Chapter 2 - The Fire in the Woodstove
The Vance cabin sat on four rocky acres that the banks had deemed too unprofitable to seize during the last three recessions. It was built of rough-sawn pine, dark with creosote, its tin roof patched with tar and flattened lard cans. Inside, the only dependable warmth came from a cast-iron woodstove that sat in the center of the kitchen like an ancient, black altar.
That first winter was an unrelenting trial of frost and grease. Michael learned to mix evaporated milk with boiled well water and a drop of corn syrup, testing the warmth against his scarred wrist by the glow of a kerosene lantern. He had no crib; he padded a cedar fruit crate with his cleanest flannel shirts and set it on two wooden chairs beside the stove so the drafts running along the floorboards wouldn't reach the infant.
His sister, Sarah, arrived on the third morning, her coat collar pulled tight against the freezing fog. She did not take off her gloves when she entered. She stood over the fruit crate with her arms crossed, looking at the sleeping child with a hard, skeptical eye.
“Everyone in town is talking, Michael,” she said, her voice sharp as an awl. “They say you’ve lost your wits. You’re forty-eight years old. Your back is half-shot from digging foundations, and you haven't bought a new pair of boots since before Mama died. How are you going to feed another mouth?”
“The Lord provides,” Michael muttered, adjusting a damper on the stove pipe.
“The Lord didn't leave that child in a ditch; some whore did,” Sarah snapped, her lip curling with righteous disgust. “You take him back to town before you get attached. You don't know whose bad blood is running through those veins. You don't know what kind of filth left him there.”
Michael stopped his work. He set down the iron poker with deliberate care. When he turned to face his sister, the quietness in his posture made her step back an inch toward the door.
“He is a child, Sarah,” Michael said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument. “He has no sin on him. If there was filth, the rain washed it off. Now, you either put on the kettle and help me boil these rags, or you walk back down that road.”
Sarah glared at him, her cheeks flushed with indignant anger. “When he breaks your heart, Michael—and he will—don't you come looking for sympathy from me. You mark my words: that boy will grow up wild, and when he’s done taking everything you have left, he’ll leave you here to rot alone.”
She slammed the door on her way out. The draft made the kerosene flame flicker violently, casting long, erratic shadows across the room. Michael walked over to the fruit crate. The child had stirred at the sound of the slam, his tiny brow furrowed in confusion.
Michael reached in and placed one large, calloused thumb into the baby’s palm. The fingers closed around it instantly.
May you like
“Noah,” Michael whispered into the cold room. “That’s your name. Noah. Because you’re going to ride out this flood, little man. And nobody’s going to wash you away.”
***
