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The Quiet Undoing

Summary:

The summer 1957 is over, but silence hangs heavy in the Hewitt farmhouse. Secrets fester, lies spread, and grief settles into the bones.

In the years that follow, the line between survival and ruin blurs — and what unravels cannot be mended.

Chapter 1: The Shape of Silence

Notes:

Welcome to Part Two! Thanks for sticking with this story as it moves past the summer of ’57 and into the next stretch of years. Expect more family drama, angst, spice, and plenty of fallout from where we left off. Glad to have y'all here!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Once, the summer meant salvation.

After the long hush of winter and the slow thaw of spring, Fuller, Texas braced itself for the heat like a sinner before judgment. Summer was when the rivers ran low, when the cicadas screamed loud enough to drown out conscience, when the dust settled into your bones and stayed.

But the summer of 1957 did not save anyone.

It came like a fever—slow at first, then all-consuming. It peeled the flesh off old wounds and pulled secrets from the dark. It brought girls back barefoot and boys to their knees. It made men into monsters, and mothers into liars.

And when it ended, it left the Hewitts changed.

She was gone. Left in the night with her sisters and a promise she never spoke aloud. Only Thomas heard it—in the way she held his face that night, in the way she didn’t say goodbye.

Now the house stood quiet again. The girls’ laughter had faded. The fire smoldered with nothing but burning trash. The silk dress was hidden in the attic, dusted with memory. And beneath the floorboards, something darker had taken root.

Thomas didn’t speak of what happened under that oak tree on that back road.

Charlie did. With pride.

Luda Mae didn’t ask. But she knew the golden boy was dead.

The son who came up from the basement wore a different silence than the one she’d raised. Not the kind born of shame—but of purpose.

The mask rarely left his face since.

His hair hung longer now, grazing his shoulders, uncut since summer—as if he couldn’t bring himself to shed the weight of it. He kept it long to hide, but also because of her. She’d told him once she liked it that way. Different. A good different. And he remembered the way her hands had slipped through it, gentle as breath, like she was touching something worth keeping.

And outside, the fields browned. The meat turned. The old Hewitt name grew sour in the mouths of townsfolk who never spoke it unless they had to. Whispers carried through the mill, through the pews on Sunday, through the grocery lines in Newt. Folks swore the house smelled of death even from the road. Some said the family had lost their mind long before they lost their luck.

Christmas came without snow. Just rain and rot and roads gone soft under boot. The wind pushed through the broken boards of the barn like a dying breath. A tree never stood in the parlor that year. No stockings, no hymns, no light but the stove’s red eye.

No cards. No tree. No gifts.

Only Thomas.

Waiting.

Hair in his eyes, mask on his face, holding on to what she touched—because she said she’d come back. He measured the days by it. Counted the dark. Kept the silence close like it was the only thing left that belonged to him.

And he still believed her.

——

 

December 24, 1957

 

It was a gloomy, gray holiday.

Not that the Hewitts ever knew the luxury of Christmas. Thomas couldn’t remember a ham dinner or a tree. No garland. No candles. No carols. Not even a card with glitter that stuck to your fingers. Christmas just came and went like every other day—except colder.

He told himself he didn’t care. Not really. Not since school, when the other kids used to boast about what Santa brought them—new bicycles, pocketknives, puzzles. Family dinners with laughter. Stockings hung by the fire. All those stories made Thomas feel like a ghost. He’d sit in the back, head low, listening but not speaking.

This year, there was rain.

Cold and spitting, it had drizzled all morning. By late afternoon, it broke just long enough for Thomas to head out to the woodpile. He chopped in silence—no gloves, no hat—just the hard thud of the axe splitting through damp cedar and hickory. The work warmed him better than the fire ever could.

He found that the busier he kept himself, the less he had to feel.

Life had drifted on since the summer, like a slow river pretending it didn’t remember what it swallowed.

Mara’s health declined. Ernest too. Luda Mae said little—mostly about sin in the world, empty pews at church, and young folks forgetting their manners quicker than they learned ‘em. Charlie joked less. Monty drank more.

And Thomas kept busy.

Trapping. Skinning. Carving. He made tweaks to his leather mask each week, trying to fix the spots that blistered his cheeks raw. Thicker straps. Softer edges. He didn’t wear it to church, and he left it off at the slaughterhouse. But around the house, when the days grew too long and the silence too sharp, he’d put it on and feel just far enough away from himself to breathe.

With the mask on, the mirror didn’t sneer back. He wasn’t Thomas Hewitt then—just a shape, a shadow. Easier to stand in than his own skin.

Luda Mae didn’t care for it. Thought he grew out of that since he no longer was in school.

The last time she caught him wearing it in the hallway, she didn’t say a word. Just stared. The kind of stare that wasn’t mad or scared, just tired.

He didn’t wear it around her after that.

Now, as the wind picked up again and the clouds thickened, Thomas hauled armfuls of firewood to the porch. His denim chore coat was too small in the sleeves. Reminder he was still growing like a giant. The boards creaked beneath his boots, mud dripping from the soles, cedar smoke stinging his nose as it hung low and damp in the air.

Luda Mae looked up from the stove and offered a quiet smile when she heard him step inside.

“Thank you, baby.”

Before he could set the logs down, Monty shuffled past in his robe and tossed a few into the fireplace with a grunt, stealing the gesture before it could land.

“Careful, boy—might strain yourself on kindlin’,” Charlie said, poking the coals like they’d wronged him.

Thomas said nothing. Just stacked the rest in the corner, steam rising from his back. He stood there a moment, watching the fire catch on the crooked logs, then wiped his palms on his jeans, the damp fabric sticking cold. He lingered in place, unsure whether to sit or to leave, feeling more like a piece of furniture than a man.

Outside, the rain started again: light, bitter, steady. Inside, the radio carried It Came Upon the Midnight Clear, its weary verses swallowed by static.

Luda Mae leaned against the archway cigarette in hand.

“Don’t get too comfy—wash up for church.”

Thomas groaned under his breath, the sound low and clumsy in his chest, like the complaint of a boy too big to be one anymore. He dreaded the pews most of all, narrow as cages, the wood pressing his knees raw before the sermon ever started. Every Sunday he felt himself spilling out the sides, the whispers behind him sharper than any hymn. Still, he turned and trudged off toward his room, shoulders slouched, muttering like he could drag his feet all the way there.

By nightfall the rain had thinned to mist, slicking the road dark as tar. They piled into the truck without a word—Charlie smelling of whiskey, Monty already cussing about the cold, Mara bundled so tight she looked smaller than ever. Thomas hunched in the back, knees knocking against the door, the air inside thick with wet wool and cigarette smoke.

They went to Christmas Eve service that night.

The church was dim, lit by flickering candles and the weak hum of an old electric heater. The pews were half-empty, filled with familiar faces made stranger by the hush of hymns and winter coats.

From the front, the congregation sang Silent Night—thin, wavering voices swallowed by draft and static.

Thomas sat in the back, head bowed, picking absently at a callus on his palm. The preacher’s voice rose through the hush:

“A child, a savior, born into silence and straw.”

Born into silence and straw. He saw it plain—early autumn light on the porch, her swaying slow on the swing. The braid over her shoulder. Her hand pressing flat against her stomach, like she could feel the truth through the fabric.

“And lo, the Lord sent His only begotten Son, that we might be saved.”

“You think I’m carryin’?” she’d asked, half scoff, half fear. He’d said nothing then. Just sat beside her, stiff and mute, staring at his hands—same as now.

“A gift given freely, without measure, without end.”

“Do you… want me to be?” The words still pressed against his ribs like a thorn he couldn’t work loose. He’d never answered her. Couldn’t.

Monty’s sour breath crowded the pew beside him. The preacher’s voice pressed on:

“And Mary bore Him in a manger, where the world said there was no room.”

