Fifteen year old Johnny Marsden walked along the dirt road, his fishing pole carried loosely in his left hand, the rod back up over his shoulder.
The road was dark brown and damp, except where white chunks of limestone rock protruded. It was only muddy where the water was still standing in small puddles, some with tire-tread tracks still leading from them.
To the left, a thick piney wood marched off up the side of the hill. To the right a fairly flat meadow sloped away to the lip of an eighty foot drop to the river.
Try as he might, he couldn’t recall the name of the river, but it was big enough that he could hear it roaring even from the road.
He had fished from the bank for the past two hours. Well, more correctly, he’d washed bait for the past two hours. Fifteen minutes and a half-mile ago, he’d walked up a gentle, sloping path that brought him to the road from the spot his grandpap had shown him last week. The old man said it was the best fishing in three states.
For some, maybe, but not for Johnny. He’d gotten plenty of nibbles, and more than once the wily catfish tugged hard enough to steal his bait. Johnny was lightning fast and an expert at setting a hook. His dad had taught him that. But the catfish were experts at nibbling around the edge, where the hook couldn’t get them.
He shrugged as he walked. Whatever. It wasn’t like he had to catch supper. He wasn’t overly fond of fishing anyway, but anything beat the boredom of sitting around the old folks’ house waiting for whatever was going to happen next.
Which was usually nothing. They might as well not even have a television. Grandpap wouldn’t allow a satellite dish, and even if the cable company would string lines this far up in the hills, he probably wouldn’t allow that either.
The old man had hinted pretty hard that he could use some help in the fields. But Johnny wasn’t about to work the fields like a common hand. He practically shivered when he remembered some of the stories his dad had told him about working in the fields with his father.
He knew his own worth, and it was considerably more than that. Back in Des Moines, he’d already held down two jobs. One was at The Burger Strip. The other was as a junior guard out at the mall.
No sir. He’d skip right over that working-in-the-fields part. He didn’t need an aching back and sore hands and shoulders to feel good about himself, thank you very much.
As he walked, he sang an old Johnny Horton tune. It was upbeat and it made him feel good. Plus it blended in with the sound of the river. And with the sense of the river.
“In eighteen-fourteen we took a little trip along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip’.”
He’d never seen the Mississippi River, but he imagined it probably wasn’t much different than this one. Bigger, maybe. But this one had the briars and brambles they talked about in the song, so it must be similar.
“Well, we took a little bacon and we took a little beans, an’ we met the bloody British in a town called New Or—”
“Hey there!”
Startled, Johnny sidestepped, then looked around so fast the end of his fishing pole snagged a low-hanging sweet-gum branch overhanging the edge of the road. “Huh?”
A stranger was standing near the brush at the base of the hill. He was a grown man, mostly. A little taller than Johnny, but no more filled out and still skinny as a rail. About the same age, maybe.
His worn, broad straw hat was tipped back a bit, revealing a shock of copper-colored hair. He was wearing the same kind of coveralls Johnny’s grandpap made him wear, only the stranger’s were draped over a sweat-stained long-john top. And at the bottom they were rolled up a time or two above his bare feet.
Johnny eyed him for a moment, then turned away slightly and pulled down with his left hand. It was still clamped around the fishing rod just below the reel. The sweet-gum branch came with it. When it came within reach, he stretched up with his right hand to unsnag his fishing line.
The line ran through all the eyelets on the rod and was doubled back. The hook was hooked through the middle eyelet from the outside. His grandpap showed him that too. He said it would keep the hook from getting snagged. He hadn’t said anything about how to keep the whole rig from getting snagged.
Probably he’d never gotten one snagged. To hear him talk he was pretty much perfect.
The stranger shoved his hands into the pockets of his coveralls. “Whur y’headed? Goin’ fishin’?”
“Comin’ back.” Johnny finagled a particularly troublesome leaf that seemed to not want to let go. “If I can get this unsnagged.”
“You ain’t from around here, are ya?”
His neck still craned upward, Johnny concentrated on his own fingers working the line free of the sweet-gum branch. He shook his head. “Nah. Just visitin’.”
“Uh huh. Up from the city?”
“Yeah.” The man probably meant Jackson, the nearest city to these hills. But it wasn’t like they were going to become fast friends. No need to tell the guy he was from Des Moines, halfway across the country. That he was here because his parents were killed in a car wreck a couple weeks ago. That he hated it here. That he would be around only long enough to devise an escape plan.
