18.
Milly entered Father’s office and curtseyed. She raised her dress to show the cuts on her calves from the scrub brush.
Father told his stepdaughter to tailor white hunting trousers for Milly. Stepmother complained privately to other women about being associated with the only female at the Homestead who wore pants. Milly went through a few pairs that year, each tailored to her maturing frame by her stepsister’s deft hands.
Kitchen women prepared Milly’s prey, cooking the meat for meals in obedient silence.
Father took the first bite. “Mildred, nice hunting.” He passed the plate to Milly next. Father never complimented the chefs.
Art by Todd Blackwood
That year, rationing water became necessary. Sandstorms increased. During a dreadful one, Milly untied a huge, dead rattlesnake and a small rabbit from her bike before wedging it under a boulder. Milly capped her rifle, then crawled into a gap between rocks just as the sand hit. Tucking the drained carcasses between her belly and thighs, Milly curled herself into a ball. She coiled her scarf over her mouth and nose and squeezed her eyelids shut.
Two hours later, she rose from the rocks, her gray eyes still closed. Holding the snake and rabbit in one hand, Milly shook the fabric of her clothes with the other, flailing her hair, producing a sandstorm of her own. Milly waited for the cloud to settle. Only then did her eyes open, gazing down to avoid the sun. Fine dust adhering like eyeliner had also accumulated under the zipper of Milly’s pants. When she wiped it off, fresh blood spotted her fingers.
“Mine?”
The prey she’d held close was dry.
“Mine.”
Doing the laundry, Stepmother noticed. She knocked. “Life has changed for you, Mildred. Do we need to talk?”
“No.”
“OK. I’m leaving some things for you outside your door.” Stepmother left.
Stepsister knocked later. “We’re the same age but you’re so skinny. It finally happened for you.”
Milly let Sis in.