Thomas bowed his head lower. Wondering if she had been. Wondering if somewhere else, a child born into silence and straw that was his.

He told himself she must not’ve been. If she was, she’d have written. Wouldn’t she?

“But the Lord provides. The Lord remembers.”

But no letter came. No call. Nothing. Just gone. Maybe she would be married. Somewhere far away. Maybe she would have a brood of children. A new name. A new life.

He told himself he didn’t care.

But, back at home, the antler she gave him still sat on the windowsill, untouched. The silk dress—once hidden in the attic—he’d moved to his room to keep safe from the moths.

But, there was one thing he wasn’t proud of keeping.

A pair of her panties—forgotten, buried in his bedsheets the night she left—he kept close. Tucked deep under his pillow. Her scent had faded, but not entirely. Some nights, when the house was still and the ache too sharp to swallow, he’d press them to his face. Pretend she was near. Pretend she wanted him still.

And afterward, he’d lie there, sick with shame.

Told himself he didn’t miss her.

But he did.

God help him, he really did.

Christmas at the Hewitt house wasn’t much of a holiday. Just another day, only quieter.

The roast was dry. The potatoes under-salted. No pie, no ham, just a slurred, half-hearted grace from Charlie, already a few swigs deep. The only sounds were chewing and the soft tap of forks against chipped plates.

Luda Mae sat closest to Mara, voice hushed but persistent. “Come on now, Mama. Just a little bite.” She held a spoon to her mother’s lips, coaxing like she would a child. “You need to eat somethin’, keep your strength up.”

Mara stared past her—eyes vacant, mouth shut tight. Her cloudy gaze fixed through Thomas, like she was seeing a storm only she could name. Thomas ducked his head, trying not to meet her eyes.

Charlie slouched back in his chair, boots kicked out, nursing the whiskey he’d carried in place of grace. The fire popped behind him in the sitting room, the only real warmth in the house. The furnace rattled like it might give out any second.

Monty chewed mechanically, jaw working like it belonged to someone else. He didn’t speak. Just shoveled food in and washed it down with flat beer, chewing like a hog at trough. His eyes stayed fixed on nothing.

Thomas ate slow. Small bites. He tasted nothing.

No one mentioned presents. Or Santa. Or even Jesus. Just the wind pressing against the boards and the smell of boiled carrots. No carols played. The radio had shorted that morning, and no one bothered to fix it.

Charlie was the first to speak. He always was.

“Well,” Charlie drawled, lifting the bottle in a half-toast, “here’s to another year crawlin’ by like a three-legged dog hit by a work truck.”

Monty snorted. “On his last leg!”

Charlie barked a laugh, the sound low and mean. Thomas lifted his eyebrows in the faintest amusement, a fleeting crack in his silence, gone before anyone else could notice.

Luda Mae didn’t look up. She wiped the corner of Mara’s mouth with a napkin, though it was already clean.

Charlie’s grin tilted toward Thomas. “What’s your plan this year, Tommy? Hopefully cuttin’ that mop off your head.”

Monty chuckled, mouth full of potatoes. Luda Mae glanced up, her silence sharp enough to be agreement, though she wouldn’t let Thomas see it.

Thomas itched at his head, pushing the hair back from his face. Maybe it was too long, but he liked it.

“Hide behind all that hair if you want,” Mara muttered, voice dry as dust. Her cloudy eyes pinned him in place. “Won’t cover up what you are.”

The table went still. Charlie smirked into his bottle, entertained. Monty froze mid-chew. Luda Mae set her spoon down hard, as if to drown the words out.

Even on her march to the grave, Mara found breath enough to remind him what he was.

Thomas kept his eyes on his plate. The taste of ash filled his mouth.

The meal dragged on in silence, only the scrape of forks and the pop of the fire to mark the time. No one lingered when the plates were empty. Chairs scraped back, boots thudded across the floorboards, and the house folded into its usual hush.

After supper, Thomas lay on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. The water stains above his bed spread like maps he couldn’t read.

In his hand, he gripped Jane’s red bandana, knuckles white around the fabric. He told himself it was just cloth, just something she’d left behind, but it wasn’t.

He had a gut feeling, sharp and low, that something wasn’t right. It clung to him heavier than the blankets, heavier than the heat of the furnace downstairs.

He thought of her often, but not like this. This wasn’t longing. It flipped his stomach in a way he didn’t understand, like the floor had shifted under him and left him hanging.

The day after Christmas meant back to blood.

The air inside Lee Bros. was cold enough to bite, breath visible in short puffs as the men filed in and pulled on their aprons. The floors were slick. The drains gurgled. Someone had left the saw blades out again, rust starting to bloom like mold.

Thomas worked in silence, sleeves damp with brine, the mask left at home like always.

Jesse was grinning by the salt barrel, practically bouncing.

“Engaged,” he announced, loud enough to cut through the hum of the bone saw.

Charlie snorted. “To who? The meat inspector?”

“Mary-Beth,” Jesse said, proud as hell. “Asked her on Christmas Eve. She said yes. We’re settin’ the date for spring.”

Thomas paused mid-cut, knife buried in a slab of shoulder. Mary-Beth. He remembered her. Sonny’s girl, at least when Sonny was alive. Just a few months back, she was sitting pretty on the back of Sonny’s truck, giggling like she owned the whole damn town.

Moved on fast, Thomas thought, not bitter—just vaguely amused. Quicker than meat turns on a hot day.

The room filled with talk after that—stories about in-laws, fights at dinner tables, kids waking up to BB guns and broken ornaments. Someone’s uncle pissed himself drunk before grace. Someone else got a divorce wrapped up in tinsel.

“Someone’s cousin broke his hand on Christmas morning,” one of the men added with a grin, “punchin’ a wall after finding his baby boy looked an awful lot like the neighbor.”

Laughter rolled through the room, sharp and mean.

“Thomas,” one of the men called over, wiping his hands on a dirty rag, “what about you? Have a real merry one?”

Before he could answer, Charlie beat him to it.

“Boy was probably wishin’ for a certain redhead to show up with nothin’ but a red ribbon on.”

Laughter cracked through the room. Jesse nearly choked on his cigarette.

Thomas’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look up, but the cut he was making went clean through the joint—too deep, too fast.

He scowled in Charlie’s direction, but didn’t speak.

Still, the image flared in his mind; Jane, flushed and bare, wrapped in satin, laughing like it was a game. For a second, his chest tightened. Heat rushed up his neck, his grip slick on the handle.

He shook it off.

Charlie slapped the table, grinning. “Don’t get all red, Romeo. Just jokin’. She probably got herself a ribbon from someone else by now.”

Thomas went back to work, knife steady in his hand, but the blade felt heavier than usual.

He didn’t smile. But the others kept laughing.

Like it was all just good fun.

Like nothing had ever happened.

The shift dragged long after that. By sundown, Thomas’s back screamed, his arms heavy from hauling and cutting, his boots slick with brine. The ride home in Charlie’s truck was loud with more talk and smoke, but Thomas barely heard it. His mind had already slipped past the noise, past the men, toward the quiet waiting at the farm.

By the time he stomped his boots free of mud on the porch, he felt half-dead—shoulders aching, hands raw, thoughts narrowed down to nothing but bed and the ceiling stains he’d fall asleep to.

But then he heard it.

A voice.

Her voice.

Soft. Familiar. Curling through the hallway like it had never left.

He froze.

Luda Mae’s murmur followed, calm as always, but he didn’t hear her.

Just Jane.

His chest lurched. He shoved down the hall, boots thudding against the boards, heart rising like something trying to claw free.

And then—she was there.

Standing by the stove. Dress catching the dim light. Hair tucked behind one ear just like he remembered.

For a heartbeat, it was only her.

Then he saw it—the purple bloom beneath her eye, the split at her lip. Marks that didn’t belong on her face, marks that twisted his chest tight.

