Sawbones

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Who is this?” Mrs. Lewis’s voice sounded suspicious, like it always did.

  Trish hadn’t thought up a lie ahead of time, so she used the first name that popped into her head. “Goldie. Goldie Reno.”

  There was a silence on the other end. Finally, Mrs. Lewis said, “Just a minute, Goldie.”

  Trish felt an inappropriate giggle threatening to burst out. She pressed her hand against her mouth.

  “Hello?” It was Ben’s voice. She’d never talked to him on the phone, and he sounded different. Younger.

  “Don’t tell Mrs. Lewis, but this is Trish.”

  He didn’t answer her.

  She hurried to get her words out, afraid he would cut her off. “I know you’re mad at me, but please don’t hang up on me. I need to tell you something important.”

  “What.” He didn’t say it as a question, just as one flat-toned word.

  “First off, I’m really sorry. I, um, I said mean things that weren’t true. I was upset about what you told me about Brandon. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Okay.”

  No other response? Wow. She’d expected something different. Like forgiveness. It didn’t feel great not to get it. She bit her lip. “I told my parents what you said.”

  “About us?” His voice held a note of panic.

  Hmm. Us? More like him. And she had. But that wasn’t what she meant, and she didn’t want to upset him. She’d already done a good enough job of that earlier, and she was about to again. “About Brandon.”

  His exhale into the mouthpiece was like a little windstorm. “Oh. Good.”

  “They think I should talk to him. I’m going to try to, this afternoon. I wanted you to know. Because he’s probably going to be pretty mad at you for telling me.”

  “Can you say someone else told you?”

  “Who?”

  Ben was quiet for several seconds.

  “Ben?”

  “You can’t. What I know, no one else knows.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s the right thing. No matter what happens.”

  It’s the right thing. That’s what her mother had said. Most people thought Ben was a criminal. He had participated in a crime, so maybe that made it true. It was funny that someone like him would be concerned about doing the right thing. She didn’t know what to think about that. “I hope so.”

  “When are you going to talk to him?”

  “My mom is taking me up to the school to see if I can catch him after last period.”

  “I’m supposed to pick him up. I can just leave him a note on his locker to take his snowmobile to your place. He was planning on riding it today anyway if it snowed. That way you won’t miss him.”

  “Thank you, Ben.”

  “Yeah. Well, I’d better get going.”

  Trish’s throat felt tight and funny as she hung up the phone.

  Chapter Thirty-one: Confuse

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 4:00 p.m.

  Susanne

  The pain in the back of Susanne’s skull throbbed rhythmically, as if a prisoner was trying to bust out of her brain with a mallet. Only she was the prisoner, standing at the foot of the deck in her own backyard, her vision blurred, snowflakes splatting on her face like little welcome ice packs. When had the headache started—at the surreal lunch? When Trish had disappeared? When she’d learned Patrick had been under fire from a sniper that morning? When she and Patrick had tried to have a conversation with Trish about her terrible choices? If she were answering that as a multiple-choice question, she’d check the box for all of the above.

  She’d known the headache was in full force by the time Trish had shoveled the driveway, under protest. Not even the prospect of being allowed to talk to Brandon had improved her daughter’s mood. She’d been sullen and uncommunicative when they left to pick up Perry. Susanne had started to turn toward the junior high, and Trish had snapped, “Take me to my school first.”

  “Why?” Susanne’s voice had been weak.

  “I’m going to ride home with Brandon.”

  The headache had sapped her resolve and made her brain foggy. She was so tired. Tired of worrying. Tired of arguing. Tired of her daughter’s negativity. Tired of trying to keep her thoughts straight and stay awake. “That wasn’t the plan.”

  “Brandon brought his snowmobile. We’ll go straight home.”

  “You can’t drive it through town.”

  “We can take the back way. Along Klondike.”

  Susanne hadn’t had the strength to argue or the brain power to think through the downsides. Brandon wouldn’t let anything happen to Trish. So, she dropped Trish by a big yellow snowmobile that was parked across the street from the school, just as Brandon was walking up to it. He waved.

  Trish slipped her hands into her gloves. “Bye.”

  “Be careful. Go straight home.” Susanne’s words had slurred.

  The door slammed shut. Too late, Susanne’s brain fired up enough that she remembered her promise to keep Brandon and Trish at home or in public. Riding a snowmobile wasn’t in public. How could she have made that mistake? As the snowmobile churned through the snow away from her, though, she knew there was no way she could follow it. She was going to have to trust Trish and Brandon. She put the truck in gear and a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her. Trish was probably better off on that snowmobile than she and Perry would be in the truck. Susanne suddenly knew she just needed to get home. She shouldn’t be driving in this condition.

  She’d driven to the spot where Perry was waiting for her.

  “Where’s Trish?” he’d asked.

  Susanne hadn’t thought about what to say to Perry. The truth, she guessed. “Riding home with Brandon.”

  Perry looked astonished. “I thought she wasn’t supposed to.”

  “She’s not. I decided to trust her.”

  Her son’s eyebrows rose. “Won’t Dad be mad?”

