Arthur hears it, too, because he lifts up a hand to silence her when she begins to speak. A rustling. A snapping. The wind. Or a coyote. It’s always a coyote. Whenever Celia is lying in bed late at night and hears something outside, Arthur wraps an arm around her, pulls her close and whispers that it is a coyote. Celia waits for him to say the same now, but instead, he holds up a hand to keep the silence and slides his chair away from the table. Celia mirrors his movement, pushing back her own chair, silently, slowly. Arthur steps up to the kitchen window, leans so he can see around the side of the house and exhales.
“Looks to be Mary Robison,” he says, walking toward the back of the house. “Awful cold night to be out and about.”
Celia stands and presses out her skirt. “Well, heaven’s sake, invite her in. I’ll start some fresh coffee.”
Dumping the stale grounds into a tin can near the sink, Celia shivers at the rush of cold air that spills into the kitchen when Arthur opens the back door. She spoons fresh coffee into the percolator and takes three mugs from the cabinet as Arthur and Mary walk into the kitchen, Arthur helping Mary out of her coat. Neither of them speaks. Mary is smaller here in Celia’s kitchen then in St. Anthony’s or the café or her own living room when Celia delivered Ruth’s food. Her face is small enough to cup in one hand and, standing next to Arthur, she seems she might disappear in his shadow. Once Mary is seated, Arthur kneels in front of her, takes both of her hands and rolls them front to back. Then, he unlaces one of her boots and slips it from her foot. Celia steps forward. He sets the boot aside and begins to rub Mary’s foot.
“Arthur,” Celia whispers.
Shaking his head to quiet Celia, Arthur removes the other boot. Mary’s small shoulders fall forward as he rubs her second foot. Celia sets down the coffee mugs, goes to the linen closet outside the bathroom and pulls out her heaviest quilt. As gently as she can, she wraps it around Mary, pulls it closed under her chin and tucks it around her narrow hips. Rubbing both feet at once now, Arthur glances up at Celia.
“She must have walked,” he whispers. Then, leaning forward and inspecting Mary’s eyes, he says, “Did you walk, Mary?”
Mary smiles down into Arthur’s face but doesn’t answer.
“Best you go wake Ruth,” he says to Celia. “Think Mary’ll be needing her about now.”
Within five minutes, the glow of the porch lights has faded and Daniel is breathing hard, fogging the air around him though he can hardly see it. His thighs ache from running through the snow, throwing his knees waist high for every step, and his left side throbs. Deep in his chest, the icy air burns his lungs. His own breathing is the only sound he hears. When he reaches a low spot in the snow at the bottom of a drift, he stops, the shotgun still propped over his shoulder, leans forward, and rests with one hand braced against his knee. He is nowhere near the prairie dog mound, or where the prairie dog mound used to be. Ian went back there, flung that dead prairie dog for his brothers to see. The brothers said prairie dogs wouldn’t live there anymore, not since Daniel killed one. Ian said, “Who the hell cares? It was a good shot, a damn good shot, so who the hell cares about some God damned old prairie dogs?”
Standing straight, Daniel lifts the gun. He braces the butt against his right shoulder and brings the stock to his cheek, keeping his head high. Ian showed him how with a sawed-off broomstick.
“Don’t let your head sag,” he had said. “Keep it straight. Point; don’t aim. That’s the big difference. Aim a rifle. Point a shotgun.”
Problem is Daniel doesn’t have anything to point it at. Staring down the barrel, he sees nothing but dark rolling fields. He listens hard, thinking that maybe he’ll hear chains. Chains dangling from Jack Mayer’s wrists. He’ll see Jack Mayer, his black skin, his white eyes glowing bright as the snow in the dim light. He’ll see those thick heavy arms again, pumping hard with every stride. He’ll shoot Jack Mayer. He’ll shoot him because Ian said Jack Mayer killed Julianne Robison. Except he didn’t. Mr. Robison did, and he’s dead already. So Daniel will point, not aim, because Ian is dead and Daniel doesn’t have any friends left. He’ll lead the target that will be running through the snow, high stepping under the weight of shackles and chains, and he’ll spatter buckshot across Jack Mayer’s back. Daniel will shoot him dead and then he’ll be a man.
But, in the fading light, on the distant horizon where the last of day is sinking, Daniel sees nothing. There is no Jack Mayer. He’s dead somewhere, lying in a ravine or buried under a snowdrift, or maybe he escaped across state lines. For months, he’s been gone, been gone all along. He didn’t do any of those things that Ian read in the newspaper. Didn’t live in Ian’s garage or steal Nelly Simpson’s Ford Fairlane. He’s gone. Daniel lowers the gun and walks toward home, still a boy.
Ruth slips on her robe, pulls the belt tight and opens her bedroom door a crack so no one will see her packed suitcases at the foot of her bed. Celia peeks inside.
“So sorry to disturb you, Ruth,” she whispers. “But Mary Robison is here and she isn’t well. Arthur thinks maybe you could be of help.”
“Goodness, it’s awfully cold for her to be out.”
Stepping aside so Ruth can pass, Celia whispers, “And it appears that she walked. She’s frozen. Frozen solid.”
Ruth shuffles into the kitchen, her slippers sliding across the cold floor, and sits next to Mary. Until Ruth touches Mary’s sleeve, she doesn’t seem to notice Ruth. When she does, Mary lifts her head and smiles.
“So good to see you, Ruth.”
Ruth takes both of Mary’s hands and rubs them gently between her own. “You’re like ice. Some coffee?”
“Milk, please, and one sugar.”
Kneeling in front of Mary, Arthur wraps one end of the quilt around her feet. “That better?” he asks.
Celia pushes two mugs across the table and sits in a chair opposite Ruth and Mary. Arthur sits next to her.
“Nice of you to visit, Mary,” Ruth says. “I hope you’ll let Arthur drive you next time.”
She holds up a finger to quiet Arthur when he starts to talk. After so many years, at least twenty, she feels like the big sister again.
“Did you mean to come here?” Ruth asks even though she knows the answer.
“We used to be such friends, didn’t we?” Mary says, watching Ruth rub her hands over Mary’s. “The three of us. When we were girls.”
“We’re still friends,” Ruth says, beginning to knead each of Mary’s fingers. Slowly, they are warming.
“Only two of us. And not like we were.”
“Girls grow up, I guess,” Ruth says. “Responsibilities and such. Not so much time for friends.”
Making a humming noise, Mary presses her face toward her coffee cup as if letting the steam warm her cheeks and nose. “I remember when we stopped being such friends. The three of us. Do you remember?” Mary pauses and says, “The day Orville Robison got off that train.”
Ruth lifts her eyes toward Celia and Arthur. “Yes, that was a long time ago.”
She swallows. Her heart begins to beat against her chest. She tries to slow it by taking one deep breath after another. Massaging Mary’s littlest finger, Ruth concentrates on the tiny veins that spread like frail blue vines across the back of Mary’s hand.
“Do you remember?” Mary says. “It rained the day he came. First good rain in so many years. All the dust put to rest that day. Do you remember? Everyone in town thought Orville Robison brought us a miracle.”