“What are you going to do, Kyra?” she says. Mother looks at me with eyes blue as the evening sky. What I’d like to do is play the piano, bring Mozart to life for the time we have until Prophet Childs shows. “Can I go outside? Just a few minutes? Everything’s done.” She’s stretched out on the sofa, her face white, her belly six- months big. “You might sleep through this to night.”ĪFTER I HELP Mother Sarah get the younger girls ready for our visitors, I check on her.

She puts her head on my shoulder and lets out a big yawn. Sleepy from my swaying and the heat and my voice, maybe. In the lingering light I can see that she’s sleepy. But she can’t right now because she’s not well. She would stand up to this wife, at least for me. My true mother, Mother Sarah, is sick in bed with pregnancy. She’s Mariah’s mother, my father’s first wife. You know we have company coming in a few minutes. She stands on the porch to her trailer, the light of her place spilling out around her. The sound is so clear and sharp and near, I worry maybe she’s heard me.

Mother Claire’s voice carries out over the sand and rock and brush that make up this part of our land surrounding the Compound. Then I’d kill him for the rest of our sisters. “I’d kill him first for me,” I say into her cheek, my lips still resting there, my eyes closed. Eight months old, this baby, my youngest sister, is as sweet as new butter. I touch my lips to her face so soft and smooth.

I shift her from one hip to the other, then lean close, smelling powder and, from the desert around me, sage. Mariah smiles at me again and lets out a bit of baby laughter. Overhead, stars start to fill the eastern sky. Not quite the color of blood, but close enough. I look off toward the setting sun that has changed the desert from orange to deep red.

No one would ever know what happened.”Īgain I pause. There’re termites in Africa that can do that. Not a thing would be left of him in three hours. “But once he’s gone, I’d drag his body right next to a termite nest. Then I take in a big breath of air and plow ahead. Yet.” I pause so Mariah can see I am dead serious. Feel the heat coming up from the ground, through my tights, right under the skirt of my past-the-knees dress. I can feel the heat through the soles of my shoes. Even this late in the evening, with the sun sinking over my shoulder, the ground is leftover hot from the day. I kick the toe of my sneaker into the desert sand. She stares back at me and smiles, like she knows what I mean and agrees. “If I was going to kill the Prophet,” I say, not even keeping my voice low, “I’d do it in Africa.”

The chosen one by carol lynch williams