  If Trish and Brandon lived up to her trust, she’d never have to confess this sin to Patrick. “We won’t need to tell him.”

  “What Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone?”

  “Right.”

  “Mom, I’m not sure that’s always true.”

  Susanne’s stomach roiled with building nausea. “What do you mean?”

  “Like, what about you telling Coach Lamkin I saw the snowmobile and shooter up at Meadowlark?”

  He was right. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Ronnie asked Dad if we’d told anybody about it. He said we hadn’t. I didn’t say anything, but I knew you’d told the coach. She could have told someone, and they could have told someone, and that’s how gossip starts. I hear you tell Trish that all the time.”

  Susanne winced. “I’ll tell him.”

  Perry gave a crisp nod.

  She and Perry had beaten Trish and Brandon to the house. Susanne hurried inside and ate a second helping of the salty popcorn she’d made earlier. Ferdinand curled up at her feet, where he immediately passed gas. The smell was horrible. It wasn’t uncommon for him and didn’t usually bother her, but now the smell was too much. She started gagging and sprinted for the bathroom.

  She barely made it. After the vomiting stopped, Susanne had decided cold air might help her. She’d left Perry in the living room to keep an eye out for Trish and Brandon.

  Now, out behind the deck in the backyard, she leaned over and scooped up a handful of snow. Although the temperature was falling, it wasn’t frigid out, so the snow was still damp. Perfect for packing in a ball. She made one and slipped it under her hair, where the pain was worst. Pressing it, she closed her eyes. Blocking her vision seemed to supercharge her brain, and it started cycling through its loop of stress. The Kemecke trial started tomorrow. She and Trish would have to sit in the same courtroom as that hideous man and talk about the things he’d done, right in front of him. He’d be convicted, but that wouldn’t make the trial any less of a nightmare. And everyone kne
w what had happened last time—he’d murdered a deputy en route to the state penitentiary and escaped, which is when he ended up at the Flints, with Susanne tied to a chair while he plotted against Patrick.

  “Mom.” Perry’s voice was a paddle to the pinball of her thoughts. “Mom. Mom.”

  Her voice came out thick and slurred, like she was talking through a mouthful of melted caramel, only it tasted like the coffee, popcorn, and chef salad that had just come back up. “What?”

  Perry pulled on her arm. “They’re not here yet. Should we go look for them?”

  Susanne weaved toward the deck steps. The cute boots she’d worn to lunch and never changed out of weren’t a good choice for traction, and she slipped and went down hard, chin first on the lowest step.

  “Ow!”

  “Mom! Are you okay?” Perry crouched over her. “Your chin is bleeding.”

  She dabbed her gloved fingers to her face. They came away bloody. Funny, it didn’t hurt, but that might be because the back of her head hurt far worse. She tried to stand, pushing up from the ground with her hands. She made it to her knees, but everything seemed wobbly. Her stomach erupted again without warning, and she fell back to the bottom step, right into the disgusting puddle of chin blood and vomit.

  “Mom, ew.”

  She pushed away and twisted her body, landing on her backside in clean snow. “I don’t feel so good,” she mumbled.

  “Should I call Dad? You probably need stitches.”

  She lifted her head. Droplets of blood plopped on her down jacket. “Maybe. But I have to deal with Trish first.”

  “Want me to run check and see if they’re here?”

  Susanne nodded. A mistake. The world tilted sideways. She swallowed down more nausea. “I may need a ride to the hospital.” Forget the stitches. Maybe Patrick could do something about her headache.

  “From Brandon?”

  “Or Trish. Or whoever is on duty watching us.”

  “How do I find them?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Perry, clad in snow-appropriate moon boots, galloped around the deck and up the slope of the back yard. He disappeared around the side of the house. She let her head drop back into the snow.

  Chapter Thirty-two: Frighten

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 4:00 p.m.

  Trish

  Brandon stared at Trish. “I got the note from Ben.”

  She nodded. “My mom is letting me ride home with you, if that’s okay?”

  He didn’t smile. He didn’t touch her. The aftershocks of their fight the day before were still quaking, and she hadn’t even talked to him about what Ben told her yet.

  “It’s cool.”

  He settled onto the seat. She climbed on behind him. He smelled like the cheap soap in the pump dispensers the school kept in the locker room showers. Slipping her arms around his torso, she wondered if this would be the last time she held him. Tears threatened again, but she refused to give in to them. Brandon accelerated, and the power of the machine threw her backwards. She gripped him tighter.

  Brandon raced along the unplowed backroads. From time to time, he veered off the side for better snow. Trish had only ridden a snowmobile once before. It was up at Bear Lodge. Her dad had rented two of them, and their family had taken turns at the controls, riding double. She’d been wearing a full snowsuit, snow boots, and a face shield then. They would have been nice to have now, instead of her jeans, imitation Dingo boots, puffy jacket, and dinky little cap and gloves. Brandon was giving off a little heat, at least. She buried her face against his back to protect it from the pelting snow, and to hide her eyes. It was a little scary going this fast.

