Too Light to Hold

Dust lay thick on the path and held her weight. The sun was low. It was a long walk to the river, but the house was hot and smelled of tobacco and the men. Maria walked with her hips stiff. Red marks showed at the small of her back. Her thighs carried a dull, heavy heat.

The river ran fast. Cold. It broke over grey stones in the shallows and made a sound like wind moving through leaves. Maria sat on a flat rock and took off her boots. She stepped into the water. Skin-stinging cold. Good. The current pulled at her ankles, trying to carry her downstream, but she stood firm. The river did not care about the house or the money. It moved.

She took a piece of grey lye soap from her pocket and began to wash. Her legs first. Then the places where the men had been. Cold water over her skin. Quick. Hard. A kingfisher dived into the pool near the reeds. It struck the water fast and came up with nothing, then lifted to a high branch to wait again. Maria watched it and scrubbed until her skin was pink and the soap was gone.

She sat on the bank to dry. A yellow butterfly landed on a piece of damp, rotting drift log near her feet. It opened and closed its wings. Bright against the rot. It rested for a moment, searching in the decay, and then a gust of wind took it. Too light to hold, carried toward the dark trees and gone.

Evening chill. She pulled on her dress. The fabric was damp and clung to her skin like a second layer of sweat, but it was clean. The working face coming back. The mask settling into place. She looked at the river one last time. Darker now. It carried the silt and the suds and the memories of the afternoon away toward the sea. The river stayed clean by moving. She could not stop.

Back up the path. The incline shortened her breath. The house appeared through the trees, its porch light a yellow smear against the purple sky. Moths gathered thick around the bulb, striking the glass with soft, blind thuds.

The men were there. In a line near the fence. Leaning against the wood or checking their watches. The Baker, smelling of flour and stale sweat. The Clerk with the nervous eyes who always looked at his boots.

And the Young Man.

A clean white shirt. Hair combed back with water. He saw Maria coming up the path and stepped forward. His face held an imagined thing. He looked at her as if they shared a secret. As if he were the one who would take her away from the river and the house and the dust. He stood as if his love would hold.

Maria looked at him. The white shirt. The hope in his eyes. The yellow butterfly on the rotting log.

No malice.
No hate.
Only the weight of the night beginning again.

She nodded as she passed the line.
He smiled.
A quick, breaking smile.
He thought it would hold.

It only meant he was next.