The stranger nodded as he started toward Johnny. “I reckon you need some he’p.”
“Nah. I think I about got it.” He was about to work the line free of the final sticky leaf stem. “But I appreciate the th—”
Something connected hard with the back of Johnny’s head and he crumpled.
Freed of his hand, the fishing pole swung left, then back to the right where it contacted the palm of the stranger’s right hand. He jerked hard and pulled it free of the sweet-gum branch.
He glanced down at the boy. “Don’t do to be walkin’ these back roads, gettin’ in people’s business.” He smirked, then turned and walked toward the precipice overlooking the river.
Gripping the base of the rod, he drew his arm back as if about to hurl a javelin. He swung his right arm in a wide overhead arc. The line and the pearl-white rod caught sunlight and flashed at the top of the arc. The reel was stumpy and black. It might have been a rocket engine driving a failed launch.
A long moment later there was a satisfying splash somewhere near the center of the river.
He turned back just in time to see his older brother hefting his victim onto his broad shoulders. He pointed. “Hey now, Clem, that’n’s mine.”
His brother straightened, his left forearm across the back of his burden’s knees. He turned away and started toward a path that angled up the side of the hill. “Share an’ share alike, Mama says.”
“Dang it, you ain’t allowed to take what I found an’ fetched.”
Clem stopped and turned around. “Reckon who found what depends on who’s got what an’ all that. ‘Sides, you can always come take it if y’want it so bad.” He paused, staring at his younger brother. Then he arched his eyebrows. Beneath them, his dark eyes were mean. Quietly, he said, “Nothin’ twixt you an’ me but air, baby boy. You thinkin’ you can take me?”
The other looked at the ground, then up at Clem again. “Dang it. It just ain’t fair, that’s all.”
“That’s what I thought.” Clem turned away, Johnny’s head bobbing against the middle of his back.
* * *
Some two hundred feet above the road, Stanchion Crisp dodged past his brother as they exited a stand of white pine trees. He raced across the small clearing toward the house.
Clem yelled after him, “Don’t you go tellin’ Mama no lies, Stanchion!”
Stanchion took the wooden steps up to the porch two at a time and crossed the porch in another long step. He flung open the door and yelled, “Mama!”
The door rebounded on its hinges and slammed shut behind him.
The room was dank, shielded from direct sunlight by the pines. Still, it was easy enough to see the air was filled with dust.
He yelled again. “Mama, you here? I found us a good’n. Only Clem snatched it up while I was chunkin’ its ol’ fishin’ pole in the river.”
From the back room came, “Whut?”
A moment later a small, pudgy hand and forearm sliced through the myriad strings of white plastic beads that formed a curtain where the door should be. Then the hand slapped hard to one side and the bottom two-thirds of the space filled with a woman.
She was dressed in a threadbare, stained white cotton shift. Mercifully, it hung to a few inches below her knees. The thin fabric strained at her hips, belly and breasts. Her thin, mousey brown hair looked as if it had never been washed. Short and rough-cut, it looked like a disorganized pin cushion.
At something under five feet tall and around three hundred pounds, she turned to one side and squeezed halfway through the beaded curtain. She raised her right hand to scratch her head. The dark patch of hair under her arm stuck to her side beneath and her triceps above. She wrinkled her brow. “That you, Stanchion?”
“Yes’m, it’s me. An’ Clem, he done snatched away this feller I found an’ fetched away home.”
The front door burst open again, and again it slapped against the wall. “Don’chu believe it, Mama! This thing was layin’ up’side the road when I found it. I grabbed it while junior there was pickin’ his nose an’ playin’ with hisself.”
Stanchion’s eyes grew wide. “I wasn’t neither playin’ with m’self, Mama! I wasn’t neither! You to’d us more’n once t’never—”
Again she raised her hand, this time with one palm facing out. “Hold it! Now, hold on!” She gestured toward the taller boy. “What’cha got there, Clem? Is it a it or is it a feller?”
“It’s a it, Mama. Stanchion done clubbed it so hard he knocked all the feller out of it. Won’t do fer marryin’ no more.”
