work should be better than boredom. But sick jealousy becomes an indulgence. To study them, their mannerisms and their language is to experience something close to normal.

Gus pulls at the leash, aching to get home and out of the heat. Evie leads him past the gas station’s parking lot and loops around to the back, towards the secret shortcut through the Lawley’s backyard. Dad will be glad she’s home sooner, not out making trouble. Nothing like those kids that pass through Cade’s Junction. Her legs burn from the sun and the stinging nettle.

Home greets her with a sheet of too-easy math drills. It never stops. Stuck at the kitchen table, she starts the first problem and whips her way to the end. Could be worse. Dad sits across from her, studying a newspaper, glasses fogged as hot coffee steams up from his favorite mug. It reads “World’s Best Mechanic” in bright orange swirling letters, which never made sense to Evie, because there’s no such thing as a worldwide mechanic competition. He snorts and pushes his glasses up his nose to rest on his hairline. The way his eyes squint gives him a rodent look, features suddenly small.

Watching him gives her the strange sensation of seeing eye to eye, like he’s truly in front of her and not just a strange spectre looming through the house.

He doesn’t look up, but his mouth opens and Evie braces herself for a lecture. “You ought to quit walking so far.” She nods. Her lips feel numb. “Where did you even go that took you so long?” Dad asks.

“Why?”

The wrong thing to say. Dad’s eyes narrow and her stomach sinks. He always takes it as talking back, and talking back has never earned her a real explanation, no matter if she’s asking why she has to spend so much time babysitting or why she has to always visit Brother Amos in his office after church, even when he looks at her and treats her like an ugly, sinful thing.

“Girl,” his voice wavers. “When I ask you something, you answer me with the truth. Don’t give me lip like that, or you’ll see ”

“I’m sorry,” she says. The words barely come past her throat while Evie’s head kicks into gear. If Dad decides to get mad about something, it becomes the worst sin in the world, no matter if the act was normal yesterday. It’s a wager, a bet with herself—if he knew how far she went, how many backyards she cut through, how she made it all the way to the edge of town, would he let it go? Would he take her ignorance for today’s rules as an excuse? It’s never worked for her before, but Sunday School and Bible stories drilled honesty straight through her skull.

She could tell him about the out of town kids, about how she watched them show their skin and laugh too loud. Make it about someone else’s wrongdoings. Mix in some truth, hide her part in it. But he’d still sniff out her actions.

“I just did a few loops around our block,” she says. Easy. Simple. The lie is sticky on her tongue like dried-up honey. It’s not something she’s ever done on purpose, and that sentence of disobedience sits all beautiful and wicked at the same time. Dad follows it, lets her continue.“Gus likes to walk for a long time.”

Dad hums and flicks his eyes down to the newspaper. “Old dog doesn’t know what’s good for him. Come back after two laps tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Evie says. He couldn’t tell she was lying. Adrenaline hits and her head goes dizzy, nausea climbing her stomach. Good and bad, all one and the same.

The danger is over. Whatever tirade he wanted to start has been nipped in the bud. With Dad ignoring her, the air conditioner sends a cooling balm down the back of her neck. She feels just a little bit stupid. If she had known it would be that easy to hide herself, she would have lied over and over again, all throughout her life. Would have gotten a lot fewer bruises that way. Separated by the wide kitchen table, the math tugs her attention away from Dad and she curls toward it, reworking the numbers three times to make sure everything is correct. One whooping avoided. Maybe if the sheet’s perfect, another could pass over her and the day could float on, peace and harmony in the house. Hallelujah and Amen.

In the corner window by her baby sister’s discarded high chair, a fly buzzes, knocking itself against the glass. Evie stares at it real hard. She can almost see each individual wing flap.