Free Letter from a Desperate Father by Maron Anrow Page B

our home,
and then her eyes were only for our boy.
    His appearance took after hers.
Straight black hair, ivory skin, round eyes, slender neck, long
fingers. He was her in miniature, male form. But his demeanor was
like mine—meek and cautious. His mother complained and urged him to
be bold like her. But it simply wasn’t in his nature.
    One day I was sitting on the stool in
the kitchen, mending my work boots. My boy was six at the time. He
rushed into the cottage, tears streaming down his face.
    “Papa,” he cried, breaking my
heart.
    I put aside my leatherwork and rose to
meet him. I took his small hands in mine. His fingernails were
short and crusted with dirt. His tears cut trails through the dust
on his round cheeks.
    “What is it, my boy?” Effortlessly, I
lifted him and held him to my chest. If my wife were there, she
would have said I was coddling him, encouraging his timidity. But
she wasn’t, so I gave in to my urge to comfort him.
    “Elizabeth’s leg—” he sobbed. Elizabeth
was one of our goats. It had been his idea to give them human
names. “—it’s… it’s twisted!”
    I hurried to the pen, still carrying
him. He buried his face in my neck, his cheek and tears warm
against my skin. I heard the injured animal before I saw it. It
yowled in pain, causing the other goats to run around and bleat
anxiously.
    I set down my son, who was crying more
fiercely than before.
    “Oh, Papa, she hurts so
much!”
    I knelt by Elizabeth. The poor thing’s
leg was indeed twisted and likely broken. My first thought was that
she’d jumped off a barrel and landed poorly, but that didn’t fit
the injury. The angle of her leg looked as if it’d been
intentionally yanked and twisted. It was hard to think—surrounded
as I was by the cries of my boy and too many goats—but the leg was
clearly in bad shape. The animal was not worth the effort of trying
to mend her. Her pain was great, so I decided to put her
down.
    I explained this to my boy, keeping my
voice calm and confident. He said nothing, his tears silently
sliding down his cheeks.
    “Do you understand?” I
finished.
    He nodded once.
    I picked up the goat, and as I rose to
my feet my boy asked, “Can I say goodbye to Elizabeth?” He’d spoken
scarcely louder than a whisper.
    I lowered the goat to his height. He
sniffled once, then used two fingers to pet Elizabeth’s head. His
pressure was light as a feather. With her pain, the goat probably
didn’t even notice his touch. He leaned forward to kiss her, but
the animal writhed in my arms.
    “Careful, boy.”
    He stopped short, and petted her once
more instead.
    “Goodbye, Elizabeth,” he said
softly.
    I sent him home while I took care of
the unpleasant task. I sold the meat; there was no way we could
consume Elizabeth.
    My poor boy was morose. He was still in
a mood the next day, but he cheered slightly when we received a
gift from a visitor. A neighbor, Mrs. Hutchins, had been sick for
days, unable to keep any food down. Apparently my wife had given
her a tonic the previous afternoon and she’d recovered the same
evening. Her husband stopped by to deliver three loaves of their
special nut bread as thanks. They sold it in town at a high price,
so it was a real treat for the three of us.
    These past few days, I’ve wondered if
the two events—Elizabeth’s injury and Mrs. Hutchins’ recovery—were
related. I think it likely they were.
    It’s hard for me to continue writing
this, but I shall persevere.
    I know you’re aware of the fever that
spread through our community. I heard you lost some of your staff
to the illness. Well, my wife caught it. It was a shock to see my
tall, vigorous wife leveled by the wasting disease. She was livid,
spitting and cursing her fate. She often called our son to her side
and had long, quiet conversations with him. I was excluded from
these, and neither he nor she revealed what they discussed. It
wasn’t easy to talk to them, as she was quick to anger—her