Zora rose from her bed, the familiar crib no longer at her side. After fifteen years, life was no better, except now her baby duties transferred to her hateful younger sister, Abigail. She dressed to begin a long day of housework. It wouldn’t be housework per se, it would be outside work. Her jeans and an old T-shirt made the perfect work clothes.
Zora sat on a bucket with her hands beneath Mildred, their cow. Mildred was the perfect picture of a cow. Her black and white spots reminded Zora of the picture of cows in her schoolbooks. The only difference was the back left leg of her cow was a fading yellowish-brown. Zora sat and squeezed the last drops of milk from Mildred. Both women had a sour look on their faces. She squeezed harder and then shook the udder before stopping.
With a wipe of her brow, another distasteful job completed. She looked at the overhead sky. It was cloudy, but bright. No chance of rain. The weather lady was wrong, again.
“Good girl.” She stood, reached over, and patted Mildred on her large backside. “Abby would be proud of you. You are a fine lady, despite what you have to go through.” Zora rubbed Mildred to soothe her. Both felt better after the rub.
Mildred mooed.
Zora looked about. Abigail was coming toward her wearing a baby carrier. Stewart’s little arms waved about as he giggled. Abigail took short careful strides to reach them. Zora gazed at the cow’s off-color back leg. She leaned in to whisper in Mildred’s ear. “I think so too. Don’t worry, Milly, I won’t let her hurt you.”
Sometimes it felt strange talking to animals, as old as she was, but on a farm, life is strange and you make do. Not being allowed to date and with the absence of close friends, family and barn animals were all she had. Animals were easier. Though she was older, Zora was often treated as the wayward baby and responded as such. It was a bad habit she found hard to break. Perhaps if she could get away, she could blossom. Oh well, she waited for the inevitable.
Stewart was seven months old. He sat in a brown carrier strapped to thirteen-year-old Abigail Baker. Abigail was directly beneath Zora and inherited baby duties when she turned eight. She preferred the carrier to strollers because it kept her hands free. Zora hated having babies stare straight at her and her mother didn’t approve of the baby turned with its back to her, although Abigail obviously broke that rule. Zora couldn’t wait until Abigail was old enough to take over. Little did she know that once she gave up those duties, she would be saddled with those dropped by older siblings. Life was not fair.
She tensed as she saw her sister approaching. Abigail started with Simon. She was mean to him so Zora took her duties back. Many times she would enter the room to see Abigail smirk, seconds later, Simon would yell out in pain and the demon would be wearing an excited grin.
When their mother had her last child, she specifically made Abigail do her duty. Zora argued and volunteered to trade a much-older Simon for Stewart, but their mother objected. Their father stayed out of the fray and stood by as Rebecca was forced to slap Zora to end her protests.
Abigail was trouble and Zora knew it early. Only she had spent time in close quarters with the demon. The younger sister had a mean streak, much like the older sister, Beth Ann. Mildred moved backward. Zora rubbed her to soothe her more.
Years earlier, Abigail sought to prove chocolate milk came from chocolate cows. She found brown paint in the barn to paint Abby, Mildred’s mother. Abigail was in the barn alone with her namesake and Mildred. As she put a layer of paint on Mildred’s back left leg, her mother let out a long gasp and fell on her front legs.
The doctor said it was toxic shock that killed Abby. Zora eavesdropped and heard the word poisoning and knew her sister to be the devil’s spawn. Zora and her father scrubbed Milly raw to get the paint off. Zora protected her since.
Abigail strolled up with a bright smile. “Turd face? Anybody home?”
Zora blinked. “What do you want, Abby?” she said the name hard to needle her.
“Don’t call me that, turd face. Momma said to bring the milk; she is baking cakes for the wedding and needs the milk.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. I have to take Milly back to her stall.”
“You better hurry, momma said now.”
The little spitfire was every bit the redhead of legend. Waves of hostility shot from her to her older sister. Zora regretted that she once took a whipping for the little monster. Time had slowly twisted in on itself and somehow given Abigail the upper hand over her older sister. All the younger siblings lived in fear of Abigail’s rage. Her fiery red hair made her the spitting image of their mother and she wielded that power. Abigail gave a stray look to Milly, she accented the look with her excited grin. A chill came over Zora. Abigail laughed at her shudder and turned to march back to the house. If only she would trip and fall in several cow patties on the way.
Zora dismissed the pleasurable thought. Abigail had radar and a habit of looking behind her. The grin faded from Zora’s face. She quickly took Milly out of her sister’s sight and hurried to catch the demon before she entered the house with a mouthful of lies. Just like her to get everyone in trouble and watch the fireworks.
Zora rubbed Milly and gave her a kiss. She ran back for her pail of milk and moved toward the big house with it, careful not to spill a drop. She entered the big kitchen with her milk intact. No one could be happier than she. She maneuvered through the mass of female neighbors and relatives all adorned in some dress of a drab color. All came to help prepare the wedding feast and take in the local gossip. Grandma Rebecca was there with Aunt Rebecca and third cousin Rebecca, no doubt chastising the other siblings on the importance of naming the first born daughter Rebecca, the family tradition. Zora dreaded having to hear that conversation and pushed past them as fast as her little legs would carry her. Ahead, her mother measured flour in a measuring cup.
