FICTION
The Horsefly
“You like the devil himself!” Mary Belle hollered. She flapped her arms while she steadied a basket of cucumbers. A horsefly circled around her as she walked up the front porch steps. “Don’t you dare land on me.”
The horsefly continued to circle her as she struggled to open the screen door. “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” she yelled. “Come and help me!”
Mary Belle pulled the basket tight to her chest and grabbed the door handle. As she inched the door open, she cursed the buzzing horsefly that pierced her ears. She stuck her foot out to hold the door open. Then she pushed it with her body, and the horsefly snuck in behind her.
“Damn girl,” she mumbled under her breath. “Can’t get her to do nothing no more.”
Mary Belle placed the basket on the table next to her empty mason jars. Then she waved away the horsefly. “You followed me in, didn’t you? You land on me and see what happens,” she said, and the horsefly buzzed away.
Mary Belle shook her head when she found her daughter. Elizabeth sat in front of Robby’s room with her ear pressed against the door.
She walked down the hallway to the girl, but she didn’t acknowledge her presence. Instead, the girl remained with her ear against the door and her knees crowded against her chest.
“What you doin’?” Mary Belle asked.
“Listenin’.”
Mary Belle barely heard the reply. If the horsefly was there, she wouldn’t have heard anything at all.
“What you listenin’ to?”
“Robby,” Elizabeth replied. She lifted her head and stared up at her mother. Her eyes were red and as big as saucers. She had been crying again, but she didn’t have tears on her cheeks. “Sometimes I hear him walkin’ around.”
“He’s dead, Elizabeth.” The words came out harsher than she intended. She hated Robby. Her soul filled with anger as she thought about the day he placed the gun barrel under his chin. That was the day she let Satan get to her.
“But I hear him,” Elizabeth whispered, petting the door. “I hear Robby.”
“The only thing you hearin’ is a demon laughin’. It’s tryin’ to play tricks on you,” Mary Belle said. The creature lingered in the room, running around and pointing to the guns mounted on the wall. “I coulda told him to use this one … or this one … or this one … but I liked this one.” It smiled at her, its eyes on fire. Mary Belle felt chills run down her spine, and she shook her head to get the image out. “Come now,” she said and grabbed Elizabeth’s arm. “Get up.”
Elizabeth stood up slowly. Even though Mary Belle helped her stand, the chains held the girl down. Satan tempted her daughter, too. As they sauntered down the hall, Mary Belle placed her hand on her daughter’s back, listening to the chains rattling.
“Don’t you feel better walkin’ around?” Mary Belle asked as they stepped in the kitchen. “You’ll feel even more better when you help me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elizabeth shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself. The basket of cucumbers and the empty mason jars lined the table. “What we doin’?”
“You’re goin’ to help me make some pickles. We’ve got too many cucumbers growin’, and they’re gonna rot before anyone eats them all,” Mary Belle said. The horsefly buzzed around her again, and she waved it off. “Why don’t you get me the picklin’ salt from the pantry?”
Elizabeth moped her way to the pantry as Mary Belle watched the horsefly zigzag in front of her. When it landed on her skirt, she swung at it.
“Damn.”
It buzzed out of her sight as Elizabeth returned.
“Here. What now?”
“You need to change that tone of yours,” Mary Belle insisted as she searched for a cutting board. “I ain’t in the mood for your sour face today. There are too many things to do around here. And why didn’t you bring me the vinegar, too?”
“You didn’t say nothin’ about vinegar.”
“We’re makin’ pickles. I can’t make no pickles without vinegar,” Mary Belle said. Each time she spoke to her daughter she repeated the same things over and over. She didn’t remember being as stubborn when she was young.
Elizabeth found a jug of vinegar and brought it back to the table. She waved her hands in the air. “This horsefly is annoyin’.”
“Stop swingin’ at it, or it won’t land,” Mary Belle said, taking the vinegar to the stove. She opened the jug and poured it in a stock pot. Then she added her pickling salt and her secret spice mix.
“What do you want me to do now?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’m tryin’ to show you how to make pickles,” Mary Belle replied as she waited for the pot to boil. “You never want any of your crop to go to waste.”
“I know, Momma.” Elizabeth sat at the table. “You’ve showed me lots of times.”
The horsefly whirred around Mary Belle’s legs as she walked to the table with a knife and cutting board. “And I guess I’ll have to show you again.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes.
