States of Motion

by Laura Hulthen Thomas

  But then there he was, behind the cobblestone house, walking across his clipped grass into a wildflower carpet partly shaded by the oaks. Sunny buttercups, royal-purple dragon catchers, white aster parted under his boots. Daisies popped their golden eyes as he passed. Crimson clover tongues brushed his legs. He waded carelessly through the color as if sloshing upstream. He looked ridiculous, padded in a full bodysuit of whitewashed armor. With a helmet hat, black mesh lumped at his neck. Why was he so protected? Had he sensed she was coming for him like those crafty bandits in the tales?

  Dinah touched her bare shoulder. “That him?”

  Emily nodded. That Dinah would know he was the one Emily was after did not strike her as strange. Already she took for granted Dinah’s divining her heart.

  “Don’t hurt the bees.”

  “What?” Emily brushed the sweat from her eyes. The sun glanced off the flowers’ bright colors. Thick perfume rolled to her on the humid air.

  Dinah pointed. A tall column of stacked boxes rested on pallets in the oak glade. That’s why he was dressed the way he was, it was stupid of her not to realize. That he would be a keeper of bees jarred her, that he coaxed honey from them! He’d been as ruthless with the ants as she had. He’d filled their mound with a casual swipe of his shoe. He’d handled her with cold ferocity too, smothered her without snuffing her out for good. How could he tend bees?

  When he reached these hives, would he withdraw a comb, drip the honey on his fingers, smear the sweet on his lips? Of the parts of him she’d known, his mouth had not been one.

  “Do you know how to load this thing?” Dinah’s voice floated to her from a distance.

  Emily took the handkerchief from her pocket, unwrapped the bullets. The sharp torpedo-tips would rip through that suit; they’d rip through anything. She handed the rounds to Dinah.

  Together they figured out how to work the bolt action by removing the pin. The rounds chambered perfectly. Five shots. But after the first he’d run away, or run toward her, snatch the weapon, turn it on her. She had one chance at the upper hand.

  “You’re too far away,” Dinah warned.

  Emily couldn’t move closer to him. She couldn’t move at all. She hefted the gun, settled the silver guard into her shoulder’s bony cave. The stock lodged smoothly under her arm. Harder to lug the gun than to raise and aim. She felt light, steady. A cold band tightened around her belly like a strap of ice.

  Dinah placed a hand on the barrel as he lifted the beehive’s lid and pulled out a frame. “You won’t hit anything from here anyway. Wait until he’s away from the bees.”

  Emily pressed the trigger. Dinah’s hand flew from the barrel. The kick knocked Emily backward into the grass. The gun landed above her head. The silence baffled her, as if the gun’s report had sucked in all the air. Instead of him she faced the sky, fringed by grass, the sun a bright, shimmering bauble.

  “Jesus.” Dinah was pulling on her dress strap. “That was really close.”

  Emily rolled to a crouch, peeked over the grass. He was facing the field, rooted fast, the bees swarming like sunspots on his white suit and gloves. Emily scrambled for the gun as he turned to replace the frame, dusted, carefully, the bees from his suit as if picking at stray threads. Emily stood up. He started toward the girls. When he reached the wildflower patch, she raised the gun. But she hadn’t chambered the next round. Perhaps he knew she wasn’t ready to shoot because his stride was calm, measured.

  Dinah tugged her. “Heaven’s sake. Come on.”

  Then they were running through the field, the gun bumping behind, the grass slapping at their legs. They flew across the dirt road, hightailed it down the nowhere street, plunged into the tall cornstalks at the concrete’s end. Emily didn’t realize she was crying until Dinah stopped, grabbed her by the shoulders, and forced her head to her knees until she caught her breath. The dizziness cleared. The sudden brightness showed Emily she’d been running in darkness, on the verge of passing out.

  She looked up. Dinah’s dark damp hair was with sweat. She was grinning at how easy it was to get away with anything. “You OK?”

  Emily nodded.

  “What did he do?”

  There might come a time, later, not to lie. “He stole something.”

  “You must really want it back.” Dinah helped her straighten up. “Did you see how fast he ran? That stupid hat just flew off him.”

  Emily frowned. “He wasn’t running away.”

  “He sure was. All the way to Detroit.” Dinah picked up the Mauser’s barrel. “Come on.”

  “But he was coming after us.”

  “Are you kidding? The only way he’ll come around you again is to give your shit back. Let’s go.”

