Baedecker rose, turned abruptly, and left the cemetery. Phil Dixon had been pleased to drop him off there on his way to his farm for supper. Baedecker had told him that he would walk the one and three-quarters miles back to town.
He slipped the black iron bar into the latch of the gate and glanced back at the cemetery. Insects hummed in the grass. Somewhere beyond the trees a cow lowed plaintively. Even from the road, Baedecker could make out the empty rectangles of grass near his parents' graves where space had been set aside for his two sisters and him.
A pickup truck roared up the hill from the east and slid to a stop near Baedecker in a cloud of dust and gravel. A sandy-haired man with a wind-reddened face leaned out from the driver's side. 'You're Richard Baedecker, aren't you?' A younger man sat next to him. A gun rack behind their heads held two rifles.
'Yes.'
'I thought it was you. Read about you coming in the Princeville Chronicle-Dispatch. Me and Galen here are headed into Glen Oak for the Optimists' barbecue. We're going to stop at the Lone Tree for a few cold ones first. I don't see no car. Want a ride?'
'Yes,' said Baedecker. He removed his sunglasses, folded them carefully, and set them in the pocket of his shirt. 'Yeah, I sure do.' According to Baedecker's driver, the Lone Tree Tavern had once sat a quarter of a mile to the southwest, just across the intersection of gravel roads and county lines. The lone tree, a tall oak, was still there. When Peoria County went dry in the 1930s, Lone Tree had packed itself up and moved into Jubilee County to spend the next forty-five years at the edge of the woods on the top of the second hill west of Calvary Cemetery. The hills were steep, the road was narrow, and Baedecker could remember his mother telling of more than a few patrons of the Lone Tree roaring up to the crest of the cemetery hill only to find another car coming in the other direction. Gas rationing and the shortage of young men had reduced the carnage somewhat during the war. Baedecker's father had gone out to the Lone Tree to drink when he was home on leave. Baedecker remembered drinking a Nesbitt's Orange in the same cool darkness where he now found himself ordering a shot of Irish whiskey and a beer. He glanced down at the broken tiles of the floor as if the small gunny-sack of squirrels might still be there.
'You don't remember me, do you?' asked the driver. He had introduced himself in the truck as Carl Foster.
Baedecker drank the whiskey and stared at the red face and transparent blue eyes in front of him. 'No,' he said.
'Don't blame you,' said the farmer with a grin. 'You and me went to fourth grade together, but I was held back a year when you and Jimmy and the rest went on to fifth.'
'Carl Foster,' repeated Baedecker. He reached out and took the other man's hand. 'Carl Foster. Yes, of course, you sat in front of Kevin and behind what's-her-name, the girl with the bangs and . . . mmm . . .'
'Big tits,' said Carl, returning Baedecker's handshake. 'At least for fourth grade. Yeah. Donna Lou Baylor. She married Tom Hewford. Say, this here's my son-in-law, Galen.'
'Galen,' said Baedecker and shook the younger man's hand. 'Jesus, we were in Scouts together, weren't we, Carl?'
'Old Man Meehan was scoutmaster,' said the farmer. 'He was always telling us that a good Scout'd make a good soldier. He gave me a goddamned merit badge for aircraft identification. I used to sit up in the fuckin' hayloft until two A.M. with my silhouette cards, watchin' the skies. Don't know what I would've done if I'd spotted the Luftwaffe coming in to kayo Peoria . . . we didn't get a phone until ‘48.'
'Carl Foster,' said Baedecker. He gestured to the bartender for another round.
Later, when the shadows were growing long, they went out back to urinate and shoot rats.
'Galen,' said Foster, 'get the twenty-two from the truck.'
They stood on the edge of the ravine and relieved themselves onto five decades of accumulated junk. Rusted bed springs, old washing machines, thousands of tin cans, and the oxidizing corpse of a ‘38 Hudson filled the bottom of the dump. More recent relics crawled up the hundred feet of shadowy hillside to mix with actual garbage. Foster zipped up and took the proffered rifle from his son-in-law.
'Don't see any rats,' said Baedecker. He set down an empty shot glass and pulled the tab on another beer.
'Gotta stir the little fuckers up,' said Foster and fired a shot into an already well-riddled washtub sixty feet down the slope. There was a scurry of dark shapes. The farmer pumped another cartridge into the chamber and fired again. Something leaped into the air and squealed. Foster handed the rifle to Baedecker.
'Thanks,' said Baedecker. He took careful aim at a shadow beneath a Philco console radio and fired. Nothing stirred.
Foster had lit a cigarette, and it dangled from his lip as he spoke. 'Seems to me like I read somewhere that you were in the Marines.' He squeezed off a shot at a cereal box halfway down the hill. There was a shrill cry and black shapes ran across garbage.
'Long time ago,' said Baedecker. 'Korea. Got to fly with the Navy for a while.' The rifle had almost no recoil.
'Never served, myself,' said Foster. The cigarette bobbed. 'Hernia. Wouldn't take me. You ever have to shoot at a man?' Baedecker paused with the can of beer half-raised. He set it down as Foster handed the rifle back to him.
'Don't have to answer,' said the farmer. 'None of my goddamned business.' Baedecker squinted along the sight and fired. There was the flat slap of the .22 and a thud as an old scrub board tumbled over. 'You couldn't see much from the cockpit of those old Panthers,' said Baedecker. 'Drop your ordnance. Go home. It wasn't much more personal in my three confirmed air-to-air kills. I saw the pilots bail out of two of them. On the last one my visor was cracked and spattered with oil so I didn't see much of anything. The gun cameras did-n't show anybody getting out. But that's not what you mean. Not quite the same as shooting at a man.' Baedecker pumped the .22 and handed it to Foster.
'Guess not,' he said and fired quickly. A rat leaped straight into the air and fell back writhing.
Baedecker tossed his empty beer can into the ravine. He accepted the rifle from Foster and held it at port arms. Baedecker's voice was a thick monotone. 'I did almost shoot someone here in Glen Oak, though.'
'No shit? Who?'
'Chuck Compton. Remember him?'
'That fucker. Yeah. How could you forget a fifteen-year-old still stuck in sixth grade? Smoked Pall Malls in the john. Compton was one mean son of a bitch.'
'Yes,' said Baedecker. 'I didn't pay any attention to him until I got into sixth grade. Then he decided he was going to beat the shit out of me every other day. Used to wait for me after school. That sort of thing. I tried to buy him off by giving him quarters, giving him stuff from my lunch — Hershey bars when I had them, even by slipping him answers for geography tests and so forth. He took the stuff, but it didn't help. Compton didn't want things from me. He just got a kick out of hurting people.'
'What happened?'
'My mother told me to stand up to him. She said that all bullies were cowards that if you stood up to them, they'd back off. Thanks, Galen.' Baedecker accepted the fresh beer and took a long swallow. 'So I called him out one Friday and I stood up to him. He broke my nose in two places, knocked out a permanent tooth, and damned near kicked my ribs to splinters. In front of the other kids.'
'Yeah, that's Compton.'
'So I thought about it for a week or so,' said Baedecker. 'Then one Saturday morning I saw him on the playground across the street from where I lived. I went upstairs and got my over-and-under out of my mom's closet.'