Before
Unaware of her internal anxiety, Hank whispered, “I love you so much.”
And like that, she felt transported years into the future, where Hank and Kestrel were hand-washing Christmas dinner dishes, but she was well rooted here, surrounded by twenty-two Kern family members who knew her, accepted her, and adored her. It was a dream worth hand-washing for.
“I’m happy to do morning chores,” said Kestrel. “Leave me a list to check off while you’re gone.”
“You’ll keep working . . . during church?” Ma Kern said, sounding confused.
“Yeah, I don’t do church, so I’ll just keep working when you all go.”
She felt Hank stiffen at her side, and she realized she must have said something offensive.
Hank had told her that his family was active in their church community, but since he never attended in Ann Arbor, she figured they weren’t super orthodox.
But perhaps church was a core part of Ma Kern’s identity, and she felt Kestrel was rejecting her personally.
Or maybe she assumed Kestrel was one of those nonreligious people who belittled and mocked anyone who was religious.
“It’s nothing against your church,” Kestrel quickly explained as she scrubbed a pot.
“I’m sure it’s great. Hank probably told you I grew up in a cult, and ever since, I can’t bring myself to sit through any kinds of lectures.
But also, I prefer to avoid institutions that teach there’s a right and wrong way to be. ”
The kitchen had gone quiet. All the sounds of washing and clearing stilled. Kestrel turned around. Everyone was staring at Ma Kern, and Ma Kern was staring at Kestrel.
“Kes . . .” Hank whispered.
“I think I’m not explaining myself very well,” she said, certain she could salvage this awkwardness by employing self-deprecation. “It’s not that I think your church isn’t good enough for me—entirely the opposite! I’m not good enough for your church! I have had a sordid past.”
She laughed, inviting people to laugh at her. Nobody did. Hank put a hand on her back, but she panicked and began to babble.
“I mean, who would want this sullied chick sitting next to them in the pews? One time I quit a job because I’d slept with too many of my coworkers and it’d gotten way awkward!”
“Take the children out of here,” said Ma Kern.
There was a bustling exit, leaving just Hank’s parents and siblings in the kitchen to stare at Kestrel. Hank’s face was bright red, and his gaze was on his shoes.
Ma Kern put her hands on her hips. “What you said about why you quit that job—was that a joke?”
Kestrel shrugged. She didn’t like where this was going.
“Even if you were joking,” said Ma Kern, “I don’t want my grandbabies to hear that kind of talk.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kestrel. The words felt like lava in her throat.
“I’m going to my study,” said Ma Kern.
That must have been some kind of code, because when she left the kitchen, everyone followed her except Hank.
He sighed a bone-deep, weary sigh and met her gaze. She’d never seen that sorrowful expression on him, and her whole self tilted, as if the kitchen floor were undulating beneath her feet.
“I’m really confused,” said Kestrel.
“I told you that we go to church on Sundays,” Hank whispered. “I didn’t think you’d refuse to come.”
“I never imagined that it would be a nonnegotiable. Who forces their houseguests to attend their church?”
“They’re not forcing you,” said Hank. “It’s just . . . out of respect.”
She didn’t have time to process this before Anika returned, her expression severe.
“Mom wants to talk to Kestrel.”
A serious-faced Pa Kern was sitting down with Hank at the kitchen table when Kestrel walked alone down the hall to Ma Kern’s study.
She looked like a harmless old lady tucked into a floral-print upholstered chair, a handmade afghan over her lap, her feet on a low stool.
Kestrel stayed standing. Really she felt like fleeing.
In the pantheon of uncomfortable interpersonal conflict, this was the supreme being.
But for Hank, Kestrel made her feet stay still.
Despite the fatal feeling, there had to be a way to redeem herself.
“Well,” said Ma Kern.
A dozen stuffed birds clung to the walls, staring with petrified eyes.
Kestrel held the glassy gaze of a dead mallard drake as she said, “I’m too free.
I have a bad habit of saying out loud what I should probably keep in my head.
But I love Hank so much. Isn’t it beautiful how two people from such different worlds can fit together just right? ”
“Uffda,” Ma Kern muttered.
Kestrel let her gaze leave the frozen duck and rest on Ma Kern’s frowning chin.
