The Grave of God's Daughter by Brett Ellen Block

excitement. “I’m going to tell him about the horse.”
    He went to the door of the washroom but knew better than to open it. “Guess what?” he called, putting his mouth to the jamb and talking into it. “Today we touched a horse. We asked Ragsoline and he let us pet his horse.”
    “Don’t talk to that nigger,” my father ordered, his voice booming from behind the door. “And don’t touch his damn horse neither.”
    The door to the washroom flew open, sending Martin jumping back so he wouldn’t get hit.
    “You understand?” my father demanded, wiping shaving cream from his neck with a towel.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And don’t you let him go near that nigger either,” my father said, eyeing me.
    “Yes, sir,” I said, echoing Martin.
    My father went to the icebox and pulled out a bottle of milk. He poured himself a large glass, nearly emptying the container, then sat down, leaving the bottle on the table, unconcerned that it would soon get warm.
    “Tomorrow one of Stash Nowczyk’s boys is going to bring us over a catfish,” my father told us between gulps. “Been catching them in the river by the bucketful and they’ve got more than they need. But we’ve got to keep it in the bathtub for a few days and feed it cornmeal to clean out its gut before your mother can cook it.”
    “Why?” Martin asked. His questions were not as welcome with my father as they were with me, something Martin was well aware of, though he simply couldn’t help himself.
    “Because,” my father snapped. “Catfish are bottom feeders. They eat all the garbage from the bottom of the river. Do you want to eat that too?”
    “No,” Martin said sheepishly.
    “When the boy comes by, you take the fish and put it in the tub with fresh water. You got it?” he said to me.
    “Yes, sir.”
    He checked his watch, then swallowed what was left of his milk and put on his coat.
    “Where are you going?” Martin asked.
    “Work. Where’d you think I’m going?”
    “But—” Martin began, then I shot him a cautionary glance. It was long before my father needed to be at the mill, but my motherwould soon be home. He was trying to leave before she got back. From my look, Martin figured that out as well. His expression faltered yet he remained silent.
    “Put that milk away,” my father said, then he left.
     
    A T SUPPER my mother was especially quiet. She prayed over her food, as did we, but hers was a fervent whisper. Afterward, she poked at her food and finally pushed it away half eaten. Martin and I kept eating and pretended not to notice. He was reading his book with the lamb on the cover, something my mother normally wouldn’t have allowed at the table. That night she didn’t seem to mind. Her silence was palpable and I scoured my mind for something to say, something that would draw her back to us.
    “Tomorrow we’re supposed to get a catfish,” I announced. “One of the Nowczyks is bringing it.”
    My mother stared off as if she were processing the statement, letting it sink in. “I’ll buy some cornmeal then,” she said after a long pause.
    Those were the only words she spoke for the rest of the evening. She took our plates and her own and left them in the sink, then retired to the other room without saying good night. Martin glanced up from his book to watch her go, then turned to me, his small face peeking over the top of his book. Before he could ask any questions, I took the book from his hands.
    “Why don’t you read to me, Marty.” I pulled my chair close tohis, put my arm over his shoulder, and held the book out in front of us so he could read in the shelter of my arms.
    To keep his mind off what had happened, I made my brother read the tale of God’s lamb until he was falling asleep at the table. Martin was already in his nightclothes, so when he could no longer keep his eyes open, I led him to the cot, laid him down, and watched him drift right to sleep, then went into the washroom to change into my