Mary Belle slammed the wooden cutting board on the table and stuck the knife in the top right corner. Then she watched the horsefly look for a place to land on her. It aimed for her skirt again, but she wasted another swing.
“Don’t know why it’s called a horsefly when it does nothing but bother people,” she grumbled. Her daughter sat at the table with her arms folded. “Now, you ain’t gonna be no help to me all hunched over.”
Elizabeth grunted. “Well, what do you want me to do now, Momma?”
Her daughter’s attitude made her insides boil. The girl was as troublesome as the horsefly.
“I want you to get up and start cuttin’ these cucumbers. Then you put them in the jars. I already washed the jars and lids and cucumbers, so all you have to do is cut the cucumbers and put them in the jars with some garlic and some dill. And don’t fill the jars up too much ’cause I gotta pour the picklin’ mix in.” Mary Belle huffed as she walked to the stove. “And don’t cut them cucumbers too thick.”
The chair dragged across the floor as Elizabeth stood. “How many do I have to do?”
“All of them.”
Elizabeth’s sigh hissed.
As she stirred the pot, Mary Belle listened to Elizabeth’s chopping. She was consistent, but not quick in her method. She ceased only when she grabbed another cucumber.
“How’s it comin’ over there?” Mary Belle asked as the pickling mix began to boil. Tiny bubbles made their way to the surface.
“Fine, Momma,” her daughter replied as she reached for a cucumber. “You don’t have to keep askin’ me. I’m capable of choppin’ a cucumber.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t do it,” Mary Belle replied as she walked back to the table. She peered over her daughter’s shoulder. “I just want it to be done right.”
“Why does it even matter?”
Mary Belle couldn’t believe her daughter’s question. Everything mattered, and if it didn’t it should. “Because these are for the market. Imagine what the other women would say if all the pickles were different sizes or the vinegar taste was too strong. They’d think I got sloppy, and I wouldn’t be able to show my face in Folsom for a whole month. You don’t know how ruthless those other women can be.”
“I know.” Elizabeth put down the knife. She gathered cucumber slices and filled a jar. “You’re that way too, Momma.”
“I am not the same way,” Mary Belle replied. She pointed her finger and wagged it in Elizabeth’s face as she spoke. “And ever since your brother killed himself, I’ve been beatin’ myself down tryin’ to be looked upon with respect again. So don’t you dare accuse me of being like those gossipin’ women. You and them don’t know the hurt I feel inside.”
“A couple of jars of pickles aren’t gonna to change nothin’, Momma,” Elizabeth snapped. “Robby died, and the only thing you seem to care about these days is yourself—your appearance to the folks in Folsom.”
Mary Belle couldn’t stop herself. She smacked Elizabeth hard across the face. The girl lost her footing, and Mary Belle didn’t know what possessed her to make such a move. Something else used her as a puppet and pulled a string too fast.
Elizabeth touched the left side of her check as her olive eyes watered.
“Lizzie,” Mary Belle stepped forward, but her daughter pulled away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what come over me.”
“No, you’re not sorry,” Elizabeth sobbed. “You’re never sorry.”
She ran out the door, and Mary Belle stood frozen in the kitchen. The pickling mix on the stove bubbled, the horsefly buzzed around, and the scent of vinegar filled the air. She didn’t remember lifting her hand, but she knew what she did. She snapped, and now her daughter would never trust her again.
She remembered Robby’s lifeless body. The blood soaked on his shirt. The demon imprinted on his disfigured face. Her husband’s lost faith. The whispering women in town. Her daughter’s tear-stained cheeks. Mary Belle lifted her head, looking up as if she could see through the roof. “What is happenin’ to my family, Lord?”
The horsefly buzzed in front of her face, and she followed it with her eyes. It zigzagged until it landed on her chest. She stood sill for a moment; its wings twitched, dancing over her heart, happy in its contribution to her misery. Then her hand shot open, and she swung.
Looking down at the stunned horsefly at her feet, she knew what she needed to do for her family. She needed to put her foot down; she needed to stop the madness before it spun out of control. Between the horsefly and her daughter, she knew the real challenge. She lifted her left foot and stepped on the horsefly.
Alysia C. Anderson is an English instructor at Southeastern Louisiana University, where she teaches freshman composition and American literature. Her short stories have been published in Tulane Review, Louisiana Review, Pure in Heart Stories, and Country Roads Magazine. She lives in Folsom, Louisiana with her husband, son, dog, and farm animals.
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