“Kestrel, you don’t seem to understand that in this life there is right and wrong. Anyone who comes into this family needs to abide by our standards, and I haven’t seen evidence that you would be capable of that.”
Something in Kestrel flinched, and her weight shifted to her back heel, the one closest to the door. But Ma Kern removed her feet from the stool and gestured to it. Kestrel understood and sat, having to squat to get that low.
Ma Kern looked down at her, and her eyes seemed kindly and wise. “I know you love Hank. Of course you do. We all love him. But we also need to protect him.”
“Protect him from what?”
Somehow Ma Kern’s smile also looked like a frown.
“He doesn’t always know what he wants. All my kids got four-year degrees from dairy science schools right here in Wisconsin.
But Hank couldn’t decide on one, so he chose none.
You see? We all accepted it, and he stayed working on the farm.
But then suddenly—I don’t know what got into his head—he left for college out of state.
While he was in this unguarded, confused phase, he met you. I won’t let him be hurt.”
“I don’t intend to hurt him,” said Kestrel. “I’m sorry I hurt you by rejecting your invitation to church—”
Ma Kern waved her hand. “That’s not the point. Behavior reveals what’s in a person’s soul. And in order to approve of you, I need to know that your soul yearns for light over darkness, for right over wrong.”
Kestrel knew what Ma Kern wanted her to do.
Acquiesce. Submit. Break. For a split second, Kestrel actually considered it.
She felt herself looking down into a box, readying herself to climb back inside.
But heat snapped in her belly and rose up into her throat till she felt she would choke if she didn’t speak.
“I guess we see the world differently. Where you see a binary, I see a spectrum.” She was proud of herself for the calmness in her voice. And also for not swearing.
Ma Kern gazed out her window toward the disturbed snow, visible patches of brown dirt glaring through.
“Do you know the saying about one bad apple? The overripe apple can’t help emitting so much ethylene that the other apples ripen too fast till they rot too.
That’s not a subjective opinion. It’s nature. ”
“I guess it is. You know, I’ve had a weird life, Mrs. Kern. Not everyone has had the chance to live in a beautiful, supportive family like yours. But I’ve done the best I could with what I have, and I am not ashamed of who I am.”
“A little shame can go a long way to help a body learn what is and what is not acceptable. If at age twenty-seven you haven’t learned that yet, I don’t have hope that you will. It’s not about upbringing—it’s about who you are at your core.”
“At my apple core,” said Kestrel. She was inherently rotten, and just being near Hank would spoil him.
Maybe if it hadn’t been for Farm Home, Kestrel could have made herself say exactly what Ma Kern wanted with submissive sincerity.
But instead . . . “I will live my life the way I see fit, and if you don’t like it, you can stick it .
. . somewhere,” she said, trying too late to tone it down.
Ma Kern spoke in a low, tight voice. “I won’t let you ruin Hank.”
“He’s a grown-ass adult,” said Kestrel. “He can choose who he dates.”
“And I, Kestrel Klein, will choose who spends Christmas in my house!”
Kestrel felt as if every one of her organs had been turned to molten lead. She was already walking out the study door when Ma Kern said, “By your last name, I was expecting a nice Danish girl.”
The kitchen was empty. Kestrel finished hand-washing the dishes alone. She opened a drawer to put away a spatula and found the garlic press, making a mental note of its location. For next time. It was hope without hope.
When Hank returned to her, his face was pale. He looked down when he said, “They think you should go home before Christmas.”
At the foreboding passivity in his voice, Kestrel squeezed her eyes shut. “And what did you say, Hank?”
He didn’t respond.
“Hank, what did you say?” She turned to face him, trying to make him meet her eyes.
He kept his gaze down as he replied, “In the morning, I can drive you to the airport. My dad said he’ll pay for your flight back to Ann Arbor. And I’ll drive home alone after Christmas. I think it’s better this way. They’re not ready for you yet.”
Kestrel stayed in the kitchen till he went to bed.
Then she took Hank’s keys from his coat pocket.
She drove his truck all that night and straight through till morning.
Her heart felt pinned down somewhere far behind her, and the farther she drove, the further it stretched, thinner and thinner, until finally, it broke for good.