Stanchion pointed. “See? See, Mama? I to’d you it was mine! I to’d you he stoled it from me while I was a’chunkin’ that ol’ fishin’ pole in the—”
But she turned away and squeezed back through the door. “Bring it in here where I can a’spect it. I’ll decide what’s gotta be done or not done. I’m the mama, I reckon.”
Clem grinned, then stuck out his tongue at Stanchion as he shoved past him.
Stanchion yelled, “Mama! Mama, it ain’t fair! Fer marryin’ or supper, I’m the one found the feller an’ I’m the one snatched him away home.”
But Clem was already through the beaded curtain. Then he was leaning forward all at once, lending his momentum to the weight on his shoulder.
The lump flopped loose and landed flat on its back across the bed. The springs squeaked and groaned, then lay still.
The woman tugged at Clem’s coveralls, moving him backward a stuttering step.
“I gotta leave, Mama? But I brung him in. I wanna watch the process. I’m thinkin’ I’m old enough now.”
She moved to the edge of the bed and peered down at Johnny. Without looking around, she said, “A’ight, but you stay again’ that wall. An’ if I say git, you git, unnerstan’?”
Then she turned to look at him. “If the spirit’s gone and this is just a thang fer skinnin’ to the freezer, you can hang aroun’ an’ he’p. But if it’s still a feller an’ it’s fer nursin’ an’ marryin’—” She turned back to look at the figure on the bed. “Well, there’s some things a boy hadn’t ought’a see his mama doin’, ‘at’s all.”
“Yes’m.” He took another step back and stopped, his back against the wall. “Like what things, Mama?”
The woman looked at the still form on the bed for a moment. “Never you mind. I’ll have to consecrate things, that’s all. Give ‘im what all men want deep in their soul. Then we’ll be married fer all time. ‘Course he might be some shy, what with bein’ banged on the head an’ all. But he’ll come around. If there’s still a feller in there.”
She turned her head as if to look over her shoulder, though she didn’t make it that far. “Why ain’t I got no knives in here?” More loudly, she said, “Stanchion! If you wanna come in too, then brang me that long knife outta the front room.”
Distantly, “Yes’m” sounded. A moment later, the beaded curtain burst open and Stanchion raced into the room. He was holding a filet knife in front of his right shoulder.
She looked back. “Gimme that!” She snatched it out of his hand, then pointed it at him. “I to’d you not to be runnin’ with sharp stuff. You gone crazy on me?”
“No, Mama.”
She turned the knife over in her hand. “I wanted the thick one, but I reckon this’n’ll do.” Again she pointed with the knife. “Git over there by Clem an’ don’t move ‘less he does.”
“Yes’m.” He skittered back to the door.
The woman leaned forward, the knife in her right hand. She held it forward like a pointer. She stretched, straining to reach the thing’s forehead.
But the head hung at an angle, the neck bent backward over the far side of the mattress.
She pulled the knife back, hiked her dress above her knees and climbed up on the bed. Finally her pudgy knees sank into the mattress along the left side of the thing’s waist.
She grabbed the footboard of the iron bedstead with her left hand to steady herself, then leaned forward again. The knife moved ahead of her hand. With the back of the tip, she touched the center of the forehead at the hairline. She pressed slightly, watching for any reaction.
A small bit of blood seeped from the tiny V-shaped wound.
Otherwise there was no reaction.
She drew the tip carefully downward, no longer letting blood but drawing a thin scratch.
Down between the eyebrows.
Down over the dip between the closed eyes.
Down between the nostrils.
Down over the tip of the nose, then down to neatly separate the little pucker in the upper lip.
She hesitated there. “It gots good lips, boys. Good, full lips.”
Down over the bottom lip.
Down over the chin, through the wispy down that might have someday grown into a beard.
Down over the arc above the Adam’s apple. Up a bit and then down over the apple itself. Then into, across and out of the soft valley below it.
When the tip of the knife met the bib of the coveralls, she stopped, her attention focused on the closed eyelids.
Not so much as a flutter.
The tip of the knife still in place, she shifted her weight to her knees.
The bedsprings groaned.
She put both palms on the knife, one on either side. As if talking to the form beneath her hands, quietly she said, “A’right, boys. This’ll tell the tale.”
Then she spun the knife.
* * *
Harmon Marsden folded the newspaper and lay it on the arm of his recliner, then glanced out the window to his left. The waning daylight and the clinking sounds from the kitchen matched. It was getting to be supper time.
