Bloomfield snapped the book closed and looked at the ground as if he wanted to water it with tears. Melody knew he wouldnât, not ever. He composed himself and gave her father the stern face again.
âHave you got anything to say, Grady?â
She watched her father adjust to the weight. He had to lean forward to keep himself balanced, like someone with a heavy backpack. A load he could never take off. If it came off at all, it would be because it fell apart, piece by piece, and that could take a long time.
âI donât guess âIâm sorryâ does any good now, does it?â her father said loudly, looking ten years older in just two days. The bones of his face jutted sharply over his thin beard. His eyes were a pair of darkened hollows as he sought out Jenna Harkin, who mirrored him, looking more like his daughter in this moment than Melody figured she herself did. âBut sorry I am. Sorry I took your father from you. Sorry I canât make amends for that in a way that would do you any good. Sorry that what Iâve done has left you to the mercies of these degenerate sons of bitches standing around lookingââ
He cut himself off and couldnât continue, because some things were just too painful to say. Especially when you werenât saying them half so much about the orphan girl as you were about your own daughter.
Melody figured she could fill in the rest and get it right enough: these degenerate sons of bitches standing around looking at you, smacking their lips like theyâre the wolves and youâre the deer.
As long as a man didnât go too far too fast, he could get away with a lot with a girl who didnât have a father around to protect her, no matter how she felt about his attentions. It was the way of things. Not with everybody, not even with most, but there were enough men who felt that way that it mattered, because there was strength in numbers and nobody wanted to give them cause to leave the village. Or worse, turn against it. As long as they didnât draw blood and kept things mostly out of sight, it was best to let them have their way. People were content to pretend it wasnât happening.
They had more in common than ever now, she and Jenna.
âIâm sorry myself, Grady,â and for the moment Bloomfield wasnât the leader of the village council anymore, just her fatherâs friend. âNobody could say you didnât have a reason. But that doesnât change the law.â
Could she and Jenna even still be friends, though? How could you manage to stay friends with the girl whose father had killed your dog for the meat? Jenna may have even eaten some herself, if she hadnât known it was Patches. And how could she stay friends with you when your father had gone after hers with a chunk of firewood, maybe not meaning what happened next, but still, Tom Harkin was just as dead. How could the two of you go on like before, as if none of this had happened?
Now, finally, her father looked at her, Jeremy too, back and forth, up and down, and now she was glad she wasnât crying. That would only make it worse, sending him out the gate with her tears on his conscience. She wanted him to see her tall, even though she wasnât. Wanted him to see her brave, even if she wasnât that either. The rest he had to know already.
âSo go forth, Grady Banks,â Bloomfield said, âand carry the weight of your crime. Go forth, and carry the weight of the dead.â
Her father shuffled for the main gate in the village wall made of bricks and cinder blocks and the rusted hulks of what people in the World Ago used to call cars. One of the two massive doors creaked open to reveal the fields and forests beyond the gate and, in the distance, the raggedy men who lurked and dreamed, looking for a way in.
âItâs not necessarily a death sentence, you know,â said the man whoâd eased up to her other side as soon
âHave you got anything to say, Grady?â
She watched her father adjust to the weight. He had to lean forward to keep himself balanced, like someone with a heavy backpack. A load he could never take off. If it came off at all, it would be because it fell apart, piece by piece, and that could take a long time.
âI donât guess âIâm sorryâ does any good now, does it?â her father said loudly, looking ten years older in just two days. The bones of his face jutted sharply over his thin beard. His eyes were a pair of darkened hollows as he sought out Jenna Harkin, who mirrored him, looking more like his daughter in this moment than Melody figured she herself did. âBut sorry I am. Sorry I took your father from you. Sorry I canât make amends for that in a way that would do you any good. Sorry that what Iâve done has left you to the mercies of these degenerate sons of bitches standing around lookingââ
He cut himself off and couldnât continue, because some things were just too painful to say. Especially when you werenât saying them half so much about the orphan girl as you were about your own daughter.
Melody figured she could fill in the rest and get it right enough: these degenerate sons of bitches standing around looking at you, smacking their lips like theyâre the wolves and youâre the deer.
As long as a man didnât go too far too fast, he could get away with a lot with a girl who didnât have a father around to protect her, no matter how she felt about his attentions. It was the way of things. Not with everybody, not even with most, but there were enough men who felt that way that it mattered, because there was strength in numbers and nobody wanted to give them cause to leave the village. Or worse, turn against it. As long as they didnât draw blood and kept things mostly out of sight, it was best to let them have their way. People were content to pretend it wasnât happening.
They had more in common than ever now, she and Jenna.
âIâm sorry myself, Grady,â and for the moment Bloomfield wasnât the leader of the village council anymore, just her fatherâs friend. âNobody could say you didnât have a reason. But that doesnât change the law.â
Could she and Jenna even still be friends, though? How could you manage to stay friends with the girl whose father had killed your dog for the meat? Jenna may have even eaten some herself, if she hadnât known it was Patches. And how could she stay friends with you when your father had gone after hers with a chunk of firewood, maybe not meaning what happened next, but still, Tom Harkin was just as dead. How could the two of you go on like before, as if none of this had happened?
Now, finally, her father looked at her, Jeremy too, back and forth, up and down, and now she was glad she wasnât crying. That would only make it worse, sending him out the gate with her tears on his conscience. She wanted him to see her tall, even though she wasnât. Wanted him to see her brave, even if she wasnât that either. The rest he had to know already.
âSo go forth, Grady Banks,â Bloomfield said, âand carry the weight of your crime. Go forth, and carry the weight of the dead.â
Her father shuffled for the main gate in the village wall made of bricks and cinder blocks and the rusted hulks of what people in the World Ago used to call cars. One of the two massive doors creaked open to reveal the fields and forests beyond the gate and, in the distance, the raggedy men who lurked and dreamed, looking for a way in.
âItâs not necessarily a death sentence, you know,â said the man whoâd eased up to her other side as soon
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