“Okay.”
“You tell Morgan she can call me if she wants to talk. I lost my mother just last year.”
“Myra, I didn’t know. I’ll tell her.”
I walked out of the store and I guess I was looking down or not looking at all because I bumped into somebody. I excused myself and then saw the skinny face of one of the men who had fought with David and Robert. I remembered him immediately. The face of his partner was close behind him.
“Watch yourself, nigger,” the man said.
I’m a grown man with more than my share of self-control, so I ignored him and moved toward my Jeep.
“I said, watch yourself, nigger,” he repeated and gave me an open-handed shove in the shoulder.
I didn’t bother explaining to the malformed creature that he had chosen the wrong man on the wrong day to say the wrong thing. If I had, he might not have been so surprised by the quick left that started in my middle and launched from a coil that had been tightening for years. The bandage on my hand became red again, but not with my blood this time as the idiot’s nose exploded under my punch. The man’s apish friend took a dash at me, but I guess it was the look in my red eyes or the recocking of my bloody fist that stopped him. The bigger man examined his friend’s face, then renewed his resolve and glared at me.
I readjusted my package under my right arm. “And I kinda liked him,” I said and didn’t move away.
He looked back to the bloody face.
I walked to my rig and drove off to the grocery market, feeling bad and good, relieved and soiled.
I wouldn’t tell Gus about the confrontation. At best, the story would have reaffirmed his suspicion of this part of the country and, at worst, he would have wanted to drive into town and find the bastards. I was putting the food away when he came downstairs into the kitchen.
“How’s Morgan?” he asked.
“Good.”
He let out a soft whistle and from the blanket the little coyote dragged herself across the floor toward him, almost balancing on her three legs, almost hopping. Her little face was open and panting.
“How about that,” I said.
“Something, eh?”
I nodded.
“I’ve named her.”
“Again? I thought her name was Spirit or some such thing.”
“Her name is Emily. Do you think Morgan will mind? I mean I’m not going to tell her today.”
I watched Gus go to his knee and give the puppy a scratch. “I don’t think she’ll mind at all, Gus. I think she’ll like it.”
“By the way, that mule is out.”
“Well, of course he is,” I said.
“Been out better part of the day.”
“He’s going to have to stay out. I can’t be fussing with that fool animal tonight. I’m going to feed and then go over to Morgan’s.”
“Good. I’ll make a dinner plate for her.” Gus gained his feet and walked over to the refrigerator. “And I don’t want you rushing back in the morning. I can feed everybody here and if I go out there and find a horse with an extra leg or a bear in the tack room, I’ll call you.”
Emily’s funeral was a quiet affair. She had not been particularly religious during her life and no one saw fit to impose that on her now. A couple hundred people showed up at the Lutheran church where the Lutheran minister apologized for being a minister and mentioned a couple of nice things about the deceased, among them the fact that she had once repeatedly hauled her stock trailer up a burning mountain to rescue horses and the fact that she had come to sit with his own dying wife years ago. The minister said, “Emily didn’t express or show objection to my praying by my wife’s bedside and I won’t insult her beliefs by praying now.” Everyone mumbled agreement and the service was over in fifteen minutes.
“Now, that’s a funeral,” Gus said.
There was no graveside ceremony. Emily would be cremated and her ashes picked up by Morgan on Thursday. On that Monday, about fifty people gathered at Morgan’s house and ate food they had brought and more or less got in the way, hanging about in changing clusters in the kitchen, living room, and in the yard.
Duncan Camp and I stood on the porch and looked out over the pasture. I told him about Square’s twig.
“Horses,” he said. “Suicidal bastards, every one. You’re lucky it stopped in the front like that. And that she didn’t gnaw your finger off.”
“You got that right.”
He took a long, deep breath. “You think Morgan will do okay here alone?” Duncan asked. “This is a big place.”
“She’ll do fine.”
“I guess so. She and the old lady held it down pretty good.”
“They did,” I said.
“Well, we’ll check on her, won’t we?”
I nodded.
Myra came outside, screen door smacking shut behind her. She pulled her sweater tight against the chilly air. “John, Morgan went upstairs. She asked me to find you and tell you to get your ass up there.”
“She put it like that, did she?”
“No, I added the emphasis.”
“Well done.” I excused myself and went inside. I climbed the stairs and found Morgan in Emily’s room, standing at the open closet.
“So, what’s going on?” I asked.
She took an armful of clothes on hangers from the rod and tossed them onto the bed.
“Cleaning out already?” I asked.
“My mother’s voice is pretty clear in my head. ‘If it’s cold you build a fire, if it’s hot you jump in a creek. Life’s simple like that.’ She was right. My mother’s dead. That’s a simple fact. Life continues. That’s how she’d want me to think. And that’s how I’m going to think.” She looked out the window at the barn below. “John, thank you.”
“You bet. What would you like me to do? I mean, can I help in here?”
Morgan sat on the bed, rubbed her open hand on the bedspread. “There are some empty boxes in the tack room. Would you run out and get them?”
“Of course I will. What about all those people downstairs?” I asked. “You want me to tell them anything?”
“They’ll be fine. And I’m fine. You know that, don’t you, John?”
“I know.” I walked to the door. “You want anything else?”
“Bring us up a bottle of wine and some glasses. Two bottles.”
EIGHT
THE MORNING was hard cold. I’d just come in from breaking the ice on the horses’ water. I was heating water for tea and looking out at the foot of snow that covered the ground. The snow was still falling and every half-hour or so I would go out and sweep the steps. Emily, the little coyote, skated around on the linoleum of the kitchen while Zoe watched from the corner. The older dog’s interest in the puppy had diminished some, but she still kept an eye on her. Out the window, the sun was just reaching the top of the barn.
“Good morning,” Gus said as he came into the room.
“Morning, Gus.”
“And how’s my little girl?” he cooed to the pup. He reached down and let the coyote chew on his finger.”
“Gus, I don’t think you should do that,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“I’d like you to flip her on her back as often as you think of it. Hold her there until she doesn’t struggle.”
“Okay.”
“This is important, Gus.”
“I hear you,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” I grabbed the kettle and poured my tea water. “I don’t mean to be a nag.” But I did.
“Where’s Morgan?” Gus asked.
“I think she’s still sleeping. That’s how I left her anyway. It’s a good morning to sleep.”
Gus looked out the window over the sink. “Christmas Eve already. Is it as cold at it looks out there?”