“I got the milk.” She smiled brightly. It never worked before, why should it work now. Her self-esteem took a beating; life hadn’t gone anywhere near the way she planned. She felt as if she were ten instead of fifteen. Better yet, the ugly duckling Cinderella to evil stepsister Abigail.
“Set it down on the counter,” her mother said.
“Momma? Wouldn’t goat milk make a better cake?” the carbon copy gave her excited grin as Zora deflated.
Rebecca tilted her head in thought. “I think that’s an excellent idea, Bee,” her pet name for her mini me. For a time, Zora, like all the daughters before her, favored her mother. She was a lovely three and the center of attention. Then, her hair darkened to brown and she more resembled her father, like most of the others. Abigail, on the other hand, maintained her mother’s bright-red hair color, and thus maintained favorite status.
Zora thought quickly. “I milked Sherry two days ago.” She hoped that would save her. Not only was milking a pain, but it was highly gross and perverted.
“It doesn’t matter,” retaliated Abigail, crinkling her nose and puffing out her jaws at her sister, “she has more. I saw, she is big and fat and needs milking.”
“Stop lying. You know that isn’t true. I milked her already.”
“It’s true.”
“No, it’s not. It takes a week for her to make enough milk.”
“That’s true,” Rebecca agreed, tossing her long ponytail out of her way.
Abigail fumed. Zora looked from her to her mother. Could she win this one? Could it be possible? The thought of touching Sherry’s udders made her shiver. She hated the job and couldn’t wait to pass it to Abigail next year. She kept a calendar and marked an ‘X’ to count down the days on each job she would be happy to give away.
Suddenly, her nemesis smiled. Oh, god! You gap-toothed little witch!
“Momma?”
“Hmm?”
Rebecca kept measuring and pouring flour into separate bowls. She paid little attention to the conflict. She directed the other women, smiling at the girls. Tomorrow was Beth Ann’s wedding. Beth Ann was the second favorite.
“Momma, the wedding cake?”
“What?” Rebecca looked at her replica.
Abigail gave a crocodile smile. “How about if the wedding cake uses the goat’s milk and goose eggs? It will be rich and yummy. Nicholas will like that. Shoving rich cake in Beth Ann’s mouth will make him so happy.” Abigail crooned.
“Yes, you’re right!” Rebecca lit up. “Ooh, that would be heaven.” She turned to Zora. “Take the other measuring cup and bring me back two cups of goat’s milk.”
“But—”
“No buts, do it this instant!”
There was nothing more that Zora could say. She made her way to the other side of the room. Abigail’s face spread into the most delicious grin as she handed the tattered cup to her big sister.
Zora took the cup. Devil incarnate, she thought. She turned and walked past her pail of milk to defile poor Sherry on the orders of a vengeful sister. Images of her hands wrapped around and squeezing womanlike breasts floated across her mind. She shuddered as she approached the barn.
An hour later, Zora scrubbed the dining-room floor. She had floor cleaner and polish she used on the floor. She stopped scrubbing to grab a Popsicle from the freezer. She sat in a chair watching Anna, her ten-year-old sister, playing cards on the floor with Simon, now seven, and Stewart. She went to get each of them a Popsicle.
Anna loosely held a little puppy while moving cards with her free hand. Her duties included helping with Stewart, the last child, though her mother told her that she would spend time helping her other sisters with their newborns. A woman had to know how to take care of children, mother was fond of saying.
The puppy hopped out of Anna’s lap and ran to the polish, sniffing the can. Something caught Zora’s eye. She could barely see them, wavy lines, possibly fumes, going from one of the cans to the bottom of their gas water heater.
Something came from the water heater, something blue and small. It danced in the air, riding the wavy lines toward the cans. The puppy was moving toward the dancing oddity, it wanted to play. Zora stood, her eyes the size of saucers. Her mouth opened and the Popsicle fell out.
Abigail walked through the kitchen, looking for mischief. She saw her sister standing with her mouth open, not moving. She smiled, a perfect opportunity for torture.
“Zoraphena,” she said in a sing-songy way, all smiles.
The girl did not move.
“Hey, turd face! Hey!”
Abigail moved next to her, still, she did not move. Abigail looked down and saw the Popsicles at her feet. She turned to see what her sister looked at. Her eyes grew big. She threw up her hands in horror, shock swam across her face, then she screamed and ran. What she saw took only a second to occur: Stewart moved on his hands and knees toward the flame. The puppy hit the thin line he intended to play with and flames shot from the heater to the cans. Heat hit her as flames grew high along the wall. Abigail ran and scooped up Stewart. The children ran past a frozen Zora, screaming. The puppy fell on its side, twitching and screaming, all aflame.
“Momma! Momma!” Abigail held her brother, screaming, not moving, watching the flaming puppy.
