Corn Dollies

Catherine bit into the hot pink flesh of her bottom lip until she felt the crunch of the tissues within being damaged. Little sparks of pain welled up inside her and threatened to make her head explode. Good. It meant that her eyes were tearing because of pain, and not because she was a 'sissy'.

She relaxed, letting the beat of her blood rushing to her swollen mouth accompany her gaze out of the barn window. Morning smelled of sweet hay and animal sweat, mixed with dewdrops and occasional wafts of bacon from the farm house. The same breeze brought the sounds of cutlery and china being set and she knew that she would have to face her family over breakfast soon.

With a furrowed brow and a sore lip, Catherine sighed, kicked out at a random pile of straw and made her way back to the warmth of the house. Her Mom let the waves of pre-pubescent angst wash against her patience, allowing Catherine, unmolested, to wash-up and settle sulkily at the large oak table nestled at the center of the colonial kitchen. Of course, today would be hard for her daughter - they were visiting Amy for the first time since her Chemo had ended.

The back door opened again to the whistling and boot hurling sounds of her Daddy and Grandfather returning from an early morning start with the cattle. Theirs was one of the few families in Gainsborough still adhering to the joint farming disciplines of Cattle and Corn. They were considered outdated by the majority of agriculture, and mostly automated now in one or the other specialties.

"That's the north pasture done, Marie." Her Daddy's soft southern accent always made her curious as to her 'other' heritage.

"Then come and get your eggs now, before they spoil. Those boys aren't up yet and I'm taking Catherine to see her friend today."

"She's not my friend." Catherine pouted, knowing that her Mom just wouldn't understand.

"Sure she is," her Mom clucked, "and she'll be counting on you being there for her. Once you see that she's still Amy Hunter, you'll end up chatting away like two old hens."

There would be no talking to her. Her father gently ruffled her hair with his big worn hands full of gentle tenderness; a liberty never taken for granted by anyone else who knew Catherine. It made her want to cry again, but that was just silly. She pushed her eggs around the plate her Mom had placed in front of her - willing all her concentration into how thin she could scramble them with the back of her fork. Slices of crisp bacon appeared, dangerously tiered as a center piece, before her Grandfather smashed his knife through them and transferred a substantial amount to his own plate.

"Gotta eat, Cathy," he muttered gruffly, chowing down in cowboy style.

"I don't wanna eat, and I don't wanna go and see Amy!"

She sprang from the table and bolted outside as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. Over the dusty yard, past the stables and the cattle shed, down by the silos, and back to the womb of the hay loft in the old red barn. She dove into the sweet pillows of hay and burrowed like a prairie dog until her reedy arms tired out. Then she curled and sobbed. Tears and mucus, mixed with sweat and hay, in one mess of a little girl.

Time passed until her cries became hollow barks and no more knots remained in her stomach. It was then she became aware that someone had burrowed down next to her and was stroking her copper-colored hair.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, darlin'?"

"Why is God so mean?"

"Oh, He ain't mean, Cathy. He's real kind, if'n ya gets to thinkin' on it. Look at little Amy Hunter, for example. A fine friend like that, and He lets her come and visit you from heaven for all them years - never mindin' how sad the other Angels are that she's come to spend time here with you."

"But, Mrs. White, at the Store, say's the cancer's won and she's gonna die." Catherine whispered, finally voicing the horror that made her hate her friend for not fighting hard enough.

"That old Cancer isn't gonna win, honey. She's just going home to rest up and see all her Angel friends - she won't really be gone. Every time you think of her she'll be in your heart. Every time you're feelin' blue she'll be your little Angel, watchin' over you, like the true friend she ever is. No one ever really leaves us, they just go on ahead and wait for us to catch up with our business first."

Her Daddy smelled warm and musky, like the corn fields that she and Amy would play in just before harvest. He was real, and solid, and flesh, and blood, and bone, and love, and so was Amy; for now.

"Daddy, will you take me to see Amy, instead of Mom?"

"Sure, honey. Let's stay here awhile and make her some Corn Dollies to play with in the Hospital."

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