“Ain’t NO doctor going to fix that baby up the way it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be normal, have a nose like everybody else, but it doesn’t, does it? God made it that way. God. The same God that gives Fern all these . . .”—he groped for a word—“powers, makes her heal all those people, that same God, Addie, made our daughter a monster.” The tears broke. “Martha was my grandmother’s name. How can I look at that thing and call it Martha?” He took a heaving sob, poured more whiskey into his glass, and drank it down.

“Babies are born with difficulties sometimes, Harry. You have to understand . . .”

“I’ll tell you what I understand.” Harry glared at her, the anger sharp in his gaze. “I understand that what Fern has been doing is wrong. I told her it was wrong. I knew it was wrong, deep in my gut; I knew she shouldn’t be fiddling with what wasn’t natural. And this is how we got repaid. God looked down on this little house and saw all that meddlin’ going on, and he just said, ‘Here!’ ” Harry smashed his thumb down on the table, like he was squishing a bug. He poured more whiskey. “One sharp rap to the head, and we could tell Doc it was stillborn.”

As understanding as she was, Addie was shocked by this. She looked carefully at Harry, upset, wild even, and she knew it was the liquor talking. She was thankful for the storm. She’d have to stay here until it passed enough to go get Doc, and Harry would have to take her there. He would learn. As soon as a doctor put a little nose on that baby girl, and she started to giggle and say da-da, his whole outlook would change. Fathers and daughters, that’s the way it was. He’d hold her and coo to her and rock her and love her, and he would never see the little defect the poor child was born with.

But for now, she would get drunk with him, and they would wait until morning, hoping the storm would clear. The silence between them hung like a heavy curtain, Addie already making plans to help Fern get to a doctor who knew these new techniques, Harry making decisions about Martha and Fern and God that would carry him through the rest of his twisted, bitter life.

9

CHAPTER 9

Priscilla’s blue Pinto pulled up to the house just as Leon was showing Martha how to make an omelet for their lunch. Anger flared in her eyes as she noted that the chicken coop was half rebuilt, but no carpenter was in sight. Just Leon’s pickup sittin’ out here by itself. She slammed the car door and trotted up the porch steps.