The three little pigs
Amy Rowland Through the kitchen window she saw him coming from the field, carrying a burlap sack of freshly dug potatoes. Vasta had a vision of his long potato-like head in the sack with the tubers, an image she would not be able to forget, of her father carrying his own head. She knew that she would be the one to act, and take on the larger share of guilt. She was the eldest sister and wouldn’t have it otherwise. What will we do? Pearl, the middle sister, had asked two weeks before when they knew for certain, when their younger sister Alice had confirmed their fears. We will kill him, Vasta said. They were shelling field peas, Alice’s favorite, and their conversation was punctuated by the satisfying plunk of peas in the big green bowl. But how will we get away with it? Pearl said. People will suspect. People will talk. People always talk, Vasta said. Alice came into the kitchen unseen, drawn not by the sound of the plunking peas, which she hated shelling, but by the conspiratorial pitch of her sisters’ voices. Alice, though called touched by locals, was gifted at assessing the tenor and even the gist of her sisters’ conversations by their tone and inflection. We will do it for mother, Pearl said. And for ourselves. Can we really, Vasta?