2

The Good Girl

We chase the lightning bugs in the fields after dark. The tiny globes of yellow light blink, making my sister squeal as she skips around with a glass jar. We're in the heart of a firework. I feel silly for thinking nonsense like this, but I use the excuse that it's not a typical evening. Tonight, Elsie and I are getting along. She's dancing, running, twirling. I muster up the occasional laugh, which is the best I can do for amusement. It seems to be enough to please her.

Although the air is moist, I feel an oncoming chill as the night progresses, and I'm thinking it's time to beckon my sister back into our house. But if I do, she'll glare at me. I don't want to spoil the momentary truce between us.

My father spares me the chore by calling us to dinner. Inside, he has a fire roaring in the living room, a waste of wood too early in the season, but I suppose he can't help it. It's comforting.

Settling into the kitchen, I dutifully finish the cooking without having to be asked—unlike Elsie, who's lackadaisical by nature. Our father ruffles her hair and gently, but sternly, tells her to set the table. She does so with a grudge, a transgression we've been taught not to endorse. We're back to square one, I see.

She's just like our mother.

I wince. I sound eighty instead of eighteen. More importantly, the unpardonable thought insults my mother's memory. Even after so many years, certainly enough time forgive her waspish moods and intolerance of us. She was trampled by a nervous horse and died a few hours later. I was ten. Elsie was six.

Because of this, we're a tiny family by our religious standards — born to our sect of the Holy Cross of Catholic Unity. During her short life, our mother had two miscarriages. I once overheard my parents whispering in their room about how difficult conceiving had always been for them. I think this secretly relieved our mother. She was never fond of children.

Elsie eats way too fast for us to have an easy supper. I imagine her choking, though it does no good to nag. I'm a teenager, not a parent. That's exactly what she'd say anyway while stuffing more glazed carrots down her porcelain throat.

"Calm yourself, young lady." Our father places his hand on hers, his patience breaching that rock-hard place inside her that I've never been close to. I wouldn't have a prayer of finding even with a map, compass, and torch to light the way.

"We show gratitude by pacing our meal," he says.

We find a decent pattern at the dining table, forks grazing, hands reaching for glasses, a humble silence taking over.

That's when we hear the knock. The tentative rhythm causes us to lift our heads.

Elsie sits up straighter and sings, "Oooh, maybe it's David."

I shake my head at her, despite the anxiousness that surges through me at the mention of him. I tell myself this is normal. I should be anxious, excited, blushing. I'm marrying him when we both turn nineteen, after all. People know we're courting, but no one knows about the engagement other than our families. As is our custom.

Personally, I'm not unhappy about the agreement. David is my oldest friend. I like him because he's as strong-willed as I am. My father likes him because he's loyal. Elsie just likes his face. However, she thinks it's pitiful that I'm pledging myself to David for less than love.

Love is impractical. It's not always the answer, nor the safest choice. I've learned this by observation.

"David wouldn't show up when he knows we're eating," my father insists, giving me a look.

I adjust my Unity headdress and try not to rush to the door. Seeing David does make me happy, although I'm going to scold him for disrupting our meal.

My intentions are sidetracked when I look through the keyhole and see a stranger idling on our porch. Disappointed, I call over my father, who answers while I stand behind him.

The young man is probably around twenty. Parked in the walkway next to our truck, I notice an old-fashioned sports car, his mode of transportation. It's jarring to see the foreign vehicle waiting there. And inside, another figure is waiting in the driver's seat, but I can't see who it is aside from a trace of bronze hair.

The stranger rubs the back of his neck in confusion and checks the number on our house. He's not a Unity member, yet he's surprised that we are. Indeed, he seems especially surprised to see me. His expression is one of recognition, though that's impossible.

It takes him a second to pull his astonished gaze from my face and address my father. "Mr. Chaste?"

"That's me. Can I help you?"

"I'm Dylan Gunner. I think you know...knew...my father?"

I've never heard of a man by the name of Gunner. There's been no talk of him in our community. However, that doesn't stop shock and awe from slackening my father's features.

At the sound of a male voice, Elsie is at my side in two seconds flat. I have to fight her from craning her head over our father's shoulder and making a fool of herself.

"Gunner," my father breathes, his tone wistful. "I'm fortunate enough to have some access to the outside world. Our pastor makes occasional excursions for church business. He brought me the news about what happened to your father last year. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Look. I don't mean to bother you."

"It's fine. Please, come in."

Dylan glances at my sister and me. "Can we talk out here instead?"

My father closes the door behind him and guides the young man to the far end of the porch. Elsie and I peek through the curtain. It's shameless to concern ourselves with other people's business, but we've never encountered outsiders that have some sort of connection to our family.

We can't hear everything that's said. Only light touches of conversation. The young man looks forlorn and constantly gestures with his hands while he speaks. "...my father said you helped him once...the court...lighter sentence...the condition...don't know what else to do...my little brother...out of control..."

"Who's out of control?" Elsie salivates.

"We've heard enough." I skirt her from the window and thrust her onto the sofa, sensing that something big is about to happen. We'll need to be sitting when we hear it.

Elsie tugs on my braid. I've told her not to do that. "Such a goodie-goodie," she says. I resent the comment, even though I know she's right. I'm the good one. I'm the boring one.

Well, I'll live. So will she.

The men stay out there for nearly an hour. Elsie ceases trying to stoke my temper the minute our father returns. We obediently leap to our feet, noting the sound of the young man's car pulling away. Our father scratches his beard, which isn't good. My joints tighten. Elsie begins to fidget.

"Annabelle," he says to me. "I'll need you to clean up the cabin tomorrow and change the sheets."

