Free Stormy Weather by Paulette Jiles

pigs. A flesh-colored rug on the floor made of braided discarded hosiery. Jeanine’s mother sat down at the table as if her knees had become disjointed.
    She said, “Is my husband in jail?”
    “He’s in custody.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. “Sorry. Came down with a cold.”
    “Is he shot?”
    The deputy hesitated and looked over at the girls. He said, “No, ma’am. I better speak to you alone.” He put the handkerchief back in his pocket.
    “No,” said Jeanine’s mother. “Say what you have to say.”
    “Your husband is charged with statutory rape. An underaged girl.” A long silence drew itself out and Jeanine saw her mother frown, as if she had been confronted with some unaccountable puzzle and then she put her hand to her mouth.
    “Where is he?” Elizabeth Stoddard lifted her head.
    “The county jail.”
    “This can’t be true,” she said.
    “Mrs. Stoddard, your husband has been accused by a young girl here in Wharton. She’s fourteen. She ought to be charged as a juvenile delinquent but they ain’t going to do it.” He turned away and cupped both hands over his nose and sneezed violently. “Sorry.” He took out the handkerchief again.
    Jeanine crossed her arms and stalked to the window where the aged glass distorted the lamp reflections. She had pulled on the tiger-striped dress, the first thing that came to hand.
    She said, “We’d be better off if he were dead.” She buttoned the neck of the dress. “Graveyard dead.”
    “Jeanine, be quiet.” Elizabeth Stoddard wadded the tea towel in her hands. “Are you sure you have the right family?”
    “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Stoddard.”
    Bea came out of the girls’ room. Her mother said, “Bea, go back in the bedroom.”
    Bea turned and they heard the door slam.
    Elizabeth got up and went to the bedroom door. “I’ll get dressed,” she said. She came out again in her Sunday dress and hat and white gloves. Then she walked to the door and the deputy held it open for her and they left.
    Everything had changed. It was as if they had been bombed and their hearts pierced by random splinters. Jeanine sat down and stared around the kitchen, so strangely intact. The water bucket and its dipper and the crashing noise of the clock’s ticking. She and Mayme stared at the fruit jar full of knives and forks and spoons, none of them matching to any other. Bea came back in dressed and she carried her Big Chief writing tablet with her.
    “Did you hear?”
    Bea stared at them. Tears were running down her face but she did not seem to notice them.
    “Yes,” she said. “At first I thought it was a radio program. I thought Mother had the radio on.”
    “Where was he?” said Jeanine. She hugged her faded plaid jacket around herself, the lines of the plaid seemed to vaporize in soft, blending lines. She wiped her eyes. “Where did all of this happen?”
    “You’d be the one to know,” said Mayme. “You were always covering up for him. You were always lying for him.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “Bea, stop crying.”
    “You stop,” said Bea.
    “Get ready for school.”
    “I don’t want to go to school,” said Bea. “I don’t ever want to go again.”
    “No, go on.”
    “What good is school?” Bea gripped her writing tablet to her thin chest. She and Mayme were both weeping again. “Everybody will know. What good is going to school?”
    “I never covered up anything,” said Jeanine. “This ain’t my fault.”
    “Yes it is. You encouraged it.”
    “I never did any such thing.” Jeanine wiped tears from her face. She put the two ends of the jacket zipper together and with a tearing noise she zipped it up. The kitchen had grown cold. The fire in thecookstove had burnt down. The thought of her father laying hands on some young girl made her feel cold and diminished.
    “Would you two quit bawling?” Mayme put the coffeepot on the kerosene stove to boil. “I should have left home when I