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“Absolutely not,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “You won’t be doing any of that.”
38
ATTICUS
The following day, I went out to check the fishing line and the snare traps; brought back one large catfish and cleaned it before Thais woke. I never wanted to see her cry the way she cried that day. I didn’t know what could’ve caused her to break down the way she did, but I knew she wasn’t ready to talk about it, and so I never asked.
More every day I saw that Thais and I weren’t as different as I’d thought. She was fighting her own demons, just as I was. She was trying to forget the things she had witnessed and experienced and had been torn apart by, just as I was. She was trying to put the past behind her, to forget her sister’s death, the death of everyone she had ever known and loved—not accept them, but forget them. Just as I was. She told me these things one day, but, as always, she was vague. Thais was strong, but she hurt as much as anyone. As much as me. Probably more, I decided. Because she was stronger than me and she rarely ever showed her pain or talked about the things that caused it. I envied her. I could never be as strong as she was. She was a soft and kindhearted young woman who often fell into the ‘girly’ stereotype, grossed out by things and skittish by other things and startled easy. But Thais was anything but a typical girl. Thais was anything but a typical anything.
“I can’t watch you skin it!” she said one afternoon, her eyes were screwed shut, and she shook her head at me.
I looked up at her from the bottom step of the back porch; a rabbit I’d caught in one of my snare traps dangled lifelessly by its feet from one hand. I hadn’t meant for her to see it.
“I’ll do it on the side of the house,” I told her, and stepped around George.
Days blended into weeks—two weeks must’ve passed since we’d found the cabin, and instead of keeping my distance, I only grew closer to her.
THAIS
And the closer he got, the more my heart ached for him.
I had always sensed his struggles, listened to him mumble curses in his sleep, toss and turn and sweat the way I used to after my mother’s death. Atticus did everything to hide his pain from me, I knew, and he fought every day to distance himself from me, but I couldn’t understand why. I wanted to know, more than anything. I wanted to understand him, but he only gave me a little of himself at a time. And when he held me and kissed me and touched me, I always felt a wall built high between us.
I was determined to chip that wall away.
I was fixated on finding the weak spot.
I ached inside that it was taking so long.
The July heat was unbearable. It must’ve been one hundred degrees. Atticus and I traded modesty for comfort to endure the heat, wearing less each day. We often looked at each other privately, but it was so hot that even looking took a lot of effort.
“Where are you going?” I asked as he walked down the creaking porch steps.
I sat on the rocking chair; sweat dripped from my face; my hair was pulled into a ponytail; I fanned myself with a plastic dinner plate.
“To check the line.”
“I’ll come with you.” I set the plate down and got up.
“No, you stay here in the shade. I won’t be long.”
“Atticus, put on your boots.”
He stopped, sighed, looked down at his bare feet, blades of grass poking between his long toes.
I got up and grabbed his boots from the porch railing, dipped my fingers into the tops to hold them together.
“The last thing you need is to step on a snake and get bitten.”
He took the boots from my hand.
“At least we’d have something to eat,” he joked.
“How are you going to eat it if it kills you because it’s poisonous?” I offered him a sweet smile.
Returning it, he said, “I’ll wear the boots” and then he put them on, leaving the long strings loose, tucked them into the boots rather than tying them.
I chuckled as I looked him over.