I frown. I don't like where this is going. The cabin is a single-room dwelling that used to be a goat house, back when we still raised goats. Elsie and I were children when this practice stopped, and my father then converted it into a play spot for us, which he furnished with a bed and wood stove after discovering that we'd sneaked out and fallen asleep there one night. But it hasn't been used in years.

His shoulders are hunched, eyes glinting with concern, resolution, and a pinch of determination. The latter of which means that whatever the stranger beseeched him to do, I have no chance of talking my father out of it.

I don't have to wait for an explanation.

"We're having a guest," he says.

They deliver the man to us in a patrol car. I can't help but pity him for this form of humiliation, even if he has earned it. He grew up in another universe, yet he's been brought here against his will. I wonder what it says about Unity life that confinement to our farm is seen by others as a form of punishment. I don't understand it.

This man's life proves how dangerous it is to be led astray by too much freedom. This is exactly why I've ignored my desires. In the beginning, I almost embraced it, wanting the freedom to try my hand at archery. It's an unorthodox craft for females in my Order. But the whole thing made David nervous. So I haven’t dared to try.

David reminded me of the basic truth, which I rely on to steel myself. I don't need to know what's out there. The routine and the boundaries of this life anchor me. I know my place. I never have to question it.

I don't care for guests. My father says this man has committed one too many acts of delinquency. Instead of locking him up once more, he's been granted release under the disciplinary condition that he works on the farm. With us. Two months of honest labor and quiet service under my father's supervision.

The man's lawyer argued his case and must have done a good job. The judge had eased his sentence after hearing the lawyer’s proposal, which involved the story of Mr. Gunner and my father, back when they were both seventeen.

My father got a summer job at the Gunner’s café in the city. Apparently, Mr. Gunner was a loose cannon but managed to turn things around through his friendship with my father. Their bond changed Mr. Gunner for the better.

He died last year of a heart attack. Enter Dylan Gunner. The delinquent's older brother, who visited us two days ago to ask my father if he would take his little brother under his wing, the way he had with their father. Dylan hopes that Papa can somehow rehabilitate this criminal man. Or, if anything, give him a fair dose of backbreaking work.

A reckless man who disrespects his elders and welcomes temptation on a regular basis. His conduct is enough to make me look down on him.

Yet my straightened posture begins to unfurl when I see the police car. The vehicle rolls across the dirt road; bobbing from side to side as though aware it doesn't belong here.

I sigh and rub my lower back. It's been a tough day. "This makes no sense. Why should we have to deal with him?"

"Hush now, Annabelle," my father says, startled by my outburst. "Acceptance and benevolence."

I go silent. My head hangs down. Selflessness, amity, and forbearance are what I need to be exuding right now. Especially in front of my sister, who's thoroughly enjoying my discomfort.

This man hasn't even set foot in front of me, yet I've already done something uncharacteristic because of him. I've spoken out of turn. It makes me dislike him more. In my heart, I know that I'm supposed to be accepting of him. He needs our guidance.

We situate ourselves along the walkway in front of our house. Hills of caramel-colored wheat on one side, high corn stalks on the other, carpet the property. It's early September. Autumn, my favorite season, is approaching. I treasure it mostly for the food. I should be content, but I'm not. I don't want this man disrupting the time of year I most look forward to. I don't trust someone who breaks the rules. I don't trust people I don't know. I've grown up knowing everyone.

Elsie is giddy. "I bet he's handsomer than David."

Does she not comprehend the shortcomings of pride? Besides, her prediction is hard to believe. We shouldn't place value on looks, but no one is handsomer than David. This is not a smug assertion. It is simply a fact.

Our father sets his hands over Elsie's bony shoulders and gives them a diminutive shake to shush her. "It shouldn't matter to you one way or another, young lady."

The policeman steps out of the car, opens the rear door, and tugs the man out. No. Not a man. A man. He's wearing jeans, a fitted black t-shirt that looks as soft and worn as an old sheet, and a couple of intricate rings on his fingers. He's larger than I expected. He's taller than me, and his stride is strong. He must feel out of place, but he doesn't act like he cares. His stocky frame makes me instantly uncomfortable, as does the sunglasses he wears, as does his unruly dark hair. He's rumpled, as though he just got out of bed.

I can't stop staring. I pull at the ties hanging from my headdress. My heart is beginning to hurt. It's pumping too fast. Why?

The policeman escorts him up the walkway, evidently tired. There's lingering tension there, as if the man has spent a good part of the ride antagonizing the officer.

My father shakes hands with the uniformed man, who then slaps the man on the back. Hard. "This is Cassius."

Cassius Gunner.

The breeze kicks up, and the stalks begin to whir like mad, and the landscape is reflected in the man's sunglasses.

The officer nudges him. "I'm not going to tell you again to take those aviators off and say a proper hello to this nice family."

Elsie beams more than if she discovered a talking goat in our yard. My father gazes at Cassius Gunner with familiarity because he's seen this behavior before. Years ago.

Cassius Gunner pretends he hasn't heard the policeman. I find myself stepping backward, the action causing the man’s strong chin to shift toward me. His head jerks for a second, but then goes still. I see my gray eyes mirrored in the shades. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. What expression lurks behind that barrier?

I'm hungry. I have the sudden desire to bite into the nearest blooming vegetable. Chew slowly. Swallow.

The officer repeats his order to remove the "aviators." Cassius Gunner merely adjusts them, revealing black letters tattooed on the inside of his arm, beneath his wrist. I tilt my head but can't decipher the word...not that it should interest me. Personal decoration is forbidden and considered vain in our community.

Annoyed, the cop swipes the sunglasses off the man’s face. It takes effort to stifle my gasp. When I get my first look at those alarming blue eyes, I know one thing: Elsie was right. He is unreal. He is unapologetically beautiful.

He is dangerous.