by Eric Diekhans
At night, the wind rose to a high-pitched whistle and thrust, hot and dry, through the cracks at the edges of my window.
“It’s the Devil trying to get in,” Bobby would tease when I was little. He’d been gone five years, working construction in Oklahoma City. But the Devil still lurked, rattling my windowpane. By tomorrow, I’d be gone too.
The morning light filtered through dust-coated glass. The wind had quieted. Our rooster crowed as I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and T-shirt. The smell of bacon frying told me Mom was already in the kitchen. I padded down the hallway, slipped on my ragged Adidas, and stepped out the front door. The sweltering Texas heat backhanded me. My shoes imprinted the thin layer of rich soil blown onto our cracked wooden steps. One of my chores was sweeping the porch every morning, but I would leave it for Lacy. It would be her chore soon, anyway.
Our barn—my refuge from expectations—cast a long shadow across the withered front yard. Dad stood in the gravel driveway, the rising sun silhouetting his narrow frame. He gazed at the cornfield that stretched from our house to the highway, half a mile away. The stalks, stunted like preemies, stood three feet shorter than they should have been in August.
I crossed the parched soil and stood beside Dad. “Gonna rain today?”
He turned his sunburnt face to the cloudless sky. “Could be. We’ll see.” His skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Packed yet?”
I nodded. I’d packed and repacked my suitcase a dozen times, but my Walmart wardrobe never got nicer. Ms. Tremont said the first thing she’d do when we got to Florida was take me shopping. For the trip, I’d chosen the baby-blue sundress I usually saved for church. I imagined myself crossing the tarmac, the wind catching the hem. I’d board Mr. Blair’s private plane and watch my hometown recede in the distance. I would be a woman, not a girl, when I returned. My heart thumped faster at the thought of crossing that threshold, but it was too late to back out. My family was counting on me.
The screen door banged closed. “Dad, Matteson, breakfast’s ready!” Lacy pirouetted on the steps in her once pink leotard faded to a dull off-white. Mom promised my sister she’d use some of the money Mr. Blair would give us to put Lacy back in dance school. My sister couldn’t be happier to see me leave.
Dad gently tugged Lacy’s blonde ponytail as we followed her into the house. She grabbed Dad’s hand. “Can I dance for Mr. Blair when he comes?”
I cringed. “He’s not coming, just Ms. Tremont.”
Dad scraped his work boots on the mat. “Mr. Blair’s a busy man, the sixty-fourth-richest man in the world, I read.” He took a last look at the struggling crops. “I could’ve gotten into the oil business. I spent the money on an engagement ring instead.” He put an arm around Lacy and me and gave us a squeeze. “It was worth the sacrifice.”
After washing up, I headed to the kitchen. Dad was already at the table, sipping from his big mug of black coffee. Mom poured herself a smaller cup and sat across from him. I took Bobby’s empty chair. Lacy dumped half a ketchup bottle on her scrambled eggs and lifted a forkful to her mouth.
Mom frowned. “Lacy, you can say grace this morning.”
Lacy pouted and put down her fork. We joined hands and bowed our heads.
“Dear God, thank you for this food, for our family, and for Mr. Blair. Be with Bobby and Matteson while they’re away.” She peeked at me and smirked. “And thank you for letting me have Matteson’s room. Amen.”
I flashed Lacy the stink eye as we passed bacon and biscuits around the table. When I reached for the butter, Lacy snagged it first, so I leaned close to her ear and sang the Olivia Rodrigo song that bore her name.
Lacy erupted. “My skin is alabaster!”
“Stop it, both of you.” Dad didn’t need to raise his voice.
Mom sighed. “Matteson, you need to set an example for your sister.”
Lacy and I turned to our plates. Everybody said I was lucky to be chosen for Mr. Blair’s mentorship program. But sometimes I wanted to be twelve again like Lacy, without the weight of responsibility to help my family.
I used to love the attention grownups gave me. “You’re so pretty,” they would say. Now, Lacy was the pretty one, and I was the smart one. Ms. Tremont assured me that with Mr. Blair’s connections, I was destined for an Ivy League school and a bright future. I would live in one of his twelve homes and receive a top-quality education while my parents were paid a stipend.
Still, my mom hadn’t wanted me to apply. She’d read about parties on Mr. Blair’s yacht. But Ms. Tremont assured her that his only focus was business and helping young people. Besides, I would have a tutor, housekeeper, and cook to keep an eye on me.
After Mom and I washed the dishes, I showered and went to my bedroom to put on clean underwear and my dress. I snapped the silver cross around my neck—the one Dad gave me when I was baptized—and turned to the mirror on my closet door, willing it to reflect a poised young woman ready to go out into the world.