Months had passed, seasons had turned, but it was her.

“Hi, Tommy,” she said, soft as ever.

The world went white at the edges. He didn’t think, didn’t breathe—just crossed the space in three long strides, arms wrapping around her, lifting her clean off the floor. Her breath caught against his neck. Warm. Real. Back where she belonged.

“Thomas!” Luda Mae snapped. “Put her down ‘fore you break her.”

But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not after all this time. Not after silence and ghosts and the empty spot beside him every night since September. He clung to her like proof she hadn’t vanished for good.

It wasn’t until Jane’s hand pressed against his shoulder—gentle, but firm—that something in him paused.

She wasn’t the same against him.

There was weight there. A shift. A quiet swell pressed between them that hadn’t been before.

He set her down slowly.

His hands dropped and so did his eyes.

The subtle swell beneath her dress caught the light. A quiet curve. Not enough for the world to see. Just enough for someone who had touched her to know.

His breath snagged.

Jane smoothed her skirt, catching his stare. Her expression didn’t break, but her eyes flickered. Something wary. Something daring. Her chin tilted just slightly upward, like she was bracing for judgment or disbelief.

Thomas’s mouth opened, but no sound came. His hands trembled. His throat locked. His heart thundered.

The kitchen fell silent around them. The stove hissed. The wind tapped at the window.

And in that stillness, the truth settled like ash.

She was different.

Changed.

And she hadn’t come back alone.

Notes:

Who saw this coming? A new member to the Hewitt’s dysfunctional clan? 🫢

Also a big thank you to everyone for being here and for supporting this story as it continues into Part Two!

Every bit of feedback, whether it’s a comment, a thought, or just letting me know you’re still reading, truly means a lot! 🖤

Chapter 2: The Burden

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

December 26, 1957

 

Jane’s smile came quiet, but it was there.

“I’m glad to see you too, Tommy,” she said, soft, like she meant it.

Before he could answer, Luda Mae’s voice cut sharp across the room.

“Don’t just stand there, boy. Help her with her things. Get ’em upstairs.”

Thomas shifted, half-startled, already stepping back the way he’d come. Jane moved toward the stairs where her bags sat—few things, folded and folded again, fragile as glass.

“I can get it, Luda,” she said, steadying the small bag with one hand.

Thomas took it from her. Her eyes slid to his, then down, and back again.

“Well, I do got somethin’ to show you.” She spoke low, careful his mother couldn’t hear. The words clung to the air, heavy and certain.

He already knew. His stomach knotted as he followed her up, the bag pulling on his arm like a stone. Each step pressed hard through his boots, slow and weighted, as if the whole house meant to drag him down with it.

 

When they were finally alone, it was lamplight again. Thomas followed her in slow, setting her things gently at the foot of the bed. Jane closed the door soft behind her. For a moment the room narrowed to a yellow pool on the floorboards.

He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes fixed on her. His nerves showed plain. He could hear her breath tremble, the hitch when she opened her mouth.

“I know I should’ve told you sooner. Shoulda come back sooner.” She hesitated, like the words had been locked in her chest.

Her fingers shook as she lifted the hem of her skirt, pulling it high to just below her breasts. The curve rose round and undeniable. She didn’t need to explain.

“Well… this is what I needed to show you.”

He just stared. Didn’t know how long it took for bellies to swell, how you were supposed to keep track. All he knew was it was there now, plain as day. And the thought slipped in before he could shove it down—she’d been gone for months. What if it weren’t his?

She let him look, then let the fabric fall and smoothed it flat with both hands. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. When she leaned in to kiss him, he pulled back. Not mean, only careful, as if searching her face for an answer. His eyes dropped, quick and guilty.

Jane didn’t press him. She sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. When her voice came, it was low, like the walls might be listening.

“I was suspicious when I left. Not sure. Just… somethin’ felt different.” She patted the space beside her. He sat down slow, watching her hands as they worried the stitches in her skirt. “I told myself I wasn’t. That it was all in my head.”

“At first I stayed in denial. Thought maybe it’d go away. I was too scared to say it out loud.”

A small, dry laugh slipped out. The lamplight caught the glassiness of her doe-eyes.

“Then it got harder to hide.” Her voice thinned. “Mama asked where I’d been sneakin’ off to. I told her I thought maybe I was in a family way. I hoped she’d surprise me. Maybe she’d be gentle.”

The laugh came sharper, humorless.

“She wasn’t. Beat me for it. Face looks like this ’cause I kept my arms over my belly.” Her palms pressed against the small mound. For a moment, something glowed in her, soft and certain. “That was the first time I knew I wanted it. More’n I was willin’ to admit.”

However, the moment quickly passed.

“She threw me out that night. I walked to a church ’cause the bells were ringin’. Christmas Eve service. They gave me a blanket, some coffee. Said they could get me into a home for unwed mothers. Told me I didn’t have to tell you. Could be taken care of, like nothin’ ever happened.”

Her gaze flicked up, then faltered at the look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Tommy.” Her voice cracked soft.

 

The room was so quiet he could hear the faint creak of the rafters, the slow pull of her breathing. She let her hand fall away, leaving him with the shape of her words in his head and the weight of them in his chest.

He just stared. Couldn’t look away, couldn’t seem to breathe right. She shifted on the bed, nervous and frustrated under his silence.

“If you want me to go… I can.” Her palms smoothed over the small swell of her belly. “I could go away and—” she swallowed, eyes dropping, “—this never happened.”

He frowned before she even finished, but she didn’t notice.

“They said they’d take care of me at one of those homes. Like nothin’ ever happened. I could come back in the summer.” Her voice held something almost hopeful, as if she believed the promise. As if she didn’t know what those places really were.

Shock still sat heavy in him—the truth of what she’d endured while he was here, working, eating, sleeping like nothing had changed. Beneath the shock, guilt dug deeper. He should’ve been there. Should’ve kept her from going back to Dolores at all.

That guilt flared hotter. Possessive. Protective. The kind of feeling that made his hands curl on his knees. She’d been hurt, and it was his fault for not keeping her safe. She was his. They were his. The thought of her going somewhere he couldn’t follow made his jaw lock tight.

Her voice cut through, sharp and trembling.

“Maybe it would’ve been better if you never knew. Not if you’re gonna look at me like that.”

She stood, glanced back at him, brow furrowed.

“Do you think it’s not yours, or what?”

Her mouth trembled. She bit down hard, but the words broke loose, ragged.

“Maybe that’s how you see me. Like everyone else. A whore like my mama.”

The word curdled the air. His stomach turned. His hand shot up before he thought better, pressing two fingers to her mouth, eyes wide, desperate. Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever call yourself that.

She jerked back, slapping his hand away with more fire than he’d seen in her all night.

“Don’t you touch me like I’m lyin’. Don’t you dare think I been with other boys. The only whore I ever been is yours.” Her voice cracked, broke, but the fury stayed.

He shook his head, words choking in his throat. I ain’t thinkin’ that. Not of you. Never of you.

But what came out was nothing, silence so thick it drowned the room.

Jane blinked hard, swallowing the tears like they burned.

“At least,” she said finally, voice thin and sharp as glass, “you ain’t gotta carry our secret under your skin.”


The words struck him like a match, but by the time he lurched forward, she was already at the door.

The lamplight swung with her shadow as it shut behind her, rattling the frame. He stayed frozen, hand half-raised, the ghost of her voice still burning against his ears.

Every creak of the stairs below felt like a warning. His stomach knotted, tight as a child waiting to be tattled on. He could hear it already—Jane’s voice spilling the truth to his mother, to Monty, to Charlie. Telling them he was the father.

All of it, dragged into the open. Every secret moment of sin between them.

