Bent Road (22 page)

“They
were
her favorite,” Celia says. “A long time ago. Remember?”

Evie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath as if smelling a bouquet of flowers.

“You do remember, Evie. Don’t you? You remember about Aunt Eve being gone?”

Evie smiles. “Sure,” she says. “May I be excused?”

“You may. But hustle along or you’ll miss the bus.”

“Thanks,” Evie calls out as she skates across the wooden floor and slides into her room.

 

D
aniel pulls out his lunch and lays it on the cafeteria table. Ian does the same. Both boys have similar lunches except that since Aunt Ruth came along, Daniel has better desserts. He slides an extra oatmeal raisin cookie to Ian’s side of the table even though he knows Ian won’t eat it.

“Did you hear?” Ian asks, pulling the waxed paper off his sandwich and holding one half to his mouth. “About Nelly Simpson’s car?”

Daniel shakes his head.

“Police found it near Nicodemus. It’s all over the newspapers.” Ian glances around the crowded cafeteria and whispers, “You know about Nicodemus, don’t you?”

His mouth full of ham and cheese, Daniel shakes his head again.

“It’s where all the coloreds live. Every one of them in the county. Proof positive Jack Mayer took that car. Took it and drove to Nicodemus where he must know pretty much everyone.”

Daniel takes another bite.

“Folks there will help hide him.”

“My mom says I can still come tomorrow,” Daniel says because he doesn’t know anything about Nicodemus and doesn’t know what else to say.

Ian takes a bite of his sandwich and sets it aside. “You going to bring your dad’s shotgun?”

Daniel nods.

“Your .22 won’t do you any good. Not for pheasant hunting. My brothers say if you have a shotgun, we can be the pushers.” Ian pokes his elbow into the center of an unpeeled banana. Its guts squirt out both ends. He does the same thing every day and throws it away so his mom will think he ate it. “You know about pushers and blockers, don’t you?”

Daniel shakes his head.

“Blockers stand along the road, blocking the pheasant, and the pushers walk across the field, pushing the birds so they get squeezed between. Being a blocker is no good. Blockers get hit by buckshot if they’re not careful. Pushing is best. Pushers flush out the pheasant, take an easy shot. We want to be pushers.”

Daniel holds up a hand and shakes his head when Ian slides his uneaten sandwich across the table. A few months back, when Ian first started giving Daniel his leftovers, he took them. Ida Bucher made her sandwiches with double mayonnaise and extra thick slices of cheese, but when Daniel began noticing that he could see Ian’s backbone through his shirt and that he wasn’t growing like everyone else in the grade, he stopped taking Ian’s sandwiches, no matter how much mayonnaise Mrs. Bucher used.

Ian wads up the sandwich in its waxed paper wrapper and drops it into his lunch bag. “My brothers say we’ll be hunting late-season pheasant. They’re the hardest to shoot. Early-season pheasant are stupid. They get shot straight away. But late-season pheasants, they’re the smart ones. You got to be tricky to get the late-season birds. My brothers say that if we’re smart enough to get us some late-season pheasants, we’ll go hunting for Jack Mayer.”

Daniel starts to ask why early-season pheasant are stupid but stops because a group of kids breaks out laughing. At first, he thinks they’re laughing at Ian, but the kids are sitting two tables over and couldn’t hear Ian talking about Jack Mayer and Nelly Simpson and late-season pheasant.

“What are they all laughing at?” Ian asks, putting the rest of his lunch back in the brown bag his mom packed it in and squishing it down with both hands.

“Don’t know,” Daniel says, thinking Ian looks a little blue. Or maybe it’s the gray light from an overcast sky. He turns toward the laughter as a couple of kids at the next table stand. He leans to the left and sees her.

Two tables down, sitting by herself as she always does at lunch, Evie is wearing one of Aunt Eve’s dresses—the blue one, the one with ruffles and a satin bow, the one she said was her favorite. The dress is too big and falls off her small, white shoulders. She tugs at it, gathering up the collar where it has torn away at the seam. She smiles as if she doesn’t hear the kids laughing. She smiles as if Aunt Eve is sitting across the table from her. Daniel throws down his sandwich, jumps up and runs two tables over.

“Hi, Daniel,” Evie says.

Turning to the kids sitting at the other end of Evie’s table, Daniel says, “Shut up. All of you, shut up.” Then he looks back at Evie. “What are you doing?”