He glanced at his watch, then uncrossed his field boots at the ankle and pushed the recliner upright. A small clod of dried mud dropped from the hem of his coveralls to the wood floor.
His hands at the ends of the arm rests of his recliner, he looked up at his wife. A slight frown wrinkled his brow. “Shouldn’t Slick be back by now? I s’pose he went fishin’ again.”
Edith Marsden set a third plate on the table. As she turned away to the silverware drawer, she looked up and scowled. “Now Harmon, you know he doesn’t like it when you call him that. And yes, he went fishing.” She glanced up at the clock. “Almost four hours ago.” A slight frown crossed her face. “He shouldn’t be gone that long, should he?”
The man got up from the chair and stretched, the arms of his grey workshirt straining toward the ceiling. He rubbed one large palm over his wide bald spot, then scratched the white fringe on both sides with his fingers.
Finally he turned to his wife. “Well, it takes as long as it takes, I guess.” He spread his hands out to the side. “Anyway, do you see him here anywhere?”
She frowned again. “What are you talking about? I just said he left about four hours ago.”
“Right. So I guess he won’t mind what he can’t hear.”
She had already selected three forks and three case knives. She picked up three worn cloth napkins and turned toward the table again. “No, but you’ll get in the habit of calling him that and then you’ll slip when he is here.” She placed the napkins on the table and began divvying up the silverware. “Please just stop. He doesn’t like it.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like Grandpap either. You gonna make him stop calling me that?”
She straightened one fork on a napkin, then turned to look at him and put her hands on her hips. “Well what do you want him to call you?”
One corner of his mouth curled upward in a grin. “Name’s Harmon. Good to meet you.”
She huffed. “Harmon, even you know that grandchildren don’t call their grandfathers by their first name. How about Grandad?”
He shook his head. “Don’t care for it.”
“Grandpa?”
“That’s worse than Granpap. Almost. How about Mr. Marsden?”
She wagged one hand at him. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.” She opened the cabinet that held the twelve-ounce glasses.
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter what he calls me. He’s here precious little, even now that he’s supposed to be livin’ here.”
His wife set the three glasses on the table, then looked up and sighed. “Well, I guess you shouldn’t have shown him that fishing spot.”
“That fishin’ spot’s for Friday afternoon or Saturday. Or even for Sunday afternoons. I told him that too. Not for the middle of the day when there’s work to be done.”
“Oh now Harmon, don’t be silly. Johnny’s your grandson, not your hired man. And right now his job is to heal.”
Harmon turned away and crossed his arms. “Heal? Hell, we all gotta heal. Doesn’t mean we can just quit work. But it’s true enough he ain’t a hired hand. Fact is, I wouldn’a hired him.”
“Oh Harmon, he’s—”
“He’s too bony is what he is. An’ he has an aversion to work. Must’a got it from that mother of his. Y’know, that woman wouldn’t—”
She slapped one hand on the table. “Harmon, stop! Please!” Tears welled in Edith’s eyes.
When she brought herself under control, quietly, she said, “Please. It’s only been two weeks.” She paused. “I know you didn’t like Marilyn, but she was your son’s wife and he loved her. And she was your grandson’s mother.”
Her voice began to increase in intensity again. “And now—now all we have left of either of them is Johnny. And—and I will not have you dishonoring his mother! Do you understand me, Harmon?” She began to tremble. “If you say something bad about her, I think I’ll scream! ” She stopped, her eyes wide. Her breath caught in her throat with a tiny sound, and she put one hand over her mouth.
Harmon looked at her. Finally he nodded. Quietly, he said, “I’m sorry, Edith. I’m sorry.”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest to hold herself. Her fingers and knuckles were thin and stark white against her tanned upper arms. She nodded quickly and looked at the floor.
When she looked up, she spoke barely above a whisper. “I know you’re hurting, Harmon, much as you try to hide it. So am I. But we have each other, and we’ll make it through.
“That boy lost both his parents. And right now he feels like he doesn’t have anyone in this wide world.”
Harmon nodded, then turned away and took his hat from the peg near the front door. “I’ll, uh— I’ll just go see if I can find him.” He opened the door and stepped through. Before he pulled it closed behind him, from force of habit he said, “Back in a bit if the gators ain’t—”
He stopped.
