Momma Says (part 4)
Walter starts to wiggle on Momma’s lap and asks again where he was born. He always wants to hear it, even though he already knows every part. Momma sighs, but she smiles too, and she strokes his hair like she can’t ever tell him no.
He was born in the barn, she says, out there where the dust gathers in the beams of light and the wood creak. Momma says she and Dad had been hurrying home, their arms heavy with food and water they’d found in the ruins of a store. Their packs were full, their pockets too, and Dad was carrying me on his back. Right behind them came the mean people.
She doesn’t tell us all of it, not the way Dad does. He whispers it to us when Momma isn’t listening to reprimand him. He says there were more of them that night than usual. Hungry ones. Desperate ones. The kind that don’t talk anymore, only shout and reach.
Momma says they couldn’t make it to the house in time. Walter had chosen that moment to come out, as if he couldn’t wait to see the world. “Always wanting to be part of the excitement,” Momma says, and Walt giggles like he always does, his little teeth shining.
That’s why I have to hold his hand every time we go outside. He likes to run. He likes to chase sounds, shadows, even the wind. Momma says it isn’t safe to be curious anymore. Dad says curiosity gets you noticed, and being noticed gets you dead.
Walt usually only runs to the barn, though. He loves Old Maple, our cow. Momma lets him feed her handfuls of grain or dried grass, and he laughs when her tongue tickles his palm or she nearly sucks his tiny hand into her mouth. Momma laughs too, softer. It makes her eyes look younger, and I think maybe that’s why she lets him keep doing it, even when Dad frowns.
Walt gets in trouble more than me. Not just because he’s younger, but because he hates the sameness of every day. He doesn’t like the way the world is just the house, the barn, the garden, and the woods we’re not supposed to touch. He wants more, new places, new things. I can see it in him. He doesn’t belong to the quiet the way I do.
Once, he tried to break free. We were walking back from the barn when he twisted away and bolted toward the trees, his arms pumping like wings. I grabbed him, wrapped myself around him like Dad told me to, but he screamed, wild and angry, too loud. Louder than anything should ever be.
Dad’s face went pale when he heard it. He ran faster than I’d ever seen, scooping Walt up, covering his mouth so fast it looked like it hurt. He didn’t even look back at me, he just ran.
Momma heard the commotion and passed Dad and Walt to get to me. She pulled me by the arm, her nails digging into my skin, and we ran too. The door slammed, the locks clanged, the shutters were latched, and then we stayed inside for days.
No one spoke of it, but every night I thought I heard footsteps circling the house.