Rebecca was looking out the window at those gathered on the bench, taking a break. The kitchen was empty except for her and one of the triplets, both wore aprons. Each was a modern day wife to make a husband proud. She turned to see the screaming children running from the next room. She ran to have a look as fear flooded her face.
“Oh god,” said Rebecca. She ran out back yelling for help.
Zora moved. For a moment her eyes fluttered and then she smelled something foul and strong. Her nose burned and eyes watered. She had seen Abigail run past her with Stewart. Before that, Simon and Anna flew past her. She lost time and it took seconds to remember what happened.
The room filled with her family. Bodies ran around in a blur, shouting and batting at the flames with towels. Their father grabbed a fire extinguisher. He made them move, then extinguished the flames.
Black smoke billowed to the ceiling from a charred wall. A can smoked, Zora assumed it was the floor polish. She saw a charred fur ball between the can and the heater, she began remembering. Before all the pieces fell in place, shouting began.
“She did it!” Abigail pointed an accusatory finger at Zora.
“What?” the stunned girl asked. Slowly she was coming back.
“She zoned out and almost got them killed! She killed Dolphie, she killed him, Killer! Killer! Killer!” Abigail’s screeches shot through Zora. Her face flamed redder than her hair as she held tightly to Stewart. The poor boy cried, crushed by the panicking teenager.
“Stop it!” John Baker took charge.
Stewart got away from Abigail, running and stumbling as quickly as his little legs would carry him into his mother’s arms.
“What happened?” asked John.
“She happened,” screamed Abigail, again she pointed an accusing finger. “She stood there like a statue, spaced out, while Stewart crawled toward those flames. He could have died because of her.”
All eyes turned to Zora. The scrutiny was too much for her to bear. She felt small and had trouble finding her voice. Children cried all around her. Smoke came toward her. If only she could disappear in that smoke and be gone forever.
“John,” said Rebecca, comforting a crying Stewart clinging to her. “Do something, now!”
John turned to his daughter. “Zora, you and I need to talk. The rest of you, start cleaning this mess, we have a wedding to get ready for.”
“Daddy, I think—”
He interrupted her. “Not now, Abigail. Help your sisters get this room in order. Come along, Zoraphena.”
Zora left the room under the accusatory glare of her family. She felt lower than low and had no idea how to get out of this problem. Trailing behind her father, she felt her load lighten as she exited the kitchen. When he didn’t stop outside the front door, worry set in. Her father was going to the barn. She was in for the whipping of her young life.
With nothing to do but think, she prepared, hoping her whipping would not last long. She thought of her chores and how hard it would be to do them in pain. She imagined trying to sit with a tanned hind-end. The pain would be excruciating.
As she neared the barn’s door, she thought of explanations and excuses to avoid a full-out whipping. Dozens of scenarios ran through her head, none of them good. She walked through the door worried.
Without waiting for her father to tell her, she went to the empty gate of a horse’s stall they nicknamed ‘the whipping fence’. She shut her eyes tightly and fought to keep the tears back. I hate Abigail and I hate kids. I am never ever having kids. They only lead to trouble. Demons, everyone.
Zora placed her hands on her old friend. The minute she touched it, she had a change of heart. She thought of what happened and concluded she deserved punishment, but wouldn’t cry. Abigail would see no tears. None of them would see tears. She braced for the pain, soon it would be over. Be strong, I will be strong.
Her chest heaved as she braced. The blows never came. She risked a look. Zora opened her eyes and turned to see where her father stood. He was behind her, but his head was down. The look on his face was neither anger nor hate. He was sad. Zora turned. For the first time, she thought she saw tears.
Gently, she took a step in his direction. He didn’t move, his eyes stared at his feet. She saw him gulp. “Father?” she said softly.
He raised heavy eyes to her. He gave a thin smile. “It’s not your fault.” The words were barely a whisper.
She came closer.
“I understand what happened. It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”
Zora couldn’t tell whose heart broke more, hers or his. It pained her to see this giant of a man in tears. Her eyes filled with tears, tears enough to fill a lake. She felt them and did all she could to hold them back. “No, daddy, it’s me. I’m not normal, everybody knows it. I’m bad.”
He cried. Nothing slowed the flow of tears down his face. He shook his head violently, his mouth a q
uivering mess. “You did nothing wrong, baby. I should have gotten you help long ago. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
John reached down and swept his daughter off her feet. His bear hug nearly crushed her. They held each other and cried. Zora had no idea what he spoke of, she cried for him and his pain. She cried for being a bad seed and nearly killing her baby brother. She cried for little Dolphie, not being able to grow into the fine Labrador Retriever he was destined to become. She simply cried.
“Tomorrow, you go to the doctors and get help. You hear me, baby?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“We have treated you like you are three and you’re not. You are a beautiful young lady and from now on, I want you to act like it. Nothing is wrong with you. You hear me?”
“Yes, daddy.”
Like so many times in the past, they held hands as they walked back to the big house.