His throat closed on the memory. If she told, they’d know it all. They’d picture it, sneer at it, spit his name like it was filth. Luda Mae’s sharp voice calling him out. Monty’s snort of disgust. Charlie’s laughter spilling like acid. Questions he couldn’t answer. Accusations he couldn’t fight.

And Jane had been right. There was no way his family could look at him and know. Not like hers—her secret was written on her body. His was only sweat and silence.

He clawed at his face, nails scraping across his skin. The silence pressed in tighter, every groan of the rafters, every creak of the house settling, like the walls themselves were listening. Waiting.

Any second now he’d hear her voice downstairs, clear and sharp, and the life he thought he’d hidden would be torn open. Every moment, every sin, dragged into the light.

At supper, Thomas couldn’t bring himself to eat. He lingered in the hall, listening, waiting, shut in on himself until someone called for him to come sit.

Skittish as a colt, he slid into his place beside Jane, the same spot he’d claimed all summer. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t meet the eyes of the others either.

No one said a word at first. The chatter stayed low, small talk filling the room: how the day had gone, Monty’s tinkering at the station, Charlie’s gossip from Lee’s. Normal things. Almost safe.

Then Charlie’s gaze dropped to her middle. He let out a long, low whistle.

“Speakin’ of people been busy. Looks like you had yourself a good roll in the hay, girl.”

Monty barked a laugh so hard he slapped the table. “Hell, I was thinkin’ it! Didn’t wanna be the one to say.”

“You two. Hush.” Luda Mae’s fork clattered against her plate as she set it down, eyes sharp as glass.

Thomas’s hand slipped on his fork, sweat making it slick in his grip. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought they’d hear it.

Jane shifted, drew in a breath. For a heartbeat Thomas was certain she was about to say his name. He braced for it, bile burning his throat, the whole world narrowing to that one word.

But all she said was, “Yes.”

The air thickened. Luda Mae’s jaw tightened. She leaned back in her chair, studying Jane the way she’d study a bad cut of meat, measuring, deciding. Monty muttered under his breath with a crooked grin. Charlie rocked back smug, like he’d scored a point no one could take from him.

“So when’s it gonna be here?” Monty asked, tone too casual, too cruel. “Spring? Summer?”

Jane lowered her gaze to her plate. Her hands stayed folded, steady.

“I don’t really know. Never been to a doctor. When Mama found out she threw me out before I could ask anything else.”

The silence that followed was sharp as a blade.

Monty gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “Figures. Dolores always did have a mean streak. Guess it runs in the family.”

Charlie snorted into his plate. “Guess we know what else runs in the family.” His eyes slid sideways at Jane, daring her to rise to it.

Luda Mae didn’t so much as flinch. She only watched Jane, unblinking, lips pressed tight, as though waiting for her to crack under the weight of her stare.

And still, nothing.

Nothing about Thomas. Nothing about the nights in haylofts, the blanket by the creek, the sitting room where she’d nearly moaned loud enough to wake them all.

Nothing about who had put that life inside her.

Thomas sat on the edge of his chair, knuckles white around his fork, sick with relief, sick with shame, sick with the weight of everything she’d kept hidden—and with the dread of how long her silence could hold beneath the eyes burning into her from across the table.

At last Jane’s eyes flicked up, just for a second, and found his. A glance so small it might’ve been missed, but to him it landed heavy as a stone. A reminder. Her silence was a choice. A secret she could still set loose whenever she pleased.

 

The dishes still clattered in the kitchen when Thomas slipped onto the back porch, hoping the night air might steady his stomach. He leaned against the rail, sweat cooling on his skin.

The door creaked behind him. Heavy boots crossed the boards, and then a rough hand clamped the back of his neck, hot and mean. Uncle Charlie bent close enough that Thomas could feel his breath in his ear.

“Couldn’t stay away from her, could ya?” His voice was low, sharp. “No better than a stud gettin’ a mare through a fence.”

Thomas stiffened, eyes darting to the yard, but he didn’t move. Charlie’s grip tightened, just enough to remind him who held the power. Then, as sudden as it came, it was gone.

Charlie stepped back, wiping his hand down his shirt like he’d touched something foul.

“You’re stupid, boy. Stupid.” His grin carried no warmth. “Your mama can’t know about this. I told her I took care of it. Let her keep believin’ you’re still her little god-fearin’ good boy.”

The words dug deep, heavier than the grip had been. Thomas stayed frozen, staring at the boards under his boots, jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Charlie chuckled, boots creaking slow and easy as he turned back inside.

“Keep it that way, Tommy. Or we’ll both see what happens when Mama finds out what you really are.”

The screen door banged shut, leaving Thomas alone with the night, his skin still burning where Charlie’s hand had been.

He stayed there long after, jaw sore from grinding his teeth, neck tight with fire. The crickets hummed, but all he could hear was Charlie’s voice, sharp and mocking.

When the door eased open again, he half-expected his uncle’s boots. Instead, it was Jane. She stepped out quiet, hands folded over her middle, lamplight catching the faint bruise on her cheek.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” she whispered. Her voice carried a softness he hadn’t heard in weeks. “I swear this thing makes me crazy.” She smoothed her palm across the swell, laughed under her breath, small and nervous.

She edged closer, teasing like she used to — the tilt of her head, the flick of her eyes that once would’ve set him burning.

But he couldn’t rise to it. Not now. Not with Uncle Charlie’s grip still ghosting the back of his neck, his warning still hot in his ear.

Every word from her, every glance, felt like walking on eggshells. One wrong step and everything they’d hidden might shatter.

She reached out, fingertips brushing his arm. “Don’t be mad at me, Tommy. I don’t mean it half the time. I just… I get scared.”

He looked down at her hand, at the way it trembled against his sleeve. The ache in his chest tightened, caught between wanting to fold her close and the terror of what would happen if anyone else saw.

So he stood still, silent under the weight of her touch, the night pressing in around them.

——

Winter held its grip for weeks after. The creek froze at the edges. The pipes groaned. Jane’s belly grew.

The pump handle shrieked in the cold as Thomas worked it, breath clouding in short, hard bursts. His gloves were thin and damp. Water sloshed into the dented bucket, steaming faintly against the air.

It was almost dark. Just him and the wind now, blowing dust along the ground like dead skin.

He was halfway back toward the barn when he heard it—a screech. Then another. That sharp, ugly sound of fighting. Not wild. Domestic.

He dropped the bucket and ran.

Around the corner, in the old stall under the lean-to, Mama Cat was on the defense—bristled up, tail thick, hissing like a teakettle. In front of her, a big orange tomcat crouched low and mean, ears flat, eyes narrow. Blood slicked the straw. One kitten lay twisted near the post, unmoving. Another flailed weakly, its mew shrill and broken.

Thomas didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. He reached for the pitchfork propped against the wall and drove it down fast, the tines slamming through the tomcat’s side. It shrieked—raw, desperate—but didn’t break free. It thrashed. Clawed the dirt. Snapped at air.

Mama Cat bolted, grabbing a kitten by the scruff and vanishing into the shadows. Then another. Then gone. Thomas stood over the pinned tomcat, chest heaving. It wasn’t dead. Not yet.

He looked at it—really looked. Big bastard. Scarred up. Tail like a whip. It hadn’t just come to kill. It’d come to breed. Take what wasn’t his. Leave her with more she didn’t ask for. The cat squirmed again. He brought his boot down hard on its head. Once. Then again to finish it off.

Silence.

The straw settled. The wind moaned through the slats in the siding. Thomas straightened slowly, wiping the fork on the dirt. His hands trembled.

He buried the dead kittens near the old water tank—soft soil, shallow grave. Gave the tomcat’s carcass to the dogs. They’d fight over it by morning.

But Mama Cat—He found her curled up behind the woodpile, eyes like fire in the dusk, her body coiled protectively around two surviving kittens. She blinked up at him. Weary. But unafraid. He knelt. Reached out. Ran his knuckles gently behind her ear. He murmured softly to her. She leaned into his hand, slow and grateful.

