3

The Good Girl

I kick Elsie under the dinner table to stop her from gawking at our father. She's dying to ask questions about the outsider, Cassius Gunner. Questions that are none of her business and wrong to preoccupy herself with. She knows better.

Once the policeman dispatched the man, my father graciously introduced us, a moment that wrested from me every drop of steadiness I had. The man hadn't stopped looking at me—and looking at me funny, no less. Like he recognized me, just as his brother had after showing up on our porch.

Only Cassius Gunner's reaction was harsher. His angular jaw clenched as though he resented what he saw. He spent a staggering amount of time probing my eyes for some kind of suspicious agenda. Incredibly ironic coming from him. I'd searched inside myself, wondering what I had done to earn this sort of attention, and came up blank.

Between his unkempt and deceptively dark hair, his tight but wrinkled attire, his disregard for authority, and his very blue gaze, he'd forced me to glance at my shoes. Cassius Gunner made me uncomfortable without saying a word.

Our father had escorted him to his cabin, fifty yards away in the woods. A convenient distance that won't cause too much gossip amongst our Order—many won't understand—but close enough to monitor Cassius Gunner's behavior and work progress.

Papa had been gone a long time. When he returned, a deep crease had etched itself into his forehead. The man must have said something to trouble him. Nevertheless, my father is tolerating it out of loyalty to his old friend. I cannot quell my own curiosity over what the man and Papa talked about, but it isn't proper to invade his ruminations.

A blush betrays my cheeks when I think of how I'd cleaned the cabin and prepared the bed Cassius Gunner will sleep in. I squeeze my spoon, about to dig into my stew, when Elsie's squeaky voice halts me.

"What's Cassius eating?" she asks.

Our father sets a napkin on his lap. "He refused my offer to join us."

"But—"

"It's his choice. We show courtesy, and he either accepts or not. Something tells me he hasn't yet learned the difference between kindness and pity. Nor pride and manners. He's stained and needs to let go of his reservations before he shares a table with us. We can steer him toward salvation, but he has to take the steps."

I hadn't expected Papa to say so much in one breath. It isn't like him to confide in us to this degree, with these many words. There's melancholy in his hushed tone and pain as fresh as a drop of blood.

Elsie twirls the loose tie of her headdress around her finger. "I didn't ask who he's eating with. I asked what he's eating."

Papa stops chewing. I glance at him, equally surprised and guilty. We've provided the man with a grill for the fresh meat and vegetables we'll regularly deliver to him throughout his stay. We also plan to cater his non-grill meals, seeing as the cabin doesn't have a kitchen. Yet so soon we've neglected to follow through with these plans. Even if he won't sit with us, it's his first night, and he's unfed.

Cassius Gunner has burned himself into our lives and left a smoke trail in his wake, which now permeates the walls. It's a noxious scent that won't disappear soon enough.

Our father sighs. "Annabelle—"

Elsie huffs. "No. Not fair. It was my idea."

"Elsie, do not be so insubordinate.” I smirk. “Annabelle, take a bowl to Cassius," Papa instructs.

My smirk drops onto my plate so quick I can practically hear its thud. I do not want to set foot anywhere near that cabin. Most certainly not alone. I know exactly why he's asking me to go instead of doing it himself. He's concluded the man will more likely accept food from someone his age, which confirms he has so far been uncooperative with my father.

I want Cassius Gunner out of here. There. I've been uncharitable. I embrace the feeling and give it a big hug.

"Elsie should come with me," I say.

"Elsie will not know how to contain herself."

My sister crosses her arms. "Of course. Annabelle can do no wrong. No danger of her stepping out of line."

"And come right back," my father warns.

I cannot disobey. I wish David were here to walk with me. I miss him. I miss the security of him.

On my way, I take solace in the crunchy sounds and grainy textures of autumn. The world smells like split squash.

The solace doesn't last as I near Cassius Gunner's lair. Getting closer, I hear the merciless squeal of rock music blasting from one end of the cabin to the other, sharp enough to peel the hide off a cow.

I'm outraged. Have the authorities allowed this man indulgences during his probation? Does my father know about this?