“Eating lunch,” she says, laying out two napkins—setting a place for two people.

“Why are you wearing that dress?”

Evie smiles and shoves a piece of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich in her mouth. “It’s my favorite. Aunt Eve’s favorite, too.”

“You shouldn’t be wearing that, Evie. It’s all torn and it’s not yours.”

Two tables away, Ian is watching them. He still looks blue.

“You’re going to get in trouble.”

Evie takes another bite and dabs one corner of her mouth with her napkin. “No, I won’t. Don’t be silly.” She stands to show Daniel how she rolled up the middle of the dress and tied it off with the sash. “See, I made it fit. I fixed it myself.”

Daniel stands and holds out his arms, blocking the view of Evie modeling her dress. “Sit down already. Does Mama know you’re wearing that?”

“Aunt Eve said I could.”

“Aunt Eve said?”

Evie nods. “Yes, Aunt Eve said.”

The school bus hisses and slows near Daniel’s house. Holding onto the back of the seat in front of him, he gathers his books and lunch-box, stands and waits until the bus has stopped before stepping into the aisle.

“Now, you’re sure Evie wasn’t meant to take the bus home today?” Mr. Slear, the bus driver, asks.

“No, sir. Guess my mama picked her up early.”

The bus door slides open and Mr. Slear says, “She not feeling well?”

“Yes, sir. Not feeling well at all.”

Daniel waits at the end of the gravel drive until Mr. Slear pops the bus into gear and drives away. Once it has disappeared over the hill, leaving behind a trail of gray exhaust, he walks up the drive. The tailgate of Dad’s truck peeks out from behind the house. He has come home early. The only other time Dad came home early from work was when the first black boy in Detroit called Elaine. Now he’s home because Evie wore Aunt Eve’s dress to school.

After a few more steps, Daniel sees all of Dad’s truck. It’s parked in its normal spot. Mama’s car is parked next to the truck and the spot where Jonathon normally parks is empty. Daniel smiles at the empty spot until he hears a low rumble. He takes a few more slow steps. There it is again. Almost a groan. Rounding the back of the house and seeing nothing, he stops and stomps his feet, trying to warm his toes. The cold air burns his lungs and the inside of his throat. Inching closer to the back of the house, he hears it again. He takes a few more steps. Aunt Ruth stands at the far end of the screened-in porch. She must hear it, too.

“What should I do, Arthur?” Aunt Ruth says. “What do you need?”

Aunt Ruth’s voice is quiet as if she’s trying not to scare something. Daniel shifts direction and walks toward the gap between the garage and the far side of the house. As he nears Aunt Ruth, she begins to sidestep toward the back door. She looks at Daniel. Her eyes are wide and she is shaking her head. She looks small, as small as Evie, as small as the day Uncle Ray came asking for pie and a jump for his truck. On his tiptoes now, so his feet don’t crunch on the gravel drive, Daniel takes a few more steps.

Dad and Olivia are standing in the small alleyway between the house and garage, the space that Daniel always forgets to mow. But the grass has died off with winter and the ground is hard and bare. With one hand, Dad pats Olivia on the hind end. With the other, he waves Aunt Ruth away. Olivia is too large to turn around in the narrow space and she can’t walk through and around the house because old Mr. Murray’s rusted car blocks the far end. The only way out is for Dad to coax her to back up.

“There you go, girl,” Dad says to Olivia in a quiet voice. He sounds like he’s talking to Evie. “Get on back now, girl.”

Step by step, Olivia backs out of the narrow passageway.

“Dan,” Dad says, seeing Daniel standing in the driveway. “Get Evie inside. Get her inside now and get me my gun.”

Blood is splattered across Dad’s white work shirt, the one with the Rooks County patch that Mama sewed on the left pocket before his first day of work. Both sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his hands are shiny red like he dipped them in red paint. Olivia turns, leading with the top of her head, followed by her round, brown eyes.

Aunt Ruth said Olivia was a good mother to many calves, but she’s too old now and she’s apple-assed. No one wants her apple-assed calves anymore. Daniel gags into a closed fist and stumbles backward.

A gash runs the length of Olivia’s neck and down into her dew-lap and her jowls hang like parted curtains. Most of her blood is gone, drained out on the ground, soaked up by the dirt. What is left is thick and dark, almost black. A shadow grows out of the wound and spreads up and across her neck, staining her chestnut coat. She staggers, moans, barely more than a whisper. Dad pats her right haunch. Coughing and choking, Daniel thinks of Evie. Dad thinks Evie came home on the bus. No, she’s with Mama. Mama came to school for her, picked her up early. The nurse was going to call Mama because Evie wore Aunt Eve’s dress. The nurse was supposed to call.