And in that moment, he saw her as something else.mSomething more.mNot just a cat, but her.

Jane.

Curled around what was theirs. Alone. Tired. Carrying life inside her the way animals did—with no fuss, no help, just pain and instinct.

He’d been trying to understand it. This pregnancy—this word folks said with pinched smiles and sideways glances. He only knew what he’d seen in sows and strays. He remembered a goat that bled too much after kidding. A heifer whose calf came out wrong—limp and blue, its legs bent backward. How Mama Cat had hidden her kittens in the feed bin last time, chewed through her own cord.

And now Jane, she’d pressed his hand to her belly just once. Let him feel the faint flutter inside. Soft. Strange. Like something was swimming in her. He hadn’t known what to say. Hadn’t said anything at all.

But standing there now, in the half-dark, the blood cooling on his boots, Thomas understood something clear and terrible: If anyone ever came for her—Came to take them—he’d do worse than what he did to that tom.

And he wouldn’t hesitate.

 

Thomas stepped inside, shutting the back door soft behind him. The house was warm. Dimly lit. Still smelling faintly of grease and cabbage from supper.

From the sitting room came the slow drift of piano through the radio—faint and scratchy, like wind through old lace. Jane was curled sideways on the old couch, one leg tucked under her, a book spread across her lap. She wasn’t reading fast, just letting her eyes drift over the page, lips moving slightly as if tasting the words. The lamp beside her glowed soft, golden. Her belly rose beneath the thin cotton dress like a hill.

She didn’t see him at first. But her voice cut through the hush anyway.

“I know you’re watchin’ me,” she said, turning a page.

Thomas froze.

“I can feel it.”

She leaned back over the armrest to look at him upside down, hair falling back, a playful smirk tugging her mouth.

“Hear it too,” she added. “You breathe heavy like a bull who’s been out with the cows all day.”

Thomas flushed. His shoulders hunched slightly as he stepped forward. He looked around like he might pretend to be doing something else, but he wasn’t subtle—not with her. Not anymore. She didn’t move away when he came to stand beside her. Just shifted a little, giving him room. He bent and pressed his lips to the crown of her head. Light. Hesitant. Then ran his hand over her hair, petting her slow, careful, like she might flinch. She didn’t. She just closed her eyes, smiling faintly.

“That’s rare,” she murmured. “Sweet, even.”

Thomas lingered there a moment longer. Her hair was soft. Warm. She smelled like the lilac soap from upstairs and the wood of the old armchair she liked to sit in during the day.

“Something must be botherin’ you,” she said finally.

He stiffened.

She sighed, quiet and knowing.

“It’s about me, ain’t it?”

He didn’t answer. Just shifted his weight.

“I told you, Tommy,” she said gently. “You ain’t got to worry.”

She turned the page without really looking at it, her other hand resting absently on the curve of her stomach.

“I was handlin’ myself just fine for four months.”

She huffed.

“Well, till Mama found out.”

Her voice dropped a little then, no longer teasing. Thomas’s jaw flexed. He stared at the wall past her, fists tightening.

“But I’m here now,” she said. “Luda won’t let me go to church or town no more—not since I can’t hide it.”

Her fingers moved slowly over the pages now, more fidget than reading.

“I don’t do nothin’ all day but sit and listen to Mara talk about the end times and how I’m gonna have a girl cursed like me.”

She laughed once, low and bitter. Thomas dropped into a slow crouch beside her. His knee popped. His boots creaked. She glanced at him, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to smile but couldn’t quite get there.

“You hover,” she said softly. “You know that? Every time I get up, you get up too.”

He looked away.

“It don’t bother me,” she added, quieter still. “I like it, actually. Just… sometimes I think you’re waitin’ on somethin’ bad to happen.”

Thomas met her eyes. His stayed there.nShe nodded once, more to herself than to him.

“I get it. I do.”

She leaned forward just enough to rest her forehead against his.

They stayed that way for a while. No talking. Just breath and warmth and the old piano song fading into static.nThe book slid from her lap to the floor. Neither of them moved to pick it up. Not right away. But after a while, Jane sighed and leaned forward, reaching for it.

Her belly shifted with her, and the simple movement became a struggle—one hand braced on the cushion, the other stretching awkwardly, her breath catching with the effort. Thomas moved before he even thought. He bent and scooped the book up with one big hand, brushing the dust off the cover before holding it out to her.

She took it, eyes narrowed at the slight wheeze in her own breath. “Still not used to havin’ it in the way,” she muttered. “Feels like I’ve swallowed a melon whole.”

He looked down at her belly—rounder now, heavier. Like a quiet truth growing louder.

“You oughta see me tryin’ to put on socks,” she added, cracking a grin. “Damn near threw out my back yesterday.”

That pulled a smile from him—just the edge of one, faint but real.

She settled the book back in her lap and let her fingers play absently along its spine. “Y’still have a hard time readin’?”

His shoulders shifted. He gave a little shrug.

She didn’t press, but her smile turned sly. “You think I should start readin’ you Winnie-the-Pooh again? Like when we were kids?”

That earned a huff of air from him. Not quite a laugh, but close.

“I still remember you makin’ me do the voices,” she added. “You’d damn near cry if I skipped the part about the honey.”

He ducked his head, embarrassed.

“I could read you somethin’ else,” she offered, quieter now. “I got my favorite one. Frankenstein.”

His eyes lifted, wary.

She caught it. “Not like the movie. Not some Halloween spook show with bolts in the neck and green paint.”

She paused, watching him. “It’s… sad, really. The monster—he wasn’t evil. He just wanted to be loved. To belong. People hated him ‘cause he was ugly, ‘cause they didn’t understand.”

Thomas’s face didn’t move. But something behind his eyes flickered. Jane didn’t push. Just ran her hand slow over her belly again and let the thought settle in the air between them.

“I think you’d like it,” she said softly.

Thomas swallowed. The lamp buzzed faintly. Then, without a word, he shifted beside her—closer now, his arm brushing hers as he sat on the floor, broad back to the couch. Jane leaned into him, the book resting on her knees. She didn’t open it. Not yet. The radio gave one final wheeze before going quiet. The house was still again. But warmer now.

Safer.

Winter held quiet for a week after.
The days all felt the same: frost edging the windows, pipes groaning, Mara muttering about signs in the sky. Jane stayed upstairs more, or curled near the radio with her book, belly pushing higher every time he glanced at her. He kept close, always within reach, like if he looked away too long something might come to take her.

It was near sundown when the quiet broke. The crunch of tires on gravel. A door slam. Laughter—high and sharp, voices tumbling over one another like they’d never been gone at all. Thomas stiffened where he stood in the hall.

The front door banged wide. Cold rushed in with the smell of smoke and perfume and dust. Dolores was first across the threshold, cigarette already lit, a the girls tagging behind her. Paula clung to her hip, half-buried in the crook of her coat. Frances and Henrietta trailed close, carrying bundles, all three loud as sparrows.

Dolores blew smoke sideways, eyes roaming the room like she owned it. “Well, don’t everyone jump up at once.”

Jane appeared in the sitting room archway, hand braced at the frame. Her face was pale, mouth set tight. Without thinking, Thomas moved closer behind her.

Dolores’s gaze found them quick. She let her eyes drop deliberate to the swell beneath Jane’s overalls, then back up with a grin that wasn’t kind. “Well, well. Look at you, Josephine. Can’t hide it no more.”

Jane didn’t answer.

Henrietta blinked wide at her sister, uncertain, while Frances smirked like she’d been waiting on this. Paula squealed, reaching out for Jane, too young to understand why her mama’s words cut. Jane stood stiff in the doorway, one hand slipping down to the side of her overalls, smoothing it flat like she could will the curve away.

