Mother is standing behind her, so Hosanna must clean properly. She turns the water on scalding — too hot to endure — and scrubs the filth into the basin of the sink. She sings to keep time.
One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl
Four for a boy
Hosanna has visions of her skin melting off, like meat falling from the bone. She lathers with soap made from tallow and lye. It is scented with verbena, which is Mother’s favourite, all lemon and sweetness. But Hosanna’s sense of smell is very strong, and she can still detect the rancidness underneath.
“The boy left his laundry on the line,” Mother says.
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told
Hosanna scrubs her nails, which are kept blunt and harmless. She washes up to her wrists the way that Mother taught her.
“I told him it was going to rain,” Mother says. “Now look at it.”
Through the window, Hosanna can see a bright red coat sagging on the line. The colour is a smear against the grey dawn. Beyond the drying line is the fence marking the edge of their property. Beyond that, there is a road that winds into town. Hosanna is only allowed out at dark, after everyone has gone to bed.
Eight for a wish
Nine for a kiss
Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss
The boy arrived smelling of train travel, coal and leather and sweat. Hosanna watched him approach from her hideaway in the linen closet. He had on the red coat and a battered suit that hung loose around his shoulders. A watch hung from his pocket, and he worried the chain between his fingers.
“He’s the sort that’s fallen on hard times,” Mother had said. “Not much left by the looks of him, but he’ll have to do.”
Mother had the boy work his rent off, mending fences and digging out stumps. For this, he stripped down to his shirt sleeves, suspenders hanging past his waist.
Eleven for health
Twelve for wealth
Thirteen take care, it’s the devil himself
“You’re done now,” Mother says. “Go get his coat off the line.”
Hosanna turns off the water. Immediately, the air around her feels too cold. Mother is holding the gold watch in her hand, its dangling chain catching the light. The watch was the only thing of value in the boy’s pos-session. His luggage is now buried in the yard.
Hosanna dries herself with a towel, and then she drops onto all fours. As she lopes outside, she spies a blemish on the fur at the crook of her elbow, a sticky ball made of hair and bone. Hosanna’s tongue lolls from her mouth, and she licks herself clean.
Ella Pfalzgraff is a writer living on Treaty Six territory. Her previous work has appeared in American Chordata, FreeFall Magazine, and Funicular Magazine. She holds an MFA from the University of New Orleans Creative Writing Workshop. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and an Alberta Magazine Award.
This article appears in the October 2024 issue of Edify
