Page 46 of The Frozen River

As if on cue, Cicero growls.

“If I were you, I’d feed that thing before he bites someone.”

“No point feeding a dog when it can take its own dinner by the throat,” he says, then drives his boots into the mare’s side. Joseph North canters down the drive, mongrel dog at his heels.

Friday, December 18—Cloudy and some snow. Colonel North was here. He examined me regarding what conversation Mrs. Foster had with me concerning his conduct toward her last August. I have been at home.

Saturday, December 19—Clear part of the day. Today is 35 years since my marriage. Mr. Ballard has not returned from his surveying. I have been at home.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 20

Killing chickens is a bloody, awful mess. The task usually falls to Ephraim or Jonathan, but both are gone. So today Cyrus and I have undertaken the job of butchering and we usher three ornery cocks to the yard.

These are the last of our extra roosters from the spring. Mean things that torment us with beak and spur every time we go to collect the eggs. They are small and spindly, and I’m tired of them. It’s no great sadness to see them put in the oven to roast.

“I hate the axe,” I tell Cyrus. “We should use Revenge.”

He gives me a questioning glance.

“Your father’s blade. Down at the mill. That awful, hooked thing. Revenge. That’s what we call it. Fetch it if you would.”

It takes him only a few moments to go there and back. But the blade is in his hand when he returns. We silently debate which of us will do the job. He points at me. Holds his fist as though he’s grasping something, and I agree because there is no good way out of this work. I’ll face spurs or blade one way or the other. Better to be in control of the thing that cuts.

Cyrus grabs the first bird. He holds it upside down for several moments, letting the blood rush to its head. When its eyes close and its wings stop flapping, I know the cock has fallen asleep. Cyrus holds its head in his other hand and secures his grip on the feet. I hate killing things. But I hate these roosters more. And this is the most humane way to dispatch them. So I cut the fowl’s throat with a quick, C-shaped motion and it’s done. Cyrus hangs the bird by its feet at the fence so that the blood will drain. It goes quickly enough after that. One after the other. Once we’re done, he goes to clean the blade and put it back at the mill.

I will have Hannah and Dolly dress and cook the birds once they’re plucked. There’s no clean way to finish the job, but it’s better done outside than in the kitchen where the feathers and blood will get everywhere. I scald the birds in hot water to loosen the feathers, and then I set up my stool and carving stump in the yard and get to work. Soon, there is a pile of black and white feathers in the bucket at my feet. I have gutted the last rooster when once more the sound of horse hooves echoes down the lane. But there are two sets this time, and I do not even bother to get my hopes up.

When I lift my head, I see that North is back. And he’s brought his wife with him. Halfway down the drive he holds out his hand and motions to Lidia.

“Wait here,” he tells her, then kicks his mare into a trot.

Lidia North does as she is told and pulls her small gray horse to a stop. She’s covered in a green riding cloak, and all I can see is her pale face peeking out beneath the hood. She looks unwell, and her hands are tucked into a muff to stay warm.

Dammit, I think, but go to meet North at the gate, hands sticky with blood.

“Colonel.”

He’s dressed in riding clothes and packed for a journey. Headed to Vassalboro early, no doubt. The cur is at his heels, eyeing me in that ravenous, predatory way.

“Ephraim?” he asks, not bothering to dismount or offer a greeting.

“On his way.”

He snorts, unconvinced. “I would give you one piece of advice. When you stand before the judges,” North says, voice just low enough that his wife cannot hear, his arm sweeping wide to indicate the house, the barn, the mill, “remember who I am. After all, your family depends a great deal upon my generosity.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I am reminding you,” he says, “that, as an agent of the Kennebec Proprietors, it is my duty to confirm that you have met all the conditions required to obtain the deed on this property.”

“Don’t worry. I remember exactly who you are,” I say. “Rebecca Foster told me.”

I have been so consumed with the chickens that I didn’t realize how miserably cold it is out here. The sun has passed its zenith and is sliding toward the horizon, dragging the last of the day’s meager heat with it, and a breeze has come in from the east, whipping shards of ice into the air. It stings my cheeks and makes my eyes water.

Joseph North’s voice is every bit as cold as the air when he replies, “Clearly there is more than one idiot living in this house.”

I gasp at the insult. I could scream with fury. But I’m not the one who makes the sudden screeching sound. It comes so quick and so loud that I jump. Spin around. See nothing. But then there is a rush of air and the flapping of wings as an enormous bird dives toward us. It does a lazy circle around the house, swoops between me and North, then glides to the garden gate, gripping the wooden board so tightly that its talons gash open the weathered cedar.

Cicero yips and growls, but he too sees those lethal talons and keeps his distance. North pulls his horse backward in alarm, but I feel only a wild rush of relief.