Technology. Except for select things our Order permits—lighting and refrigerators and the types of tractors we use—it's another offense hailing from the kingdom of vanity. Particularly whatever apparatus is spewing that noise.

I lift my chin and pray for the fortitude to endure the next two minutes. Yes. I will endure. This will toughen me against greater challenges in the future. It will—

The door swoops open. I haven't knocked yet, but Cassius Gunner is standing there, bathed in orange firelight. My mind empties. Heat oozes down my throat and into my stomach.

He's bare-chested. He props his bent arm high up on the frame, causing a muscle to pop up like a pale summit. I've never seen an unclothed male before. Therefore, I've never felt the effects, which flutter in my chest and boil my cheeks.

He jerks his head toward the cabin and turns, indicating for me to follow him. It resurrects my moral stamina. I scowl at his naked back, which brandishes a second tattoo of a broken-up dandelion. The image ripples over his shoulder blade as he moves.

Clutching the container of stew I've brought, I loiter outside for a moment before stepping inside. I will be humble, but I will not be intimidated.

Kerosene lamps glow in the room. The wood stove roasts, providing ample heat. One of our old rocking chairs lounges by the flames, a hand-knit woollen blanket tossed over the arm. The bed is plush and covered in a faded patchwork quilt. I must confess, I'm a bit envious of how cozy it is in here, though I don't envy the seclusion.

Cassius Gunner shuts off the music coming from a small speaker thing—evidently battery-powered—on the floor. Its size surprises me considering how monstrous the noise level had been. As he bends over, his tight jeans span his backside.

I lose my grip on the container but catch it before stew splatters onto the floor. My yelp alerts him. He rises, his attention sliding from my gaping face to the dish in my hands. Those eyes disturb me.

"What do you want?" he asks.

The timing is inconvenient as I chose that precise moment to glance at his torso. He's big, robust. Dark hair trickles down into his waistband.

I hold out the stew. He doesn't take it.

I strain my arm farther. He still doesn't take it.

We watch each other, waiting to see who will give in first. To make himself clearer, he crosses his arms. He's enjoying this. He wants to break me but doesn't realize with whom he's dealing. I have years of faith and restraint on my side. He has years of deviance on his. We shall see who perseveres.

We stay like this for at least a full minute. As my arm muscles begin to tremble, it occurs to me this isn't fair. My mind is not as strong as my body...a plaguing thought. I scrunch my lips together as the stew gets heavier and heavier. My arm gives out, lapsing to my side.

Satisfied, Cassius Gunner strides past me. I place the stew on the counter and trail his movements, folding my hands neatly in front of me. I will myself not to scorn his victory. Now that I've completed my chore, I'm about to leave when I see where he's standing. What he's doing.

He's painting on the wall. A half-finished image—the profile of an unknown child—parades across the wood in thick, wet strokes. Tubes of color and a water jar reside by his feet.

Cassius Gunner, delinquency incarnate, has defaced our property. I'm shocked by his nerve, his rudeness, his talent. How dare he!

I march to the door, intending to take this up with my father.

"So what do you think?" he taunts. "Like my work?"

I stop and glower at him.

"You're desperate to say something, sweetcheeks." He drops his brush into the water jar, the red paint dissolving. "I'm all ears, baby. Hit me with it."

His smug is easy to read. It dares me to reprimand him for his artistic crime and then tell on him, fully aware that I want to.

Leave, Annabelle. Don't humor him. It's pointless.

I fail to listen to myself. I intend to lecture him for ruining the wall, but instead I seize on the other offense, the one I have a more controlled grip on: He doesn't want to accept our food. He thinks he's better than us. His lack of appreciation for our hospitality insults my father's generosity.

"You expect us to believe you have no appetite?" I say, then flatten myself up against the wall when he swaggers up to me and plants his hands on either side of my head. He leans in the way a man might if this were an intimate moment. My heartbeat accelerates but not from fear.

"Nope." His warm breath travels across my mouth. "None at all."