I went down the hall to Mom and Dad’s bedroom and knocked softly. “Come in,” Mom called.
The air conditioner hummed in the window. Mom stood in front of her full-length mirror, her back to me, wearing ugly cotton underwear. She held up two dresses. “Which do you like best?”
A long, faded scar ran down the side of Mom’s belly. Last year, Lacy and I spent two nights eating frozen pizza and watching Disney movies while Dad took Mom to a distant hospital. They never told us why she had to have her kidney removed, but they came home with boxes of fudge and thick steaks wrapped in white paper that wafted my fears away when they sizzled on the grill.
“You okay, Matteson?”
I nodded toward the pale green dress. “That one always looks good on you.”
I waited at the front window for Ms. Tremont’s arrival. The Judsons’ abandoned house sat halfway down our road, a ghost of lives once lived. A For Sale sign hung limply in the still air. Dad mowed their lawn now and then to keep down the weeds.
La Traviata played on Lacy’s Bluetooth speaker as she carried it into the living room. She set it on the glass coffee table and twirled around the sofa and armchair, angelic in a white dress.Spinning at my side, she rose on her toes, matchstick arms waving like willows. “I want to go too.”
I returned my focus to the driveway. “Maybe when you’re older.”
Lacy’s feet settled. “I’ll miss you.”
I shrugged. “I won’t miss you.”
Lacy scowled and offered me her middle finger. I would miss teasing her.
At the far end of the driveway, dust rose. My heart raced. “She’s here!”
Dad stepped out of the bedroom, adjusting his tie. Mom hurried in from the kitchen. A big black SUV appeared. Lacy pressed her palm to the window. “Oh my god, is that a limousine?”
“Lacy,” Mom snapped, “don’t use the Lord’s name in vain.”
I punched the off button on Lacy’s speaker. The vehicle stopped in front of our house, and the dust settled. The passenger door opened, and a tall, bony, middle-aged woman emerged. Her black high-heels stirred up miniature dust clouds as they touched the earth. She gripped a Gucci bag and a paper shopping tote. Her gold earrings glittered in the morning sun.
A man stepped out of the driver’s side. He was young and slick as a Ken doll. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses and carried a black briefcase. Sweat was already beading on his forehead.
Dad opened the door. “Come on in. Mind the step.”
“Sorry, we don’t have air conditioning in the front room.” Mom held out a work-hardened hand. “I’m Matteson’s mother.”
The woman offered Mom long, manicured fingers. “I’m Linda Tremont, Mr. Blair’s assistant.” She turned to me. “And you must be Matteson.”
I nodded, fighting the desire to hide behind my mother, but Lacy had already taken that position. I shook Ms. Tremont’s hand, my palm sweating. “Nice to meet you.”
“Call me Linda.” She gestured to the man. “This is Mr. Everett, Mr. Blair’s attorney.”
Lacy popped out from behind Mom. “I’m Lacy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She tried to sound older than she was because adults ate it up.
“Matteson wrote about you in her essay.” Ms. Tremont took in the two of us. “You’re the two most beautiful young women I’ve ever met.”
Lacy curtsied, but I only nodded, a wave of discomfort rising in me. I couldn’t compete with my sister in the looks department, but this mentorship was supposed to be about my mind, wasn’t it?
Dad coughed. “Matteson’s got her bag all packed.”
“Good. Mr. Everett has some papers for you to sign.”
Dad’s forehead wrinkled. “I thought we did that already.”
“This is just a non-disclosure agreement.” Ms. Tremont’s laugh sounded forced. “In my world, the paperwork never ends.”
“Please, sit down.” Mom gestured toward our worn brown sofa. Mr. Everett glanced around the room for a more suitable place to sit but finally sank into the springs and set his briefcase on our coffee table. Mom sat beside him while Dad took his TV-watching armchair.
Ms. Tremont pulled an iPad from her bag. “Mr. Blair will join us by Zoom as soon as he’s out of his meeting.”
Mr. Everett popped the latches on his briefcase and cracked it open, revealing neat stacks of bills—more money than I’d ever seen. Ms. Tremont scowled, and Mr. Everett quickly shut the case. Her smile returned. “Mr. Blair wants to ensure your family is cared for while Matteson’s gone.” She turned to me. “Why don’t we let them take care of the boring part? I’d love to see your room.”
My stomach tightened. My room was filled with my childhood. I didn’t want to share it with Ms. Tremont. She caught my sour expression, but her smile didn’t waver.