  The trek through the cornstalks dimmed the white glare, brought the day back into focus. The dry crumpled stalks, Dinah’s ivory skin against her dark tangled hair. The gunstock’s smooth, soothing grain, the sharp bite of husks scraping her legs. She’d be cut up from this adventure like a regular girl playing an ordinary summer. She tugged on the gun to get Dinah’s attention.

  “Hey. What do you care about bees?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “How are bees different from butterflies?”

  Dinah stopped, planted her feet in the dirt. “Did you bump your head or something?” She stared at Emily a moment and then grinned. “Oh. That. You too?”

  “Me too what?”

  “Fooled you, that’s what.” She turned on her heel. “That butterfly was already dead.”

  “Oh.” A trick. No wonder she’d been so cool. Emily felt disappointment when she should have felt relief. “Why’d you do it, then?”

  “Not the first time I’ve been the new girl. I know how not to get hassled. Let them think you’ll do anything. But don’t think I’d ever hurt even a butterfly.” Dinah stopped at the edge of the field and grinned at Emily’s expression. In the clearing beyond the stalks, the boys’ whooping rose over a hollow tinny plink. “You’re so provincial, Em. You’ve got guts, though, I’ll say that for you.” She stepped into the clearing.

  Emily hung back. “I don’t want to.”

  Dinah turned, stretched out her hand. “This is your alibi. Come on.”

  Dinah pulled Emily out of the stalks. Under a maple tree on the far side of a grassy clearing, three boys stood in a loose circle around a skinny, wolfish shepherd dog. The dog’s legs shook like wobbling stilts. Light-brown fur tufted the dog’s bony ankles. A dented soup can glittered on the summer-singed grass near a rifle propped against the maple’s trunk. The boys were high-school age, old enough to be plinking with .22 rifles, anyway. Emily didn’t recognize any of them. She didn’t think Dinah did either, which didn’t stop her from dropping Emily’s hand and walking right up to join their circle. Emily hung back at the cornfield’s edge, clutching the Mauser’s stock.

  “Your dog looks sick. What’s wrong with him?” The skinny dog snarled at Dinah. She reached out calmly and scratched behind his ears. Bits of fur rubbed away under her touch. The coarse hairs scattered on the thin breeze. The dog whined and snapped at Dinah’s hand. She snatched her fingers away in time and stood fast, unafraid, or pretending to be.

  The tallest boy, a blond with a kinked scowl and bright blue eyes, kicked the dog’s ribs. The dog howled and shrank from Dinah as if she’d been the one to cuff him. “Nothing’s wrong with that dog.” He pushed past Dinah to gape at the Mauser. The other boys followed him. The one with wire-rimmed spectacles had a white capture-the-flag scrap of cloth stuck in his jeans pocket. The other was bulky in the chest and arms, farmer’s muscle. A farmer’s sun-soaked squint crinkled his eyes. He wore a flannel plaid work shirt. Sweat soaked his collar, except it wasn’t so hot here in the clearing. The maple leaves shielded the sun, and the breeze held a shaving of coolness. Anyway, Emily felt the cold.

  “That’s a German rifle.” The blond boy was standing right in front of Emily but didn’t look at her. Her sundress had slipped low, was barely covering
her chest. Dinah had broken the strap she’d tugged on to get Emily to run from him. Emily hadn’t noticed her bared skin until the boy failed to.

  “It’s not real.” Spectacles reached out to touch the stock. Emily stepped back.

  “It’s real, you dodo,” the blond said.

  The farmer said, “Bet it doesn’t shoot.”

  Dinah stroked the dog’s trembling back. It tolerated her touch, too afraid now, or tired, to snap at her. “I’ll take that bet.”

  The boys all looked back at her as if seeing her for the first time. The blond looked twice. Ran his gaze down her dark, wind-tangled hair; tight black tank top; long, pale legs. Dinah tossed a careless sexy look back at him like a casual volley.

  “If you’re so eager to bet, you know it shoots.” The blond turned back to Emily. Absorbed the gun with the same hunger he’d absorbed Dinah.

  “Bet you my friend can blow away your crummy tin can with one shot.”

  Emily flushed, shook her head at Dinah. Dinah gave her the same look she’d lobbed at the blond. A natural flirt, but Dinah knew how to pick the right targets, not become the target.