Maybe that was a bit much in the current circumstance. Maybe she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe at least she had heard him catch himself and stop.
He pulled the door closed quietly.
* * *
As Harmon stepped down off the porch, he said quietly, “Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t. Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t.” He fell into a gentle rhythm, his pace matching the words. “Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t. Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t.”
There weren’t any bad wishes wrapped up in the ditty. It was just something to say, a way to vocalize the rhythm of the steps. A way to keep the mind off more troublesome topics, like what a fella might find when he got to where he was going.
But it was almost too repetitive. There ought to be more verses. Different lines. But as far as he knew, there were no other lines or verses. It was a nonsense thing.
There weren’t any gators hereabouts anyway, not up in these hills.
Then again, it didn’t have to be nonsense. There still wouldn’t be any gators around, but he could at least fill out the ditty a bit.
He frowned. “What if I turn it around? ‘Less the gators have e’t I’ll be back in a bit.” He paused. “Nah, that don’t work. ‘Have’ is too pretty. It don’t fit. ‘Less the gators done e’t I’ll be back in a bit.” A grin curled one corner of his mouth. “Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t. ‘Less the gators done e’t I’ll be back in a bit. Yeah, that works. The ‘I’ll be’ is a little scrunchy, but it works all right.”
But what about a whole new line? Something to finish off the thought?
It didn’t really make sense that a guy’d be back soon if the gators hadn’t eaten yet. If they’d already eaten, wouldn’t he be back even sooner since there’d be nobody to save and nobody to bring back?
“That makes sense. Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t.” He tapped his chin for a moment. “Back in a bit if the gators ain’t e’t. Back sooner’n that if the gators got fat.” He grinned. That would work.
He’d like to tell Edith of his discovery, but that would have to wait for a better time. Maybe a time more distant from putting their only son in the ground.
He shook his head. Damn it. Damn it all.
Of course, the gators were working overtime that night. The night his son Jasper decided against all logic to take his wife—that Marilyn woman—to the picture at the Crest drive-in. The gators were working overtime and they ate—e’t—well that night. Damn it.
Still, drive-in movies were supposed to be on Friday and Saturday nights. Sometimes maybe even Thursday. But not Wednesday. He’d never known a drive-in to be open on a Sunday or Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday.
It wasn’t right. Sunday was the lord’s day. Wednesday night was bible study. And Monday through Friday were hard-working man days. It was okay to go to the drive-in on Friday as a reward. And maybe you could sleep an extra hour on Saturday morning. Or if you had a long week you could get the reward on Saturday night and sleep a little extra on Sunday. As long as you could still make the church in time, of course.
And Thursday—well, maybe the theater might open on a Thursday if they had a really popular movie in stock and they wanted to let as many see it as wanted to see it. That was just business. And if a youngster like his boy Jasper wanted to see a movie on Thursday and then hit work again on Friday, that was fine too. As long as he didn’t skimp on work on that Friday. A man hadn’t ought to skimp on work.
But Jasper wouldn’t do such a thing. Jasper would never skimp on work. Wasn’t the way he was raised. Jasper was a good boy. At least until that Marilyn got her claws in him. Nothing like the scent of a particular woman to draw a man the wrong way.
But Wednesday? No possible way does any god-fearing working man close down the bible-study night of the week to watch a movie. Or a god-fearing business, for that matter, to show something so trivial as a movie. No way.
But that’s what happened.
Jasper should never have packed up and moved to that godless state of Ioway. She was from there. That Marilyn. Born and raised right there in Ioway. “Ain’t but one letter removed from No Way.”
He should never have let Jasper move there. He should have put his foot down. Jasper was a good boy up until then. He would’ve been mad for a day or two, but at least he’d still be alive. “Well, if the gators ain’t e’t.”
Of course Jasper was bull headed too. He got that from his mother. And his penchant for backtalk. At least this new boy, this Johnny, skipped over the backtalking part. He went straight from listening—or seeming to listen—to doing whatever pleased him.
He shook his head. “Even when that’s goin’ fishin’ smack in the middle of a work day. By god, Jasper wouldn’a took off like that. Jasper would’a made a hand. An’ at the end of the day he’d blamed sure be too tired to want to fish for anything but the beans in the soup and the covers on his bed.”
But none of that mattered now. That’s what his Edith would say. It just didn’t matter any more. What Jasper would or wouldn’t do had mattered for forty-two years, three months and sixteen days. It mattered a great deal. But it didn’t matter anymore. He was on the south side of the ground now.
