by Noah Ray Phibbs

The year that Pa died, the air was so constantly fixed with dust that even those of us without evil-laden lungs couldn’t draw breath without a filtering rag between our chapped lips and the intolerable wind.

In those days, I still prayed to God. Mama told us how locusts, hunger and drought had been foretold—even happened before, in the bible times. Mama said it always happened when men grew too wicked. I knew loads of wicked men around us, like Bill Gowan, but I’m not sure if those were the ones Mama had in mind. Pa always spoke of powerful, wicked men up in Chicago, New York and Washington. Pa said it was the power that made men wicked. I don’t know if Pa blamed God for the locusts, hunger or drought; I think he convinced himself that the evil men were God.

Mama warned me: “All men think they’re God.” Sure, men pray and maybe attend a service on Sunday, but they all secretly believe it’s men who dictate the laws of life. Pa never cared much for Mama’s teachings. Somehow, he’d always find more interest in his grits, choring or whittling, only returning grunts for all Mama’s words. On the worst nights, Pa would come in smelling of gasoline, and he’d have all cruel words for Mama. He’d yell about her outrageous ideas, her insane logic and her nonstop blasphemy. He said Mama was a dangerous woman. I knew that wasn’t actually Pa; Mama told me that moonshine and whiskey are the piss of Lucifer, and it drives all men mad. When I saw Pa with blue eyes bulging from a face redder than sin, I knew she was right.

Mama taught me all I needed to know: baking, cooking, butchering, defeathering the
chickens, milling, churning, and caring for the livestock. She showed me how to tell the normal farm
cats from the devil’s spies and the proper way to get rid of them: boiled alive, then buried beneath
crushed corn kernels and peppercorns. She taught me to sing proudly, to be polite, and how to speak
to boys so they’d admire and respect you—what to do to Billy Gowan when he did neither.

Pa was too stubborn and too much of a man to ever listen to Mama. He scoffed at her corn
husk dolls, her burying coins around the fields, and her daily prayers in the woods. He refused to ever
attend a Sunday Vesper’s with Mama and I. One day, he even stopped taking his shoes off in the
proper order. It seemed the longer the dust swirled in the air and the rain stalled its falling, the more
Pa became convinced Mama must be wrong.

Mama knew these were trials from God—the harder she pressed your faith, the more you
must believe. Pa didn’t rise to the occasion. The locusts at the start of the season had pushed Pa hard
enough, and each day the rain didn’t come, his faith slipped more. He would curse the skies, curse
the soil, curse the clouds and curse himself. Even I know better than to spew curses wantonly. Mama
tried to teach him how to pray properly; it’s not enough to ask or beg God for what you want something
has to be offered back. I don’t think Pa could hear over the sound of his seething, so I took
it upon myself to pray.

I stole away one of Pa’s oldest dogs from the kennel and baited him to the forest with some
leftover liver. As the mutt sloppily ate, I sank to my knees and clasped my hands together. I begged
God to help us, knowing if this year’s crops failed, Pa would have to sell off to the “cats.” I prayed
he’d never live to see that day. With a shuddering breath, I sent my prayers up to God, grabbed the
hatchet, and sent the dog along with them.

The dog wasn’t enough, though. Even after a paltry rain begrudgingly fell, it was much too
little, far too late. Our fields had nothing more than a pathetic peach fuzz.

I never told Mama what I had tried, but I felt she must know.

******

With little fieldwork to do, Pa spent most of his days away, leaving Mama and I alone
together, always returning with the stink of moonshine. Mama could feel the devil’s presence
growing more potent on the farm, and we had begun boiling tubs full of spies almost daily. It was a
constant struggle for balance, with Pa bringing home whispers from hell and Mama doing her
damndest to fight them off.

When the locusts came back, I thought Satan had won. The buzzing horde of insatiable
insects devoured what few crops had managed to soldier through the season. For days, we couldn’t
go outside without our eyes and noses becoming smothered by the endless cloud of hunger. It was
during this time Mama and I realized a grave threat. Although Pa was as trapped as any of us, he still
became drunker and drunker as the days went on- he had stashed the devil’s favourite weapon in our
home. Mama nearly went mad. She said Pa must have damned our whole household, negating every
effort Mama put into protecting us. The blue eyes bulged out again when she told Pa that, and he
slapped Mama. He turned on me, clenching his fists, and starting a slurry sermon: how unholy Mama
and I were, just like all womankind. Pa said we were all witches, whores, tricksters or pariahseverything
was our damn faults or the faults of those powerful men he praised.

I knew what sin Pa had committed, and so did Mama. He pretended to be God; he wanted us
to pray for his forgiveness. Now, we had to pray that Pa would be forgiven.

******

Although I never mentioned the dog to Mama, that night at Vesper’s she explained that the
more of oneself offered in prayer, the more likely God will hear you. She said a prayer and blessed a
sigil she had scratched into a rock.

Mama’s lesson stuck hard in my mind the next day. It was no wonder my prayer hadn’t
worked—that old dog wasn’t something I valued or loved. How could I expect great things from God
without sacrificing something meaningful? I knew what I had to do.

Kneeling out back in woods, I prayed to God to save us, that the farm would be safe, that Pa
would be free from the devil, and that Mama would be heard for once. A deep breath, and I offered
my prayer to God. I put my left hand flat on the stump, and gripped the hatchet with my right. A deep
breath, and I brought it down on my wrist.

******

If I thought it had worked at first, the next few months proved me wrong. I thought Pa’s
fevers and shaking were a symptom of the devil leaving his body, but when it only got worse, I knew
something must have gone wrong.

Mama had started running the household. Although the crops had failed, Mama was able to
convince our landowner to let us stay at a discounted rate in exchange for some extra work on his
personal land; she welcomed help from neighbours who felt sympathetic for her, with a sick husband
and crippled daughter. Mama knew the men who play God sometimes would give these little
mercies- to assure themselves that they are indeed the benevolent masters of our fates.

Pa died that fall. It was sad, but it wasn’t hard to see him go. His illness had taken all of
himself- paler and skinnier each day, he lost his purpose and replaced it with moroseness. His eyes no
longer seemed blue; they only shone a dull gray. Mama only said three words to the pine box at his
funeral: “You are forgiven.”

******

The farm’s luck had turned by the following year. Mama and I shared the load of cooking,
cleaning, sowing, weeding, butchering, feeding the livestock, boiling the spies, harvesting the wheat,
burying the coins, going to market and maintaining the buildings. By the next season, we had money
to buy out our land and hire more farm hands. Mama always kept Pa’s old place at the table set
empty, like he was still here for each dinner. I don’t pray to God anymore. I have all I could ask for
and nothing I’d be willing to offer.

Sometimes, when I look at Pa’s empty spot at the table, I wonder what Mama prayed for.