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owling · 9 years ago

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Come Again in Glory

Benny said he’d prefer the farm. He said he wanted to feel the coat of a sheep that had been naturally bristled by the wind.

Sr. Weston was thrilled. “Fresh air is exactly what this boy needs, exactly,” she told the man who owned the farm. “Anything that’s been bothering him –” She paused and swept her arms wide, as if all the things that had been bothering Benny could not be contained in a sentence but could fit between Sr. Weston’s doughy fingers. “Fresh air will make all the better of it, I’m sure.” She paused again. “You don’t have any rabbits, do you?” Her fingers hovered over the edges of Benny’s ears.

“No rabbits.”

“Good. We had a, uh, an incident last year.”

The man did not reply, did not seem amused by Sr. Weston, and Benny liked him already. He signed a few papers and waited while Benny collected his things (a few pairs of trousers, undergarments, and a stuffed toy). The man seemed surprised. “Is that all you got, son?” Benny shrugged.

Sitting in the back of the man’s truck, bobbling around with the milk bottles, Benny watched as the farm came into sight. The plots of land unraveled themselves around a small Victorian cottage, like lashes around an eye that was hooded and sleepy but saw everything. It all looked like something out of the Beatrix Potter books that had been scattered among the Bibles in the basement of the church. In one corner of the farm, dainty trees sprung up from the earth to give the sheep there some shade. Benny stared at them as the truck slowed. The sheep looked untouchable, like nothing existed for them beyond those fences, like there was not a whole history of sacrifices and Isaac and Abraham and blood on doors and no thank you, we are clean, please take our sheep as a sign of my body which is given up for you do this in remembrance of me.

“Well your room’s not ready yet, son,” the man said as he hoisted Benny out of the truck. “I’d asked this lady from town to come and make it, ya know, homey, but she’s got bad ankles, and well. I’d have you out here with me, if you were old enough to work, but – well, how old are you?”

“Six.” Benny allowed himself to be led into the cottage.

“Oh okay. So no working for youse then. I mean, the animals will be fine, but too many big machines and sharp things, ya know? Here,” the man said, steering Benny by the shoulders to angle him into a doorway. “You can stay in here for the day. Nice big windows for you to look out and see all the animals. And uh, some toys, too. Nothing new, sorry ‘bout that, all from when my kids were young like you.”

Benny looked at the toys: some dusty logs, crayons broken in halves, a doll missing some hair, and a stick with a pony’s head at one end. “Thank you,” he said.

The man nodded. “Well I’ll be working out there in the sun, just tap if you need me, yeah?” He rapped on the clear glass, the dirt from his knuckles leaving smudge prints. (He had such large hands, they had been like bear claws on Benny’s shoulders, Benny wanted those hands.)

The man left and Benny surveyed the room. Its straw flooring made the skin on his feet feel slanted and he was already sweating from the sunlit heat. No living things but a plant in the corner, its petals bloated on all sides from the sun. Benny checked the dirt and found a worm, its pink pores moist from the soil. It was about the length of one of the unbroken crayons, the brown one, which Benny placed in a sunspot on the thatched floor (some things take time).

The man had mentioned sharp things and machines: a scythe cutting heads of corn but Benny wouldn’t be able to wield it. He’d only had his own body to use after they had taken away his pocket knife and pencils at the church; still, the rabbit’s bones cracked under the weight of his thighs, thin as they were, as Benny had been refusing supper on and off for weeks, letting the other kids have more, and they loved him for it, though they were still afraid, especially Sarah who’d been behind the window that he’d thrown the rectory cat through. Sarah was lanky and had hair the color of the devil’s flesh. (Did it crisp when burned?)

From the window Benny could hear the sheep in their field. They bayed like they were being gutted. He listened to their cries as he dragged the worm through the boiling brown wax: a waxy tongue to shove down the throat of a cat, or maybe the woman who came do to do his room, where the worm dieth not, the fire is not quenched, the tongues on fire to help them spread the word of the Son for he is Risen, Benny, the Son of the Shoemaker from the Shithole is Risen. Sr. Weston’s eyes on the plate like St. Lucy forgive me Father for I have cindered this place to ashes ashes ashes. And a cloud will rise over this house that is an all-seeing eye and the farmer would come in and the fire would be magnificent and his hands would try to stop it and Benny would take those hands and screw them on tight, take his new hands, birthed from the fire, and anoint the sheep in the field say “God never wanted you” and the crisping in the air from their burnt fleeces would mean that fall was coming soon.

#nyc midnight #nycmidnight #writing #mine #my writing #fiction #story #flash fiction #short story

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owling · 10 years ago

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