The girls piled in behind their mother, stamping off the cold. Frances looked her up and down, mouth curling.
“Here I thought you were just gettin’ fat,” she said with a quick, ugly laugh.

Jane’s face flamed. She shot her sister a look sharp enough to cut, but Frances only smirked wider, satisfied she’d struck true.

“Well that’s why started stealing your clothes,” Jane scoffed. Frances scowled. Henrietta then stepped forward, eyes big and shining. “I knew it!” she blurted, almost proud. “That morning on the porch—I knew somethin’ was different wit you!” She leaned closer, gaze fixed on Jane’s belly. She placed her hands on both sides fascinated.

“Is it a brother or a sister?” Paula came up reaching to placing her tiny hands near Henrietta.

Before Jane could answer, Frances rolled her eyes. “It’ll be a cousin, Paula. Don’t be dumb.”

Jane scoffed, lifting her chin. “Niece…or maybe a nephew. Don’t know yet.”

Dolores folded her arms, smug. “Hewitt girls make girls. How it’s always been. Well—besides Leah. Maybe she really ain’t one.”

Henrietta shifted, chewing her lip, glancing between her sisters. Paula just clung tighter to Jane, too small to understand, eyes wide at all the talk. Thomas stood off to the side, jaw locked, watching Jane. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hard, but her hand stayed near her belly—protective, defiant. He remembered that winter night like a stone in his chest—Jane stumbling back beaten raw, coat half-open, face bruised black and blue. He hadn’t needed her to say who’d done it.

Dolores.

She wasn’t much bigger than a tomcat, but just as mean as one. Claws out, teeth bared, tearing at whatever she could reach. And Jane had taken it full across the face, arms thrown over her belly to shield what was inside.

The room brimmed with smoke and noise—Dolores loud as ever, Frances quick to bite, Henrietta wide-eyed, Paula clinging. Jane stood firm, hand over her belly, chin high. And Thomas—he hated himself for it, but all he could think was how he wanted her gone from here, away from their claws, away from anyone but him. But her family had come to claim her again, loud and unrelenting, and he felt the weight of it settle cold in his gut. Something in him knew their return would not pass quiet.

Notes:

More spaced out & longer chapters for part two.

Appreciate y’all reading along! If something in this chapter stuck with you I’d love to hear it in the comments. Your thoughts keep me going!!

Chapter 3: The Softening Ground

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Winter loosened its grip and gave way to spring. It was everyone’s favorite time of year in Texas—cool enough to move without sweat, warm enough to forget the bite of cold. But mild skies didn’t bring rest to farmers.

Thomas’s days blurred together—long shifts at Lee’s, then home to a farm that never slept. Spring was the season of new beginnings and backbreaking work: calves bawling in the dark, piglets rooting for the teat, chicks scattered like yellow sparks through the hay. Fences sagged and needed mending, the fields had to be turned and planted before the rains passed, and every tool on the place seemed to need fixing at once. By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, his clothes smelled of dirt, blood, and hay, and his hands ached like they’d been swinging for years.

The weather wasn’t the only thing changing, the swell of Jane’s middle had turned into something undeniable. She moved slower now. Her apron rode higher these days, like that alone could hide what her dresses no longer could.

A month back, Luda Mae made a trip to town for feed and hardware, Thomas hadn’t expected Jane to come along. She hadn’t set foot off the farm in weeks—not since the cold first broke. But the midwife lived on the outskirts of Fuller, and Luda Mae said it was time to find out when the baby might come.

The truck ride in was quiet. Jane sat pressed against the door, hair pulled back tight, the few loose strands fluttering in the wind that leaked through the window. She didn’t speak, but Thomas saw the way her fingers knotted in her lap, the way her foot tapped the floorboard when they passed the first storefront. She wasn’t used to being looked at anymore.

Luda Mae gave her a short nod when they stopped in front of the midwife’s house—a squat clapboard place with peeling paint and a rusted wind chime that never seemed to stop moving.

“Go on,” she said. “She’ll be expectin’ you.”

Jane smoothed her skirt, gave the two of them a quick glance, and slipped out.

While she was inside, Thomas followed his mother to the fleet and feed store. He loaded sacks of cracked corn, salt blocks, and a new coil of fencing wire into the truck bed until the boards creaked beneath the weight. The air smelled of hay, sweet feed, and oil from the tractors parked out front. Luda Mae signed the receipt with a tight mouth and didn’t say much—just, “That’ll do.”

When they returned to the midwife’s, Jane was just coming down the steps, cheeks flushed, hair damp from the warm afternoon air. The midwife followed close behind, her thin frame straight as a fencepost. She was older than dirt, skin like crepe paper, eyes sharp as a crow’s.

Jane climbed into the truck without a word, settling against the door again. The old woman leaned down to the open window on Jane’s side, bracing a bony hand on the metal.

“Well, this filly must’ve had a busy August,” she said with a grin that wasn’t unkind. Her eyes flicked toward Luda Mae, sharp as the point of a sewing needle.

“Based on that belly and her last bleed, I’d put her due ‘round May twenty-second, twenty-third. But she’s a maiden mare,” the woman added, straightening with a soft grunt. “First ones like to take their time. Wouldn’t surprise me if she runs a week or two late.”

The ride home was quieter than the one there. Jane stared straight ahead. Luda Mae’s hands locked around the wheel like they were the only thing holding her steady. Thomas sat between them, heat rising at the back of his neck, the numbers lining up in his head whether he wanted them to or not.

August. His birthday.

Dolores and her girls had returned to Fuller for good—uninvited as always—moving into the trailer beside Kathy’s. The old hoarder who’d lived there was nothing but bones among his junk. Thomas, Charlie, and Monty had hauled out the piles of rusted cans and torn magazines, the air thick with mold and rat piss.

Jane wanted no part of it. The thought of those close walls, of her mother’s voice cutting through them like it always had, made her stomach twist. She’d rather face the farm’s silence, even if it meant being bound tighter to Mara’s sickroom and the sound of her slow dying.

So she stayed.

Luda Mae said it was only right to earn her keep. Jane tended Mara—washing her hair, spooning broth, changing linens when the nights went bad. She accepted without protest. Caring for the bedridden was easier than facing Dolores.

And Thomas wanted her there. The house felt different with her inside it—less hollow, less mean. When the day’s work was done, they’d slip upstairs to the sitting room, where the light came in soft through the lace curtains. She’d stretch out on the couch, legs propped across his lap, a book resting open in her hands. Her voice would rise and fall steady as the wind outside, and he’d listen, letting the sound of her reading settle somewhere deep in his chest.

Outside, the pastures bloomed. Inside, the house smelled of sickness, supper, and slow decay.

 

April 5th, 1958

 

It was a fine Saturday afternoon, the kind that came rare before summer heat set in, right between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. The pastures shone green, dotted with wildflowers, the sky wide and clear.

Thomas bent near the fence line and found a single feather caught in the grass, bright blue against the earth, a jay feather.

He turned it in his hand as he walked back, sunlight catching the sheen. For some reason he couldn’t say, it felt worth keeping. The color reminded him of the ribbon tied to the rabbit’s foot or Jane’s treasured silk dress.

Jane was on the porch when he came up, feet propped on a turned-over bucket, her belly round and resting like a stone in her lap. She shaded her eyes when she saw him, then grinned as he held out the gift.

“A blue jay feather!” she said, delighted, running her finger along the barbs. “If your grandma wasn’t a husk of a person right now, I’m sure she’d be out here saying something crazy like that means the baby’s gonna be a boy.”

The sound of her chuckle and how she turned the feather over, studying it like treasure, stirred something in him.

“You ever think about what it’s gonna be?” she asked after a moment, her voice quieter now, thoughtful.

