Chapter 3: Scarlet Letters & Holy Water
The blisters broke on Wednesday. By Friday, they’d calloused over. The rhythm of the farm was a brutal, efficient teacher. Dawn to dusk, Cassidy moved through the chores on the list, her body slowly resigning itself to the demands. The work didn’t get easier, but she got better at it. She used the blue gloves from the tack room. She learned the pitchfork’s weight.
Wade was a constant, silent satellite. He never offered help again, but his critiques were dry, technical observations tossed over a shoulder. “You’re scattering the grain, not feeding them.” Or, “Wheelbarrow tire’s low. You’re working twice as hard.” It wasn’t kindness. It was an intolerance for inefficiency.
Supper each night was a minefield conducted under the glow of the old kitchen pendant light. Robert held court, his whiskey glass steadily refilled from the bottle that never left the sideboard after noon. He spoke of town gossip, of crop prices, of the glory days. Martha presented the food and absorbed his moods, her smiles tight and timely.
Cassidy kept her eyes on her plate. Her mother’s comments were needles carefully threaded. “I see you’ve finally found a use for those expensive jeans,” or “That complexion of yours won’t last a week in this sun, but I suppose a tan is fashionable.” Cassidy let the words land and tried not to bleed.
Luke didn’t come back. His visit had been a territorial strike, and he’d said his piece.
Saturday night, Martha laid the dress on Cassidy’s bed. It was a relic from high school, a floral-patterned thing with puffed sleeves and a fitted waist she knew wouldn’t fit. “We leave for church at nine-fifteen,” her mother said from the doorway, her voice leaving no room for debate. “Your father is a deacon. We present a united front.”
The Sunday morning sun felt accusatory. The dress was as bad as she’d feared. The fabric, once soft, had grown stiff and scratchy with age and too many washes. The waistband pinched, and the bodice, designed for a teenager, now strained across her chest, the top button threatening to pop. She looked in the small mirror: a parody of the girl she’d been, stuffed into a costume that no longer contained her.
Downstairs, Robert was magnetic in a crisp button-down and slacks, his hair damp and combed, smelling of bay rum. He kissed Martha’s cheek as she handed him his bible. “You look beautiful, dear.” The perfect picture.
The ride to the First Baptist Church was silent, the station wagon smelling of wax and anxiety. Cassidy sat in the back, feeling the seams of the dress bite into her shoulders.
The church parking lot was a sea of pickup trucks and sedans. As they walked from the car to the tall, brick building, Robert led, smiling and waving. Martha fell in step beside him. Cassidy, by unspoken design, followed three steps behind, like an attendant.
The air inside was cool, thick with the smell of old hymnals, lemon polish, and faint mildew. The whispers began before they reached their regular pew, halfway up on the left.
It was a low, rustling sound, like dry leaves skittering across pavement. She felt eyes on her, felt them snag on the too-tight dress. She kept her gaze fixed on the red carpet, on the scuffed heels of her father’s good shoes.
“…heard she lost her job in New York…”
“…came back with her tail between her legs…”
The voices were hushed, feminine, and sharp. She recognized them. Mrs. Hendricks from the post office. Carol Anne Miller who taught third grade. They didn’t need to be loud. In the vaulted quiet of the church, every syllable carried.
Then, clear as a bell, a younger voice, a girl she’d babysat a lifetime ago, now a teenager with spite to spare: “Mom, look. Cassidy McAllister’s about to pop out of that dress. City slut.”
Heat flooded Cassidy’s face, a violent, prickling tide that reached the roots of her hair. Her steps faltered. Her father, sliding into the pew, didn’t seem to hear. Her mother’s back was ramrod straight.
They sat. The organ wheezed to life. Cassidy stared at the stained-glass window of the kneeling Jesus, the colors blurred by the humiliating sting in her eyes. She focused on her breathing, on not letting a single tear fall. She would not give them the satisfaction.
The sermon droned on about forgiveness and community. Robert nodded at key points, a pillar of faith. Martha’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, her knuckles white.
When the final hymn began, Cassidy stood with the rest, the pages of the hymnal a meaningless smear of black notes. As they sang, she allowed her eyes to sweep sideways, just once.
In the very back pew, almost hidden in the shadow of the balcony, sat Wade. He wasn’t singing. He wore a clean, dark shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, his hat resting on the pew beside him. He was looking not at the pastor, but at the congregation. His gaze was flat, observing. It passed over the Hendricks women, over Carol Anne Miller, and for the briefest second, locked with Cassidy’s. There was no sympathy in it. No pity. It was something colder, more familiar: a recognition of the performance. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head, then looked away, out the high window, as if the sky outside was more honest than anything happening under this roof.
The dismissal was a slow, chatting exodus. Robert was immediately surrounded, backslapped, drawn into conversations about the upcoming harvest festival. Martha was absorbed by a circle of women, her laughter a bright, practiced sound.
