All the Forgivenesses

by Elizabeth Hardinger

“I ain’t afraid.” Which of course was a lie. What wasn’t I afraid of, more like. What if I went through all it would take—looked like it would take plenty, a blind man could see that, like Opal said—and then Dacia come sashaying home one day and wanted them children back, like she said in her note? Be just like her. And what if she didn’t, and it turned out Sam couldn’t make himself love these children? How could he, rough like they was, and not even his? Children couldn’t live just on pity, I should know. And three at once, who’d been through what they’d been through. What if I turned out like Mama, one eye on the rat poison—but I couldn’t bear to think about that, never could. “I know this ain’t what you figured on,” Sam said. “They ain’t even your kin.” He crushed the unlit cigarette in his fist, drew back his arm, and throwed it out in the yard. I heard him grunt with the effort. It’s harder to throw something light than something heavy. “Well, they ain’t,” I said. Now he wrestled his boots off, swearing under his breath, and stood up in his stocking feet. “We ain’t going to fix this all tonight,” he said. “Better get some sleep.” “You go on,” I said. “I’ll be in after while.” “Suit yourself.” He never touched me, just walked inside the house. Oh, I was afraid all right, and broody and mean. I knowed I was taking my wrath toward Dacia and trying to wrap it around my shame like a thin, scraggly shawl, just like I always had. Didn’t seem like I could help it.