Thomas shifted, the thought biting deep. He had thought of it too much. What it would look like. Sound like. If it would come out wrong like folks whispered about him. Or if it would carry Jane’s light instead, something fine and soft.

Then Charlie’s voice rose in his head: Better pray for a girl that looks like her mama.

Thomas’s jaw tightened. He stared at Jane, the blue bright against her fingers, the roundness of her belly rising with her breath. The words stuck in his throat.

God, let it be a girl.

Jane broke the silence, her voice soft. “You know, I keep telling myself it’s a girl. My mama had all girls. Says I’ll probably have one too.”

She glanced at the feather, turning it slowly between her fingers. Her smile faded into something more thoughtful. “But my dreams have been telling me otherwise.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it, just kept her eyes on the blue shimmer, as if it might give her the answer.

The words sank heavy. Thomas shifted where he stood, hand dragging over his jaw, the roughness of his scars beneath his fingertips. His throat worked.

“What? You worried if it’s a boy it’ll look like you?” Jane asked softly, lifting her eyes to him.

The question landed sharp. For a moment he could only stare at her, heart hammering. That was the fear he carried every night. The face, the body, the mind. Passing it down. Cursing the child before it ever had a chance.

He couldn’t answer. His gaze dropped to her belly, then to the feather in her hand.

Jane laid the feather across her bump, watching him closely. “Don’t be,” she said quietly. Her eyes reassuring.

His lip twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at him before he could stop it. Jane caught it. She leaned up a little, as if she meant to meet him halfway. Thomas bent down, heart hammering, the world narrowing to the shine of her eyes and the curve of her mouth.

Then a throat cleared, sharp, cutting through the air. He froze. At the screen door, his mother stood, shadowed in the frame, watching. The moment collapsed between him and Jane like it had never been there at all.

Jane’s lips were still parted, but she didn’t move. Thomas straightened, heart thudding, the weight of his mother’s presence pressing down heavier than any hand.

Luda Mae didn’t speak at first. She just held them in her gaze, the porch quiet except for the soft creak of the boards beneath her shoes.

Finally she shifted, her voice even. “Jane. Start on supper.”

Jane rose at once, the feather still in her hand, and slipped past into the house without looking back.

When the screen door clicked shut, Luda Mae stayed in the doorway. Her eyes fixed on Thomas. “Stay put,” she said.

He did, boots rooted to the porch. The air felt heavier now, like the heat had settled just on him.

“Don’t let her fool you,” Luda Mae told him, her tone flat as stone.

The words struck harder than a slap, leaving Thomas staring down at his hands, the near-smile long gone.

Her hand lingered on the doorframe. “You don’t want a woman like that,” she said, low, like she was passing on gospel. “You’ll be stuck with another man’s burden.”

Thomas didn’t lift his head. He only stared at the porch boards, at the faint dust on his boots.

“Don’t go forgettin’ what I said,” she told him. “God gives folks signs. You best pay attention.”

She turned and went inside, the screen door snapping behind her.

 

Thomas lingered on the porch, the echo of his mother’s voice still heavy on his chest. A sharp whistle snapped him out of it. Charlie stood by the truck, chin tipped toward the road.

“Town,” he said. “You comin’?”

Thomas climbed in, the seat hot against the back of his legs. The engine coughed once, then caught. Dust lifted behind the tires as they rolled down the road, the fields stretching wide on either side — green and gold in the afternoon light.

Charlie liked to talk on drives. Always had.

“Y’know,” he started, elbow hanging out the window, “back when I was about your age, there was a gal worked over at the feed store. Mean as a snake, pretty as sin. Had half the boys in town trip over their own boots for her. Me?” He grinned. “I was the one she let behind the counter.”

Thomas stared out the window, saying nothing. He never minded Charlie’s stories. They filled the silence, and sometimes — when the punch lines were stupid enough — they even made him chuckle.

Charlie tapped his finger against the doorframe, his grin stretching wider. “She used to call me sweetheart. Me. Can you believe that? Couldn’t stand the sound of my name, but ‘sweetheart’ rolled right out.”

He laughed to himself, the sound rough and easy, like an old boot scraping gravel.

“Lesson there, boy,” he said, flicking the ash into the wind. “Folks say one thing in church and do another out back.”

Thomas’s fingers rested against his knees, the hum of the road steady beneath them. A breeze drifted through the open window, smelling faintly of alfalfa and dust.

Charlie kept going, as if the silence were a cue. “You get a girl laughin’, she’ll follow you anywhere. Don’t matter what you look like. Don’t matter what folks say. They’ll talk, sure. They always talk. But that’s just wind.”

Thomas’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close.

The town appeared ahead, buildings crouched low against the road like tired old dogs. Charlie parked with the same casual jerk of the wheel he always used, the engine coughing to a stop.

“Let’s make it quick,” he said, flicking the cigarette to the dirt. “Town ain’t never been good for much.”

They went their separate ways the way they always did. Charlie headed straight for the store’s front steps, already calling out a greeting to whoever was loitering by the door. Thomas trailed behind, slower, hands in his pockets, the weight of the porch still pressing at the base of his ribs.

Inside, the store smelled like old grain and tobacco. Charlie was already jawing with someone near the counter. Thomas stayed near the door, where the air came in cooler through the warped screen. He busied looking at the posting board, straightening feed sacks against the wall, the scratch of burlap steady beneath his hands.

 

That was when he heard it.

Two women stood just outside by the railing, half turned toward the door. Their voices carried in just enough to catch. Not whispering. Not trying to hide.

“Shameful, is what it is.”

“I don’t think the girl is even married. Belly out to here.”

A sharp, knowing laugh.

“Bless her heart,” one of them drawled, sweet as honey. “Out there with that bunch all winter… and folks say it’s the big one. Can’t imagine her wantin’ that on purpose.”

The second woman hummed low. “Mmhmm. Ain’t a girl in town ever let him look twice, much less touch. Only makes sense, don’t it?”

The first gave a little snort, soft but pleased. “You know how folks talk. Word like that’s got legs. Runs faster than a preacher’s wife after a sale.”

“Poor thing,” she added then, voice dipping into mock concern. “Lord help that baby. Already got sin hangin’ over it before it even takes a breath.”

Thomas’s hands stilled on the burlap. The hum of the store filled his ears, but their voices slid through it easy as a knife through fat.

He’d spent the winter with Jane tucked away behind those walls, quiet and out of sight. Thought maybe that’d be enough to keep their names off tongues. But folks didn’t need proof—just a story that fit the way they already saw him. Big. Wrong. Something folks talked about.

The heat rose up the back of his neck, settling thick and mean behind his ribs. He didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Just stared at the floorboards, jaw set tight, while their voices rustled through the doorway like dry grass.

Before he could turn, another voice cut through the air—rough, steady, unmistakable.

 

Charlie.

 

“Sounds like y’all got a real story worked up,” he went on, resting an elbow against the doorframe. “Big fella. Out there with them. Guess everybody knows, huh?”

He wasn’t shouting. He didn’t need to. The way his voice flattened at the edges said enough.

One of the women shifted, forcing out a shaky laugh. The other ducked her head, parcel clutched tight to her chest.

Charlie smiled, slow and mean. “Y’all might wanna remember who that girl’s mama is. Woman still don’t know how to keep her legs shut.”

The words landed like a slap. No one laughed—not really. Just that uneasy shuffle people make when they can’t tell which way a thing’s about to turn.

Charlie pushed off the doorframe, the floorboards groaning beneath his boots. “Come on, boy,” he called over his shoulder, loud enough for them to hear. “Ain’t worth standin’ around with hens.”

Thomas tore his eyes from the floor, heat still sitting heavy.

Outside, the sunlight hit hard. Charlie spit out his tobacco and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Thomas to catch it:

“Sorry I had to talk about your girl like that.”

