A STORY by ELIZABETH HOYLE
The Provider
“Don’t let him catch you with those, Hana!” Ida tries to smack the berries from my hand but my reflexes are faster. I shove them into my mouth, keeping my lips parted so she can see the plump skins burst between my teeth. She huffs out an annoyed breath and rolls her eyes but promptly abandons her basket to help me ensure there are no seeds or juice to show that I’ve eaten before my father has come home. My tongue is purple now but if I remain silent and eat carefully, he won’t notice. That shouldn’t be too hard since he doesn’t often wait for a decent response to whatever he’s asked before he’s off talking about something else, usually a story that involves him making himself look good. Everything comes back to him, he thinks.
Ida and I finish picking the last of the berries and return home to our small hut in the heart of the woods. Mama told me that the people in the village thought she and Papa were daft to make their home out here, where we can hear the bears and the wolves prowling close by almost every night. But now, as the westering autumn sun colors the clouds of the horizon orange and the squirrels rustle through the underbrush, I can understand why they’d want the peace of this place. Plus the villagers are too nosy, according to Papa.
Mama is waiting outside for us. “I was about to come searching for you. He should return at any moment.” She ushers us inside the hut, which smells of stew made of vegetables I harvested from my garden at the end of the summer, the bread Ida kneaded this morning, and the honey from Mama’s beehives. Ida pours some of her berries in a bowl to go with our supper while I put my pail on the cupboard so we can start making preserves tomorrow.
“He’s much later than usual,” Ida says, lighting the stubby candles on the table.
“Don’t light those yet. He’s already mad about how much we’ll have to spend on our next trip to the village.” The light reveals Mama’s tight frown.
“It’s either this or we fall over each other.” I plunk the bowl of berries and the loaded breadboard on the table.
“I’m back, my girls!” Papa calls from beyond the door, pausing to take his boots off before he ducks inside. He sets the boots by the hearth for either Ida or I to brush down later. I can’t help but glance at his game bag. It’s empty. I look away but he’s already spotted me.
“Yes, I’ve found nothing today. The game are starting to go to ground, even though winter is a ways off yet.”
“Maybe if you hunted more than one day at a time, you’d have better luck.” He doesn’t seem to notice my suggestion, which gives me courage to keep going. “Will Carter was telling me about a game trail he found deeper in the forest—”
“That’s enough, Hana! I don’t care what that half-wit Carter has to say. I provide for this family and I will do that as I see fit and you will respect me.”
“Come now, let’s eat while it’s still hot,” Mama interrupts in her quieter voice that I can’t stand. It is difficult to swallow my anger as I shovel down the vegetable stew. Ida and Mama tell Papa small details about the day, trying to coax him back into a good humor. Their affected cheeriness and the warm food win over him and soon he’s telling stories in return, their laughter relaxing from strained giggles to earnest chuckles and loud guffaws. I can’t help but join in, the feeling is so infectious. We don’t often feel like a family but for this little while we do.
A wolf howls not too far away and Ida throws back her head and bays in a near-perfect imitation. Mama and I clap; it’s not often my serious little sister shows her silly side.
“Stop! You know I can’t abide that!” Papa yells. “Ida, you’re a young lady so you should act like one!”
“I’m sorry, Papa.” She lowers her head. “I’ve been trying to prove my theory that the different howls have different meanings. Pursuing the idea has required me to learn to imitate the wolves.”
“Clearly you haven’t enough to do if you have time for such nonsense.” The wolf howls again, much closer. A grin spreads over my father’s face. “We can remedy that now. Get the axe and go chop more firewood.”
“That wolf sounds way too close!” Ida protests.
“We have enough wood for the night,” Mama says.
“No, she can go get the wood! It’s not that close. Besides, my boots need to be brushed and my shirt mended and you’ll need the light—”
I am out of my seat and slamming my hand on the table before I rightly know what I’m doing. He flinches before anger warps his face.
“If you want more firewood, why don’t you go and get it? For someone who prides himself on providing for his family, you are too comfortable with claiming our labor as your own!”
His silence is more frightening than if he’d flown into a rage. He stands, his chair clattering to the floor. He grabs the axe from where it rests by the door and goes outside without stopping to put his muddy boots back on. Not even a full minute passes when we hear a wolf snarl and my father yelp. There’s a scuffle then another wolf enters the fray with a growl. Mama gets the musket though she doesn’t know how to use it. Papa wouldn’t teach her.
Cloth rips and there’s a short, deep scream. We hear wet tearing sounds, followed by the pad of more paws. Gradually everything goes quiet outside.
Mama puts the musket down, her eyes wide and her shoulders relaxed. “Well, my girls. He provided.”
The wolves do not trouble us again before we leave our hut to live in the village.
Elizabeth Hoyle (she/her) lives in southern West Virginia. Her fiction has been featured in Spillwords.com, Eunoia Review, Seaborne Magazine, and other publications. Her nonfiction and poetry have been featured in 433, Magpie Literary Journal, and Neuro Logical Literary Magazine, among other places. Find her on Twitter @ERHoyle or at elizabethhoyle.com.