  When they reached Klondike Road, they were about two miles outside of Buffalo, in the middle of foothills ranch country. Brandon turned back toward the western edge of town, then he cut the engine. He didn’t get off or look at her.

  His voice sounded far away. “What’s the deal, Trish?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, I mean how did Ben know you were coming up to the school, you know?”

  She didn’t want to have this conversation here. Not out in the bleak, barren cold. But she had to tell him something. “Um, I called him.”

  “Why?”

  “So he’d tell you.”

  His body was rigid. “You know what I mean.”

  She took a deep breath. “I heard you cheated on me.”

  “From who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to me. Someone is spreading lies about me.”

  Ben had said he was the only one who knew. That it was okay for Trish to tell Brandon. She still felt like she was betraying him by doing it, but she had to. “Ben.”

  Brandon rolled his shoulders. A sound like a growl came from his throat. Suddenly, he gunned the engine on the snowmobile. It shot forward before Trish had a chance to grab hold of him again. She tumbled backwards off the seat and landed face-up in the snow. For a moment, she didn’t move. Her head rang, and she was dazed. She watched the millions of snowflakes plummeting toward her face, ending in little wet plops on her cheeks and nose. It was mesmerizing. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she wrested her gaze from the tunnel of sky down to her body. She didn’t think she was hurt.

  She heard the sound of the snowmobile receding in the distance. Brandon had to realize she’d fallen off. She sat up, shivered, and stared after him. He didn’t turn around. He wasn’t coming back. She was alone.

  Trish stood. Her emotions went to war inside her. Anger, fear, sadness. But giving in to them wouldn’t do her any good. She scrambled up the embankment through snow drifted to her knees and back onto Klondike. There was less snow there. She brushed herself off as best she could. Her body heat was melting snow into her clothes and boots. She wasn’t freezing cold yet, but she would be soon.

  She clenched her fists and started walking.

  Chapter Thirty-three: Strike

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 4:15 p.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne groaned. What was wrong with her? The bloody chin was obvious. But she’d never had a headache like this one before, with the blurry vision, the vomiting, and the white-hot pain. She leaned toward the deck railing and clutched it, pulling herself to a dizzy, wobbly standing position. She shielded her eyes against the glare of the light fixture coming through the kitchen window.

  “Come on, Susanne. You’ve got to get moving.”

  She dragged herself up the steps then shuffled a path through three inches of fresh snow, her eyes on her feet the whole way, her arms out for balance like a ballerina in second position. At the back door, she paused, catching her breath. She eyed her dirty, bloody gloves and then the door handle. For a moment she thought about taking the gloves off, then decided against it. She valued her skin, and she wasn’t putting her bare hand on a wet doorknob in below freezing temperatures. She opened the door. The new floor mat was the only absorbent item within reach. She stepped onto it, then skated it across the linoleum to the half bath down the hall.

  She flipped on the lights. They hurt her eyes, and she squinted. Then she looked into the mirror and moaned. The woman staring back at her was ghastly. Pale and hollow-eyed, with vomit on the front of her coat and blood dripping down her chin, neck, and chest like a cannibal after a feast.

  She shut the lights back off. They hurt her eyes and her head, and she didn’t need them. Turning on the hot water and grabbing a hand towel, she sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. She couldn’t go to the hospital looking like this. She moistened the towel and added soap.

  Then the room started to go black, and she fell in a heap with her cheek pressed against the bathroom floormat.

  Chapter Thirty-four: Oppose

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 4:15 p.m.

  Trish

  Trish’s heart leapt at the sou
nd of a vehicle engine headed her way. Her parents had always warned her not to accept rides from strangers, but she wondered if there was an exception for when you were about to freeze to death? She was wet and tired and so far from home. She knew her parents were afraid someone was going to try to hurt her to keep her from testifying. But who would believe she was crazy enough to be out in this weather? They’d never be looking for her out here. Still, she hoped it was someone she knew in the vehicle. Someone nice.

  As it drew nearer, she recognized the whine of the motor. Not a car or a truck. A snowmobile. Then a big yellow snow machine materialized out of the whiteness in front of her. Brandon was back. Trish had never been scared of him, despite the plentiful bad seeds in his family tree. She wasn’t sure if she should be scared now. He’d never hit her, and he hadn’t pushed her off the snowmobile. She’d just fallen because she wasn’t holding on.

  And maybe he hadn’t realized she was gone at first because he was upset?

  She snorted. That was wishful thinking. Of course, he knew. He may not have hit her, but he’d left her to freeze to death and without protection. Something tugged at her heart, a physical pull in her chest. He’d come back, though. He’d made a mistake. His emotions had gotten the better of him. He was here now. And she needed a ride home.

  Brandon circled around and pulled up beside her. He motioned for her to get on behind him. She bit her lip, but, after a moment of hesitation, she did. This time, she locked her arms around him before her butt hit the seat. Without a word, Brandon gunned the engine like he had before, but this time, she stayed on. If she’d thought he’d driven fast earlier, it was nothing compared to his speed now, like he didn’t care what happened to them. She was a goner if she fell—her head would split open like a cantaloupe.