Cassidy stood alone by the pew, a stranded island in the scratchy sea of floral polyester. She felt exposed, the whispered words clinging to her like cobwebs.
“Well, don’t you clean up alright.”
She turned. Luke stood there, but not the Deputy Luke from the barn. This was her younger brother, in a too-tight suit jacket, his hair still rebellious. A grin played on his lips. Beside him, holding the hand of a fidgeting toddler, was his wife, Sarah, who gave Cassidy a small, genuine smile.
“Shut up, Luke,” Cassidy said, but the old formula was there. The anger from the barn was gone, replaced by a weariness he seemed to recognize.
“Nah, I mean it. You look like you’re auditioning for a particularly religious horror movie. ‘The Attack of the Killer Puffed Sleeves.’” He leaned in, his voice dropping. “Ignore the hens. They’re just mad you got out and came back. Makes ‘em question their own choices.”
It was the first honest, unfiltered thing anyone had said to her all week. It wasn’t an apology for his earlier cruelty, but it was a thread, something to grasp.
Sarah swatted his arm. “Be nice.” She shifted the toddler on her hip. “It’s good to see you, Cass. Really.”
Before Cassidy could respond, Robert’s voice boomed across the narthex. “Cassidy! Come say hello to the Pastor.”
It was a command. She excused herself, the momentary relief with Luke evaporating. The pastor, a kindly man with soft hands, took hers and said he was so glad she’d returned to the flock. She smiled, her face aching with the effort.
The ride home was different. Robert’s joviality had solidified into a quiet, simmering intensity. The performance was over; the actor was off-stage. He drove with one hand, the other drumming a rapid, impatient rhythm on the steering wheel. Martha stared straight ahead, her earlier animation completely gone, folded away like the church bulletin in her purse.
They pulled up to the farmhouse. Robert killed the engine and sat for a moment in the heavy silence. Then he turned, not to Cassidy, but to Martha, his voice low and devoid of its earlier charm.
“The potatoes were underdone at dinner last night. Again. I won’t eat mush, Martha. You know that.”
It was a small thing. A ridiculous thing. But the violence in his tone was a cold, sudden knife. Martha flinched as if struck. “I’m sorry, Robert. The new oven, the temperature runs high, I—”
“Don’t make excuses.” He said it calmly, cutting her off. He opened his door and got out, leaving the words hanging in the stagnant car air.
Cassidy watched her mother. Martha’s face was a mask of perfect, defeated composure. She unclipped her seatbelt, her movements precise. “Start the lunch, please, Cassidy. There’s cold chicken in the icebox.”
They filed into the house. Robert went straight to the sideboard and poured three fingers of whiskey into a tumbler. He didn’t mix it with coffee now.
Cassidy changed into work clothes in a daze, the scratchy dress a heap on the floor. As she pulled on her jeans, she heard the low rumble of Wade’s truck pulling up outside, returning from wherever he went on Sunday mornings.
She descended to the kitchen to find her father standing at the window, his back to her, drink in hand. Her mother was silently pulling food from the refrigerator.
The back door opened and Wade stepped in. He took in the scene in one glance: Robert’s rigid back, Martha’s silent flurry, Cassidy frozen in the doorway. He nodded once, a bare acknowledgment, and moved to the sink to wash his hands.
“Afternoon,” he said, his voice neutral.
Robert turned from the window. The charming deacon was utterly gone. In his place was a tired, angry man with a glass in his hand. “The north fence line by the creek is sagging,” he said to Wade, his words slightly slurred. “Cattle’ll get through. I want it staked before dark.”
Wade dried his hands slowly. “That’s a two-man job. A full day’s job. It’s Sunday.”
“It’s a job that needs doing,” Robert snapped, his temper flaring. “Unless you’d like to find your pay reflects the hours you choose to work.”
The threat hung in the air, cheap and ugly. Wade’s jaw tightened. He looked from Robert to the bottle on the sideboard, his expression hardening into something contemptuous. But he just picked up his hat from the hook by the door.
“I’ll get the posts and wire,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. He looked directly at Cassidy then, not her father. “You. You know how to use a post driver?”
Cassidy, startled, shook her head.
“You’ll learn.” He said it not as an invitation, but as a fact. An assignment. “Boots. Now.” He walked out, letting the screen door slam.
Robert looked momentarily thwarted, then satisfied. He took a long drink. “See to it, then. Make yourself useful.”
Cassidy pulled on her boots, her heart pounding, not from fear of the work, but from the seismic shift in the room’s atmosphere. She had just seen the mask slip, and Wade had seen her see it. And now, for reasons she didn’t understand, he was pulling her out of the line of fire and into the one place that seemed to make sense to him: the hard, uncomplicated truth of a broken fence.