THE SOFTER HALF
Hunger Had Rules
I was four years old when I learned that hunger had rules.
You did not cry when your stomach hurt, because crying wasted strength.
You did not eat everything you found, because tomorrow might be worse.
And if your twin sister was smaller than you, you always gave her the softer half.
That was how June and I survived the summer of 1884 in Mercy Creek, Wyoming Territory.
People in town said our father had been a thief.
They said our mother had abandoned us.
They said children who came from bad families usually carried bad blood.
But nobody ever asked why two four-year-old girls were sleeping behind a saloon.
Nobody asked why our mother had disappeared.
Nobody asked why our father's name had been scratched from the ledger at the feed store.
And nobody asked why Silas Vane, the richest man in Mercy Creek, became angry whenever somebody mentioned our family.
Respectable people were very good at not asking questions.
Every morning, before the Lucky Star Saloon opened its swinging doors, June and I crept behind the kitchen and waited beside the refuse barrels.
Sometimes there were potato skins.
Sometimes bacon rind.
On good mornings, there were biscuits too hard for paying customers but soft enough if we dipped them in rainwater.
June always searched carefully.
She was smaller than me, though we had been born only eleven minutes apart.
I was the first.
That mattered to me.
At four years old, being born eleven minutes earlier felt like having been appointed captain of a ship.
So I made rules.
We shared everything.
I ate first only when June told me to.
She slept against the wall because I thought the wall protected her.
When strangers approached, I stood in front of her.
And if we found something sweet, we split it exactly in half.
That morning, June discovered half a biscuit under wilted cabbage leaves.
She held it in both hands.
Her eyes brightened.
For a moment, she looked like any other child.
Then she looked at me.
“You eat first,” she whispered.
“No.”
“You're bigger.”
“I’m bigger by half a pound.”
“That is bigger.”
I broke the biscuit carefully.
The center was still soft.
I handed her the cleaner piece.
She frowned.
“You took the hard part.”
“I like hard parts.”
She knew I was lying.
June always knew.
I slipped my half into my pocket.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.
“Tomorrow is hungry too.”
I had learned that sentence from our father.
He used to say it when there was not enough food.
“Tomorrow is hungry too, Clara. Save something.”
Our father's name was Daniel Mercer.
At least, that was the name written on the old family Bible.
I remembered very little about him.
A smell of cedar.
A deep voice.
A pair of hands that seemed enormous when I was a baby.
And a song.
He used to sing when he worked.
I couldn't remember the words, only the tune.
June remembered more.
She remembered his smile.
She remembered sitting on his shoulders.
She remembered him telling us that twins were two halves of one promise.
But our father had been gone for almost a year.
Our mother had disappeared three months after that.
People said she had run away.
I didn't believe them.
Neither did June.
But children did not get to decide which truths adults were willing to tell.
That morning, we were crouched behind the saloon when a man's voice came from behind us.
“Lord Almighty.”
I spun around.
My heel scraped against the wooden barrel.
June immediately moved behind me.
The man standing there was tall.
Very tall.
He wore black trousers, a black shirt, and a long black coat despite the July heat.
A revolver rested low against his right hip.
His face was sun-browned and rough around the edges.
A scar ran from the corner of his left eyebrow toward his temple.
His beard was dark with threads of gray.
But it was his eyes I remembered.
They looked hard.
Yet somehow wounded.
He studied us.
Then he looked at the biscuit.
Then at the barrels.
Something changed in his face.
“Stay back,” I warned.
June's fingers grabbed the back of my dress.
The stranger stopped immediately.
Slowly, he lifted both hands away from his gun belt.
“I’m staying right here.”
His voice was quiet.
“My name’s Caleb.”
“We didn’t steal.”
He frowned.
“Didn't say you did.”
“Mr. Vane says everything behind the saloon belongs to him.”
Caleb looked around.
There were rotten vegetables scattered across the dirt.
A cracked plate.
A fish head.
Old coffee grounds.
He looked back at me.
“Silas Vane owns garbage now?”
June whispered from behind my shoulder.
“He says he owns Mercy Creek.”
Caleb's expression became very still.
That was the first time I saw him become angry.
Not loud angry.
Not the kind that made a man shout.
It was worse.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes hardened.
He looked toward the saloon.
“How long have you two been sleeping here?”
I said nothing.
June did.
“Since Mama went away.”
Caleb crouched slowly.
He remained several feet away.
“What's your name?”
“Clara.”
“And yours?”
“June.”
He looked at us for several seconds.
“Twins?”
I nodded.
He glanced at my hands.
Then at June's.
“You girls got somewhere to go?”
“No.”
“Anyone looking after you?”
“No.”
“Where's your father?”
I swallowed.
“Dead.”
June whispered, “They said.”
Caleb heard it.
His eyes moved toward her.
“They said?”
I nodded.
“Papa was a thief.”
“And your mother?”
“Gone.”
“Did she leave you?”
I didn't answer.
June did.
“She promised she'd come back.”
Caleb looked down.
For a moment, he seemed to forget we were there.