I mustered my beauty pageant beam. “Sure.”
Lacy grinned and plopped down in a chair. Ms. Tremont picked up the shopping bag, her high heels clicking on the scuffed wooden floor as she followed me to the back of the house.
In the quiet of my room, the wind whistled a greeting through my window. I flipped on the light. K-pop posters, a Squishmellow my old boyfriend gave me, the row of YA romance novels—they all seemed juvenile.
But Ms. Tremont focused on me, not on my room. The fabric of my Walmart dress suddenly itched. She handed me the shopping bag. “Mr. Blair picked this out especially for you. You can wear it on the plane.”
I peeked into the bag, and a burst of yellow leaped out. I pulled out a stunning, low-cut dress. The fabric was soft, and I imagined how good it would feel against my skin.
“Try it on.” Ms. Tremont sounded like a pushy salesperson.
A tight smile froze on my face. The dress wasn’t me, but Ms. Tremont would be offended if I refused to wear it.
“Go ahead,” Ms. Tremont encouraged. “Mr. Blair will be calling any minute, and I know he’d love to see you in it.”
The way Ms. Tremont looked at me made me feel like I was already undressed. I glanced at the door, wishing I could escape, but I didn’t want to make a fuss. My hands shook as I unbuttoned my dress. I’d entered and won beauty contests because we needed the prize money. I hated the way men looked at me when I went out on stage. But this was different. I was here because I earned straight A’s and wrote an amazing essay, right?
La Traviata started up again in the living room.Oh God, please don’t let Lacy be dancing for Mr. Everett.
Ms. Tremont’s smile faded. “Go on, Matteson. You’re a sophisticated young woman now, not a girl from the sticks.”
I quickly removed my dress and put on Mr. Blair’s gift, smoothing the hem and checking the mirror. A young lady I didn’t recognize looked back at me.
Ms. Tremont assessed me and gave a satisfied nod. “Mr. Everett and your parents should be done with business. Let’s go show everyone.”
She ushered me out with a wave as if I was stepping onto a stage. My stomach faltered at the scene that greeted me. Lacy danced gracefully next to the coffee table, jumping and gyrating, her face a mask of concentration and pleasure. She was a star who landed in the middle of my debut.
Ms. Tremont’s iPad was propped up against my math books. Mr. Blair’s face filled the screen. He was older than he looked in his pictures, but handsome, with wavy gray hair. His eyes followed Lacy’s every move, a slight smile on his face that made my skin crawl.
Mom and Dad sat frozen, arms by their sides, like passengers in a car about to drive off a bridge. A hand touched my back and urged me forward. My feet planted like I was fighting a stiff wind.
Panic howled through me. I couldn’t do this. I bolted, lurching to the door and out of the house. The screen banged behind me. La Traviata pursued me as I flew across the yard and ducked into the shadowy safety of the barn. I dove into the wooden box that used to hold grain to feed our pigs and pulled the cover over my head. Stillness descended around me.
The scent of stale corn coated my nostrils. I stifled a sneeze. Light stole through cracks in the wooden box. Mom and Dad would come out and find me. I needed to go back. I had to make this sacrifice for my family.
But nobody came. Minutes passed—I wasn’t sure how many. I lifted the cover slightly, intending to push it aside, but my hand fell back.
Car doors slammed. My heart stopped. An engine started up. Tires crunched on the gravel, slowly receding. I was safe, but at what cost? The corn would still wither. Our lives would dry up and blow away.
I crawled out of the box. Dirt and dust clung to the yellow dress. I stepped out of the barn into the blinding sun. The wind had picked up, rustling the cornstalks in a flaxen symphony. I opened the screen door and stepped into the living room, knees shaking. Dad was gone, but Mom was a statue perched on the sofa. The closed black briefcase rested beside her on the rug. Mom lifted her head, her face blotchy.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
Her gaze slipped past me as if I was a ghost and fixed on the screen door. The hot breeze rustled the curtains. I sensed a black hole, like when Bobby left. Lacy’s faded pink leotard was shed skin draped over the back of the sofa.
“Lacy,” I whispered, “oh, Lacy.”
The Devil caught my words and whisked them away.
At night, the wind rose to a high-pitched whistle and thrust, hot and dry, through the cracks at the edges of my window.
Eric Diekhans’ fiction has appeared in numerous magazines, the short story collection Unforgettable, and the forthcoming anthology Uncensored Ink. He is the recipient of a local Emmy for Children’s Television and an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in screenwriting. Diekhans received a BA in Comparative Literature from Indiana University and an MA in Film from Northwestern.