If he's trying fluster me, it's working. I'm trapped in a cage of skin and sinew. I'm inflamed and disturbed, but I manage to hide my true reaction and match his stare with a coarse one of my own. Intrigued, he moves back, releasing me from the prison of his arms but also taking the warmth with him.

I straighten my dress. "You have the gall to consider yourself your own master."

"What the fuck do you care?" he challenges.

And now I'm offended. I spin on my heel, mumbling, "I don't."

"What was that?" he calls from behind. "Don't care, do you? Doesn't surprise me. You wouldn't know emotion if it fondled you in all the right places." He slowly peruses my body with his sensual eyes. “Baby, I can see lots of right places I want to explore.”

I clench the doorknob.

"Tell me, Catholic girl. What's it like to hold yourself back? What's it like hiding under that little white headgear of yours?"

Coldness hits my scalp as I realize he's pulled the headdress off my head. I gasp, whirl around, and jump at him, making grunting sounds while he dangles the headdress in the air, too high for me to reach. My face burns. Tears scorch the backs of my lids.

"Please!" I wail.

Stunned, Cassius Gunner lets go of the headdress. I catch it and spring back, wringing it in my hands.

He raises his palms. "Take my advice — you look sexy without it."

I wrench the headdress back on my head. I avoid looking at him as I fight to control my brittle emotions. I'd been wholly unprepared for his attack, for how much it disarmed me, for how much I'd overreacted.

Our headdresses are symbols of submission, a way to show constant worship even when not in church. It's not a question of our physical virtue, so it's not as if he'd pulled up my skirt. I'm being far too sensitive and need to show some dignity.

"You alright?" he asks suddenly. "Really. Look, you can get even with me, okay?" He backs up and spreads his arms. "Go ahead. Do whatever it is you do."

Get even? That isn't our way. But I'm confused and…and angry. So, so angry. Who is he to call me soulless? To accuse me of being dispassionate?

I grab the water jar from the floor by his feet and fling the contents at the painting on the wall, drenching it. The colors run down the surface and turn it into a melted rainbow.

My hands shoot to my mouth. I cannot believe I did that. That couldn't have been me. Annabelle is self-contained. Annabelle would not rage. Annabelle would not retaliate. Would she?

We stare at the smeared image. The child's distorted face. I've destroyed Cassius Gunner's artwork. His impertinent artwork, I remind myself.

"That…was different," he muses. “Real firecracker under that good girl act, huh?”

I stomp out of the cabin, needing to get away from this man who makes me feel forbidden things, makes me behave in an erratic manner.

I go home, finish my supper, ignore Elsie's interrogation about what took me so long, wash the dishes, brush my teeth, confine myself to my room, and sink to my knees.

I pray. Then I smooth over my headdress, the cloth reassuring me of what I am—a simple Catholic girl. By removing it, it was like he'd stripped me of that identity, and briefly I had no idea who I was. It was like hearing a question I didn't know how to answer. And by succumbing to anger, I only hurt myself. My upbringing dictates that I mustn't blame Cassius Gunner. He's snarky, he curses, and he knows no better.

I, on the other hand, do know better. I must look inward and find fault there. I spend a long time in pious meditation, but the magnetism of those blue irises haunt me.

As does his artwork. I'm not ignorant of such things. David's mother knits plush quilts. Elsie and I made faceless dolls when we were little. I've seen landscapes on canvas before.

The outsider's craft is different. It comes from him. In his own way, he's brought the city here, snippets of that unfamiliar life and its textures for me to see.

Portraits aren't allowed in our world. It celebrates the individual and resists humility. But quite simply, his painting was lovely. The colors on the wall, the brushstrokes. It provoked a curious part of me, roused up a strange kind of wonder. What else can he depict in so striking a likeness?

I'm truly sorry to have ruined his efforts. It had been as real as nature, without boundaries. He made reality his own by drawing that child's face, honest yet imaginative. The real and the not real swirled into one harmonious image. He has a skill, which he uses to explore and express.

I've never had that luxury, nor thought about it until tonight. I'm miles from understanding how I let myself get influenced by this man.

Thus, I must avoid him.