“Get my gun,” Dad says, starting to back up again and coaxing Olivia with his quiet voice. “Get on back, girl. Get on back now.”

Daniel’s legs won’t move. He sees the steps leading to the back porch. He’ll go up them, two at time, unlock the cabinet, grab the gun. Evie’s already inside, hiding her face in Mama’s apron, probably crying because Olivia is going to die. The gun is inside, too. But Daniel’s legs won’t move.

“My gun, Dan,” Dad says, wiping his forehead with his shirtsleeve and leaving a red smudge. “I need a gun.”

Daniel takes a step toward the porch. Only one. Another low rumble drifts up from Olivia. Dad yells again for him to get moving. He takes the stairs two at a time. Inside the back door, Mama and Aunt Ruth already have the gun cabinet open. They stand back as Daniel reaches in and grabs the shotgun. Dad said it once belonged to Grandpa Robert, but he’s dead so now it’s Dad’s gun. It’s heavier than his rifle, the weight of it pulling him forward. With one hand on the stock and the other on the double barrel, he swings around, careful to not hit Mama or Aunt Ruth, and runs back outside.

“Careful, Dan,” Mama calls out.

Olivia and Dad stand in the driveway now, clear of the small space that had trapped Olivia. Dad has one hand on a leather lead that dangles from Olivia’s neck strap. Evie left it on. Damn it all, she’s always leaving on that lead. Olivia stomps her front feet, staggering from side to side as if she’s frightened now that she is in the open. She starts to swing around, throwing her head to the left. Dad looks behind, measuring the distance between him and the garage because Olivia might crush him against it.

“There’s a girl,” he says, dropping the leather lead and coming at her from the front end where she can’t hurt him. “There’s a good girl.”

Olivia staggers a few steps to the side and back toward Dad. Waiting until she staggers away again, he grabs at the strap and walks her in a half circle, coaxing her quietly until she is facing the opposite direction. Still talking to her, telling her she’s a good girl, he backs toward the fence, and without taking his eyes off of hers, he wraps her lead around the nearest wooden post and ties it off. Olivia’s blood is smeared across his face and his neck. Giving the lead a tug to test that it is good and tight, Dad sidesteps away from her.

“Go ahead on, son.” He nods, and as he steps away, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood from his hands.

Waiting until Dad is clear, Daniel lifts the heavy gun and walks toward Olivia. With the wooden stock pressed to his cheek, he wraps his finger around the stiff trigger and stares down the wide barrel until Olivia is lined up in the sight. She is a Brown Swiss with long thin legs and dark lashes that trim her brown eyes. Akin to a deer, Dad had said. She’ll be a jumper, quick and light on her feet. She’ll be a good girl, a good cow. But a quick one. You’ll have to take good care. She throws her head again, stumbling left and right, the lead pulling tight against her weight. Daniel’s finger is numb on the trigger.

“Go on with it, son,” Dad says. He stands with his back to Daniel and Olivia. “No need letting her suffer.”

Daniel stares down the barrel at Olivia. She flicks one round ear and swats her long black tail.

Dad turns back to face Daniel. He exhales loud enough for Daniel to hear and reaches out as if wanting Daniel to hand off the gun. Instead, Daniel lines it up again and begins to pull the heavy trigger.

“Hold on there, Dan,” Dad says. “Wait. Dan, no.”

Daniel pulls. He thinks he pulls. And jumps when a shot fires.

It catches Olivia square between the ears, and the sound of her exploding skull seems to surprise her. She tosses her head, shaking away the echo, but the lead holds firm. Another shot. She drops her snout, nuzzles the ground, stumbles, her front feet crossing one over the other. Her back feet are rooted. The lead holds firm. A third shot. She falls. Daniel lowers the shotgun and turns. There, standing in front of his truck, ready to take another shot, Jonathon holds his position, but Olivia is already down. He had perfect aim with all three. He lowers his gun and leans against the hood of his truck. He’s parked in his usual spot.

“Got herself caught up back there,” Dad says. “Tangled up in her lead.” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head. “Couldn’t find her way out. Threw her head through the garage window.”