Grimly, Harmon grinned. South side of the ground. His boy was checking out the roots of the world. It was a silly thought, but looking at it like that made it easier to keep emotion out of it. And there was no reason to let emotion in. Wouldn’t be proper for a man to let emotion in.
Besides, even if Jasper could still do or say something, it was no business of those working the other side of the ground.
He stopped and looked straight up, trying to imagine roots tangled in dirt. Someday soon what he did or didn’t do wouldn’t matter anymore either. He pointed toward the sky. Toward the imaginary roots above him. “Well, at least it won’t matter to you up there on the north side, will it?” Under his breath, he said, “I wonder if it will matter to me down here? Do folks south of the sod know anything?”
And with that age-old question in mind, he continued toward his favorite fishing spot. Another twenty minutes or so, he’d be there. And he would give that grandson of his a good-sized chunk of what for.
The boy wasn’t the smartest individual he’d ever come across. Though he was smart for his age. Problem was, he was still bridled with the certainty that he already knew everything.
The thought sprang into his mind that the boy had gotten that from his mother too, but of course that wasn’t it. Over awareness of self was a problem all young kids had. The boys eventually outgrew it. At least the good ones did. In the women, it morphed into something called “women’s prerogative.”
And that was all right too, really. It was the natural order of things.
A man ought to live where his woman wants to live. The words to an old song came to mind. “If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.” He grinned.
It was good, being out here, taking the air. All he had to do was find the boy and herd him back to the house. Edith would wait supper. She was a good sort.
Actually, Marilyn wasn’t really a bad sort either. Nor was she overly sure of herself. In truth, she simply knew what she wanted, and she was a strong woman. She didn’t want to move too far away from her folks, for example. They were several years older than Harmon and Edith, and in poor health to boot. She wanted to remain close to them.
She also wasn’t fond of the idea of moving away from the wide plains where she’d grown up. She was a farmer’s daughter, same as Jasper was a farmer’s son. Only she could look out across her father’s fields and the fields of several neighbors. No mountains in the way.
And these hill people do get cliquish. Probably she never would have been accepted here. Not really. No, she wasn’t really a bad sort at all. And the boy was all right too. He had a lot of his father in him. Some of his mother too, of course, but a lot of his father. Probably the best of both parts.
Where in the world was the boy?
It was only a bit over a half-hour to the fishing hole, and maybe a little longer coming back since it was all uphill. Still, he thought he would have found him by now.
In his left periphery, a glint caught his attention. About head high. He stopped and glanced along the road. It was straight here for a ways. If the boy came along, no way they could miss seeing each other. Maybe he ought to investigate.
He stepped off the road, taking the appropriate angle to keep the thing shining, whatever it was. Probably some kids up from the city leaving pop-tops hanging in trees again. Those are the kids who ought to be hired out to local farmers. Work one crop and all that meanness would be slapped right out of them.
As he drew nearer, he frowned. There, in the low branch of a sweet-gum tree, was the tip off a fishing pole. He reached up and retrieved it. It was a red-stringer. He was the only one hereabouts who used red string and wax glue to affix eyelets to poles. He’d affixed this tip to the end of Slick’s pole—well, Johnny’s pole—only a few days ago.
He looked down. The grass was crumpled in a stretched-out S shape. Like someone had lain there on his side.
The lyrics to that old song came to mind again. If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.
He paled. “Oh damn. Old Miss Crisp.”
He ran across the road. After a long moment of searching, he recognized the narrow head of the trail that slanted up through the brush.
* * *
As the knife slowed, the woman watched. Still there had been no reaction from the figure on the bed. Just as she leaned forward to reach for it, the knife toppled and fell over.
She grabbed it, then leaned back. She turned her head slightly to the side and said, “Well, that’s all’a that, boys. I reckon there ain’t no feller in there a’tall. Like Stanchion said, he fetched him home. What used to occupy all this good meat’s with the good lord fer sure. No call to let the rest go to waste. Good lord himself said ‘waste not, want not.’”
Clem grinned, but kept his place at the wall. “You gonna fix it for the freezer now, Mama?”
Still facing away, she nodded. “I reckon. But once’t I get it sliced up, we’ll save a butt-cheek roast fer ourselves fer tonight. That fittin’ fer you boys?”
