Page 34 of Blood Ties
Uncle Frank comes in next, sweating and stinking of the slaughterhouse. He doesn’t even bother to clean his hands before grabbing a plate, but I know better than to say anything.
Last comes Dad, who barely spares me a glance.
I only get my food when everyone else is digging in. I scrape out the last of the eggs and a couple slices of bacon, the burnt ones. I’m just grateful there’s anything left at all. Dad insists we live off of the land as much as we can, but lately it seems to produce less and less. Like the blood has soaked into everything and turned it as rotten as we are.
I eat quietly and quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent Knox from stealing a slice of bacon off of my plate. I almost snap at him, but Dad is looking at us, watchful after our scrap yesterday, so I keep my head down.
I eat slowly. They all leave before I’m done, Frank heading back to the slaughterhouse and Knox and Dad to the scrapyard. I wrap my remaining piece of bacon in a napkin, along with some of my remaining eggs. I steal a bite leftover on Knox’s plate before taking my paltry offering down to Riley in the basement. I’m far from full, but I’m used to the hunger pangs.
“Here,” I whisper, dropping to a crouch beside her. She’s still lying on the mattress, but she’s awake, her eyes wary as I approach. “I can’t stay long, but, uh. Breakfast.”
It looks sadder than I remember when I unfold the napkin to present it to her. She looks at it, and then at me. There’s a faint curl to her lip that I think might be disgust, but then she sits up and takes it.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll be back later,” I say, and rush up the stairs.
I feel a little bad — usually I save my leftovers for Momma, not Riley — but she’s probably still asleep anyway. Maybe I can scrounge something up for her for dinner.
After breakfast, I clean. It’s a constant fight in this house, especially since nobody else seems to pay any attention to the mud or blood or whatever else they’re trekking inside. My cleaning supplies are getting low, too, so I mix some of my last remaining bleach solution with water to make it last longer. I don’t look forward to having to ask Dad for more. He already claims I don’t pull my weight around here. The jobs I do handle — cooking, cleaning, minding the animals, whatever chores nobody else wants to do — used to be Momma’s jobs before she got sick. Everybody gives me shit about doing women’s work. But better they aim the venom at me than at her.
By the time I’m done with today’s task — the kitchen — my knees are sore from resting on the tile and my hands sting where bleach has seeped into the scrapes. I straighten up with a groan, and then go rigid. Knox is leaning against the doorway with a plastic bag over his shoulder.
“Hey,” he says.
I ignore him.
“You still pissed at me?” He walks over. “Don’t be like that.”
I jerk away as he tries to ruffle my hair. “What do you want, Knox?”
He chuckles. “To give you this.” He pushes the bag into my arms.
I peer down into it suspiciously, and then back up at him.
“It’s for Riley,” he says. “Give it to her. She’ll like it. Promise.” Then he turns and walks away before I can say anything, calling over his shoulder, “Might even get you laid.”
