“Dry out?” Daniel asks. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looks down the barrel of the gun and tries to balance it. The wooden stock is cold on his bare hands and against his cheek.
“Dry out. You know. Stop drinking. Your Uncle Ray is a drunk. Everyone says so. Says your Aunt Ruth is a married woman and belongs with her husband. Says he wouldn’t be such a drunk if she’d go home.”
With his lips pressed together, Daniel stares up at Ian.
“That’s what they say. Not me. Hey, there’s one.”
Daniel flattens out so he can see under the barbed-wire fence. A hundred feet away, surrounded by unplowed ground covered with dry stubble, is the mound that had been Ian’s target. One small head shaped like a giant walnut pops out of a hole in the center of the mound and then disappears. A few moments later, a prairie dog creeps out and lifts onto his hind legs. Its brown, furry body is plumper than the one Ian shot.
“Wait. Don’t be too quick,” Ian says.
“Who cares what they say about Aunt Ruth?” Daniel’s breath warms the gun where it’s pressed to his cheek. And then, remembering the words Dad used when he sent Uncle Ray away, Daniel says, “She’s not my concern.”
“Some people even say your Uncle Ray had something to do with taking Julianne Robison. Say that he is just that crazy. Even say he killed your Aunt Eve. But that was a long time ago.”
“That’s a lie,” Daniel says, thinking that he’d know for sure if his own aunt was dead. “A God damned lie.”
“I ain’t saying it,” Ian says. “ ’Course it’s Jack Mayer who took Julianne. But you ought to know that since you’re the only one who’s seen him.” Ian kneels behind the same clump of grass. “Watch what you’re doing. Careful.” Before the new boots, Ian didn’t squat or sit on the ground much because getting up was too hard. It’s easier now but he still groans on the way down. “Wait another second. We might see more.”
The prairie dog that Ian shot lies at the base of the mound, which, according to Ian, means he grazed it. A direct hit would blow the animal a foot in the air. Ian said it was best when that happened. Best for who, Daniel thinks, as the prairie dog starts to chirp-slow steady chirps as it drops down onto all fours. His stubby tail flicks in sets of three.
“Ready.” Ian waddles a few feet closer, close enough that Daniel smells his moldy clothes and new leather boots, but the prairie dog won’t smell him because Ian made sure they were downwind.
“Whoever said that about Ray, you tell them I don’t care,” Daniel says, pressing his cheek against the gun until it digs into his cheekbone and his eyes water. “I don’t give one good God damn.” Then he jabs his elbows into ground that is recently plowed and soft. Squinting through his right eye, he bites the inside of his cheek and tilts the barrel until the tip lines up in the sight.
“Don’t talk. Take a deep breath, hold it, then fire.”
The prairie dog crawls down the mound and begins to drag the injured one toward the hole.
“Not one good God damn bit,” Daniel whispers.
“You got to be quick,” Ian says, close enough that Daniel smells his breath. Slowly, Ian lifts his hands and covers both ears. “Now.”
Daniel tightens his index finger, the trigger softening under the pressure. He inhales and squeezes his shoulder blades until his neck muscles ache and his lungs burn. The trigger collapses, and the gun fires. The prairie dog shoots up into the air and lands a few feet away. The chirping is gone.
“Got him,” Ian shouts. He stumbles as he tries to stand, so stays put instead. “Now we have to wait. They’ll be back. Be back for sure.”
Peering through the rifle’s sight, Daniel scans the field until he sees the dead prairie dog lying in the grass. Ian says prairie dogs are bad for the fields. He says they’re rodents and that there will be lots more in the spring. Baby ones by June. They’re the hardest to get. They don’t come out like the others. Daniel drops the barrel of the rifle, flips the safety and pushes up on his knees.
“I’m not waiting around for another stupid prairie dog.”
Being careful to step over the winter wheat, Daniel stands and walks toward home. Behind him, Ian stumbles with his old rhythm, the one he had before he got his new boots. God damn, Daniel hates that sound.
“Slow down,” Ian calls out.
Holding the rifle at his side instead of over his shoulder, Daniel takes long steps toward home and doesn’t look back.
Chapter 9
Trying to outrun the cold air that follows them onto the porch, Celia hustles everyone through the back door. Evie darts left, squeezes between Elaine and the doorframe and slips in front of Ruth.
“Sorry,” she says, tripping over Ruth, and the two of them stumble into the kitchen.
“Evie.” Celia grabs Evie’s collar before she falls face-first on the kitchen floor. In a quieter voice, she says, “You be careful of Aunt Ruth. And mind yourself. We have company.”
Celia pulls off her coat and tips her forehead toward Father Flannery, who sits at the head of the table. Arthur sits at the other end, and Reesa has taken a seat in between.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, Father,” Celia says. “We lost track of time.”
Evie steps up to Father Flannery, extends her hand the way she and Celia practiced in the living room the night before and says, “Hello, Father Flannery.”
Father Flannery pushes back from the table, his knees falling open to make room for the belly that hangs between them. He takes the tips of Evie’s fingers in both hands. “Fine day to see you, Miss Eve.”
“I’m Evie in our house, Father. Eve is only for Grandma Reesa’s house. And church.”
Father Flannery studies Evie over the top of his glasses. The tip of his nose and chin are still red from the cold. He finally nods and drops Evie’s hands. “Your hair is cut,” he says to Ruth.
“Yes.” Ruth touches the ends of her new shorter hair and smiles up at Elaine. When she looks back at the Father, he isn’t smiling. Ruth drops her eyes to the floor.
“Elaine cut it, Father,” Evie says. “She’s going to color it, too. Red maybe.”
Reesa, who has made herself at home in Celia’s kitchen, having already brewed the coffee and set out the cream and sugar, shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “Good gracious,” she says.
Arthur scoots up to the table, the squeal of his chair legs silencing Evie and Reesa.
To break the sudden silence, Celia opens the refrigerator and says, “Has Reesa offered you pie, Father?”
Reesa frowns, causing deep creases to cave in at the top of her nose, and shakes her head at Celia. “Didn’t seem the time for pie yet.”
Father Flannery, still staring at Ruth, says, “Pie’d be real nice, Mrs. Scott. Real nice about now.”
Arthur waves off Celia’s offer of pie and focuses on Father Flannery. “Seems there must be something the church can do for Ruth,” he says. “Something that can help her out of this mess.”
“It’s not that easy, Arthur. They’ve been married a good many years.”
Arthur exhales and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.
“What about ‘inadequacy of judgment’?” Celia says, leaning into the refrigerator and pushing aside a carton of eggs. No pie. She stands, hands on her hips, and looks around the kitchen. Everyone at the table is staring at her.
“One of my aunts on my mother’s side married quite young,” she whispers.
“That’s good, Celia,” Arthur says, motioning for her to hand him the coffee pot. “Does that work for us, Father?”
Celia unplugs the pot and passes it to Arthur. Without even tasting it, Celia knows the coffee is strong, too strong, because that’s how Reesa makes it.