 

Charlie kept talking for a while, but the words dulled under the drone of the road. Thomas just watched the dust rise and fall behind them, the world outside shifting in streaks of light.

He’d heard worse in his life. Heard every name folks could find for him since he was old enough to stand on two feet. Freak. Simple. Pigspawn. Things said to his face, said behind his back, said like he couldn’t understand.

He’d learned to take it, same way he took the heat or the smell of the kill floor—just part of living.

But this one cut different. Maybe it was the way they said poor thing, like Jane was something broken he’d ruined. Maybe it was hearing his name tied to hers in a way that dirtied them both.

He didn’t know why it stung so deep—only that it did.

He turned his head toward the window again, jaw working, throat tight. Out past the fence line, a crow lifted off the wire, its wings black against the sky.

The sound of it faded, and the truck rolled on.

The truck rattled the last mile in silence. Charlie hummed under his breath, tapping the wheel, the faint smell of his cigarette still hanging in the cab. Thomas watched the road turn familiar—the crooked mailbox, the pasture fence, the glint of the water trough catching the last of the light.

When they pulled up to the house, the yard was already full of noise. Dolores’s voice carried over the clatter of dishes, sharp and too loud. Kathy laughed from the porch. The girls darted barefoot through the dirt, skirts flashing in the fading sun.

Thomas stayed by the truck longer than he needed to, wiping his hands on his pants, waiting for the noise to settle. It didn’t.

Through the screen door he could see into the kitchen. Jane was at the counter, apron tied tight over her belly, hair falling loose around her neck. She moved easy, setting plates, turning pork chops in the pan, laughing at something one of her sisters said. The sound of it made his chest tighten—it was so normal, like nothing outside the walls could touch her.

He hovered near the side door, half in shadow. The smell of supper drifted out—cornbread, beans, pork. He wanted to step inside, to say something, anything, but the words caught.

After everything he’d heard that day, all he wanted was to know she didn’t believe it. That she didn’t think he’d ever hurt her.

Jane turned then, brushing flour from her hands, smiling toward the others. Her laughter filled the room again, light and careless.

Thomas stayed where he was, hand on the doorframe, watching her move through the warmth of the kitchen while he stood outside in the dark.

He was still there when Frances’s voice rose above the rest, bright and breathless.

“Well,” she said, grinning from ear to ear, “I guess I oughta tell it now before someone else does.”

Dolores exhaled smoke through a laugh. “Go on then, girl. Spit it out.”

Frances held out her left hand, a small gold ring glinting under the light. “George asked me to marry him.”

The room broke open with noise—Henrietta’s gasp, Paula’s squeal, Charlie clapping his hands. Luda Mae even offered a quiet, polite smile as if trying to match the mood.

“George Meyers?” Monty asked. “From Lee’s?”

Frances nodded, trying to hide her pride but failing. “Said he’s got a little place outside town. Nothin’ fancy, but it’s his.”

Jane looked at her younger sister, her face still, hand tightening around the wooden spoon. “You’re sixteen, Fran.”

Frances only shrugged, her grin tightening. “So? Mama was younger than that when she had you.”

Dolores laughed again, smoke curling from her lips. “And look how good that turned out.”

Jane set the spoon down with a soft clack. “George’s near twenty, isn’t he?”

The noise quieted just a hair. Frances’s smile twitched. “Nineteen,” she said quickly. “He’s got steady work. Better than sittin’ here with nothin’.”

Dolores coughed out a sharp laugh, trying to cut the tension. “Lord, girls, don’t start.”

Jane didn’t answer right away. Her voice, when it came, was low but steady. “Just don’t rush yourself. You got time.”

Frances’s smile faltered. She shifted in her chair, eyes flicking toward her sister’s belly.

“Some of us don’t got as much time as we think.”

The words hung there, and then she added, lighter but sharper,

“I’m just saying—she talks like she ain’t hiding a bastard under that apron.”

The room went dead quiet. Even Dolores froze mid-drag on her cigarette.

Jane didn’t move at first. Then she turned, slow, her eyes finding Frances across the table.

Frances hesitated, the edge of a smile still on her lips, but she didn’t take it back.

Then came a sharp crack as Dolores smacked Frances upside the head.

Frances yelped, jerking back. “What was that for?”

Dolores pointed the cigarette at her, smoke trailing from her fingers. “Your sister’s already as mean as a red mare with that baby in her. Don’t make her madder.”

Frances rubbed her head, glaring. “I was just sayin’—”

“Don’t say,” Dolores snapped, turning back toward her chair. “Eat your supper and hush.”

Jane stood stiff at the stove, the color drained from her face. She didn’t look up, didn’t say a word.

Thomas stayed by the doorway, chest hot, jaw clenched. The smell of smoke and beans filled the kitchen, but no one spoke again for a long while.

Charlie’s voice broke the silence a minute later, rough and careless. “Food’s burnin’.”

The chatter crept back after Jane slipped out, thin and brittle as kindling. Frances kept her head down, pushing food around her plate. The gold ring on her finger caught the light with every small, guilty movement. She’d been glowing before, but now she looked small—like a child who’d spoken too fast and too loud.

Luda Mae rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt. She stepped into the kitchen, her voice steady. “Jane, go check on Mara, will you?”

A faint “Alright” came back, soft but tight. Then the sound of her steps faded down the hall.

Thomas watched her disappear. Then Jane’s voice split the air.

“Luda—”

It cracked, thin and sharp. One word, and the table froze.

The scrape of silverware stopped. Dolores’s hand paused midair. Monty went pale, eyes fixed on the hall. The house held its breath.

Luda Mae was already moving. Her chair tipped back and hit the floor with a dull thud as she hurried down the hallway.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The tick of the wall clock filled the kitchen like a heartbeat.

Then came the sound of Luda Mae’s voice—low, strained. Not calling for help. Not asking questions.

Just quiet.

Jane appeared in the hallway, hands trembling against the frame. Her face was wet, though she didn’t seem to notice. “She’s gone,” she whispered.

Paula whimpered. Henrietta made a small, choked sound. Even Dolores, cigarette still between her fingers, didn’t have anything to say.

Luda Mae stepped out behind Jane, her face drawn and pale but steady. “Y’all stay here,” she said, voice rough around the edges. “Ain’t nothin’ to do now.”

Thomas’s heart pounded against his ribs as the quiet wrapped around the kitchen like heavy cloth. Frances stared down at the ring on her hand, the silver now dull under the light.

Outside, the wind caught the porch swing, making it creak. Spring had come in full—warm, bright, alive. But inside, everything felt colder.

Easter Sunday came soft and warm, the kind of morning that smelled like turned earth and wildflowers. They buried Mara out back near the oak, where the ground sloped gentle toward the pasture. Monty and Charlie dug the hole before the church bells finished ringing, their shovels biting through damp spring soil. Ernest stood off to the side in his Sunday hat, shoulders bowed against the wind. Kathy held a handkerchief to her mouth, eyes red though she made no sound. Dolores leaned on one hip, cigarette burning low between her fingers, her face unreadable. Luda Mae stood at the head of the grave, face pale but set like stone.

Thomas and Jane stood shoulder to shoulder just behind her, close enough their sleeves brushed when the wind picked up. Jane’s hand rested low over the swell of her belly, the other clutching the jay feather he’d given her days before. Frances held Paula’s hand, and Henrietta wouldn’t stop staring at the mound of dirt.

The wind moved through the trees, carrying the sweet, heavy scent of bluebonnets. No preacher came. No hymns were sung. Just the rustle of leaves, the scrape of shovels, and the slow settling of the earth. Mara went into the ground the way she’d lived in that house—quiet, stubborn, and rooted in it.

Notes:

Wooo, long chapter!
The next one’s going to be another big one, too.
Hope y’all are enjoying Part Two so far — I really appreciate all your feedback and comments! 🖤

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