“Yes, Mama,” Stanchion said.
“Sounds good,” Clem said.
“A’right. Clem, you come around the bed an’ grab his arms. Stanchion, you get his legs. You boys take ‘im out in the far side of the front room. I’ll do the bleedin’ an’ butcherin’ out there. Reckon you’re both old enough to see how it’s done. But be quick. We don’t want nothin’ to spoil.”
Clem said, “Yes, ma’am. Only hadn’t we ought’a take it out to the barn like for a deer?”
“Wouldn’t be civilized to butcher this like it was a deer. Gotta show it some respect. We’ll do it in the front room, if it’s all the same to you.”
Clem said, “Yes, ma’am” and started around the end of the bed.
She raised one hand. “Wait. Stanchion, you go on out to the shed, tear off a slice’a that paper. You know what I mean. That good thick paper. Lay it on the floor on the far side’a the front room, an’ put the shiny side down. This is a stinky kind’a job ‘an I don’t want nothin’ stainin’ my floor.”
“A’right, Mama.” And he ran out.
A moment later, he jerked the door open and ran headlong into Harmon Marsden.
Harmon was as surprised as the boy was. His heart began hammering in his chest. But he clapped his left hand over the boy’s mouth, then pushed him up against the wall to one side of the door. Then he raised the index finger of his right hand to his lips. “Shh.”
The boy quickly nodded.
Quietly, Harmon said, “Hey there, now, young fella. You seen a boy? ‘Bout your age, maybe a little shorter who—”
His eyes wide, Stanchion shook his head. “No sir. No sir. There ain’t nobody like that in there on Mama’s bed.”
Harmon looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Now, where you off to so fast?”
“Oh, I gotta go get some paper. Mama’s fixin’a butcher a feller. Well, not a feller really. The feller’s gone I reckon, so it’s just meat. Waste not, want not, the lord and my mama says. But anyway—”
“Gone? You mean he’s dead?”
Again his heart hammered hard in his chest.
“Yes sir. Mama touched him with the knife a few places an’ he didn’t do nothin’ so she figgers he’s gone on.”
“All right. All right.” He looked at the door, then gestured behind him loosely with one arm. “You go on.” His heart was pounding so strongly that he could barely hear his own voice.
Stanchion frowned. “Mister, you okay?”
“I’m fine. I— I have to get in there.” But he moved to the front of the porch and sat down. “Your— your mama’s gonna wait for you?”
“Oh, yes sir. I gotta get some paper so she can—”
Harmon raised one hand. He was pale. “No. Forget the paper. I have a job for you. I need you to run down past my place. Get Sheriff Driscoll. Can you do that?”
“Yes sir. But why?”
“Just tell him I’m up here and— I’m afraid somethin’ bad’s gonna happen to your mama. Now, can you do that?”
“Yes sir.” He frowned. “But what if the sheriff ain’t there?”
“Then you get whoever is there, all right?”
“Okey doke.”
“Good. Go now.” He wagged a hand in the boy’s direction, and the boy all but disappeared, racing off down the trail.
Harmon leaned back against an upright of the porch.
Probably Johnny’s all right.
Probably he’s only unconscious.
He isn’t dead. He can’t be dead.
That wouldn’t be right. He can’t be dead. No so soon after—
And his head dropped to his chest.
A moment later, he slipped off the upright and folded forward off the porch.
Inside, Junebug Crisp was still kneeling on the bed alongside Johnny.
As she looked at the inert form, she muttered, “Where in the world did Stanchion get off to?” Then a bit louder, she said, “Clem, go find your brother.”
“Yes’m.” The boy turned, then stopped. “Only you ain’t gonna do nothin’ while I’m gone are you?”
“Like what?”
“I mean, you ain’t fixin’a marry it, are you? That ain’t why you’re tryin’a get me outta the room, is it?”
“No. I need that paper. Now you know I need that paper.”
“Yes’m. Only don’t do nothin’ while I’m gone. A’right, Mama?”
“Just go get your brother.”
The boy turned and raced out of the room. He crossed the front room, dodged through the door, then raced off the side of the porch and around the corner of the house.
He didn’t even notice Harmon.
Mama Crisp looked at the figure on the bed.
“That is gonna make some good roasts. Some fine steaks.”
* * * * * * *