  “No way.” The blond studied Emily, dismissed her pinched, plain face. Too timid to say a word to a pack of boys, let alone shoot a big gun. “She doesn’t even know how to hold it.”

  “She knows exactly how to hold it. Wanna bet?”

  “What do you wanna bet?”

  The farmer noticed Emily’s flush, her nervous, shifting feet. “Leave her alone, Rick.”

  “This old dog.” Dinah’s grin was sheer brightness, but Emily, watching her play with the dog’s ears and thinking of the butterfly trick, saw the hard muscular curl along her clenched jaw.

  Spectacles curled a fist around the white kerchief in his pocket. “That’s a stupid bet.”

  “Whoever owns this dog is too stupid to take care of it right.”

  Rick walked over to Dinah, shadowed her with his chest. Dinah’s glassy, teasing smile never wavered.

  After a moment, he relaxed. “You got a dog of your own to bet?”

  For a moment Emily expected Dinah to offer up the Mauser, but she must have sensed that her command over Emily’s alibi did not include the gun. “I’ve got a pack of my stepdad’s Hav-A-Tampa Jewels and some SweeTarts.”

  “I don’t smoke and I’m pronated to cavities.” Rick laid a hand on the dog’s head. The shepherd’s knees locked like tree knots. The farmer and Spectacles joined him to ring Dinah.

  Being penned didn’t seem to bother her in the least. “Prone.”

  “What?”

  “Prone to cavities.” Dinah slipped her hand into her short’s pocket. Popped a SweetTart in her mouth and rolled it on her tongue. “Plenty left for you boys.” Flecks of spittle gleamed on her lips.

  Rick stretched a finger to her bare wrist and tickled his way up her arm. Itsy bitsy spider, Emily thought he whispered. She lodged two fingers in her mouth, whistled sharply. From an oak on the other edge of the clearing, a bird trilled back. A sparrow, probably.

  Startled, the boys turned to Emily. Dinah and the dog didn’t flinch.

  Emily took the wicked, dirty cards from her sundress pocket and held the packet out.

  Rick mumbled something, “Fucking sped,” and crossed the clearing to take the packet. The boys crowded around as Rick unwrapped the tissue and flipped through the cards. Emily expected them to laugh at Hitler squished between the naked woman’s breasts, or grabbing the woman’s tit on accident, but the boys didn’t so much as crack a smile. Although he drank up the images greedily, a flush crept up Spectacle’s neck. The farmer glanced at Emily uneasily. Rick looked back at Dinah, who teetered on tiptoe behind him to see what Emily had dragged out now. She answered his questioning look with an arched brow, see what I mean about her?

  Behind glinting lenses, Spectacles took in Emily’s flat chest, her broken dress strap. He was thinking she wasn’t at all like any of the grown women being defiled in the pictures, but what would he say if he found out that she was exactly like them?

  Rick wrapped up the cards and stuck them in his back pocket. “You’re on,” he said.

  Emily stepped to the middle of the clearing.

  Dinah swiped up the soup can from the grass, looked around for a stump or a rock to place it. “Where do you set this thing up?”

  Rick grinned. “Right on this old dog’s back.”

  The farmer crossed his arms. “Come on, Rick. Leave them alone.”

  Rick cuffed the dog and held out his hand. Dinah handed over the can without a word. A low whine rumbled from the dog’s throat when the soup can touched its back. Bleak black eyes fastened on Dinah.

  “No way did you shoot that can off this dog’s back.” Dinah glanced at Emily uneasily. So Dinah had nerves after all, she wasn’t always the cool girl. Well good. Emily chambered the round calmly. The bullet’s click rang out like she’d already plinked the tin.

  “Guess you’ll have to take my word for it,” Rick said.

  Emily knew by the dog’s terrified lockjaw that the boys had shot at it, all right. Controlling that much fear took training. “Take it off,” she said. Too loudly. Her voice echoed off the trees.

  Rick grinned. “The mute speaks. Bet’s off, then.”

  “I’d watch that mouth, sport.” Dinah stepped away from the dog, her bright eyes on Emily.

  Emily hefted the Mauser. Still a struggle, but it pillowed in her shoulder’s hollow naturally. “Take it the fuck off or I’ll shoot you.”

  The farmer made for the oak tree. Spectacles laughed at him. “What the fuck, man. She can’t even hold it up all the way.”

  Emily aimed at the empty space beyond Rick’s elbow. The recoil knocked her flat again. This time the rifle’s boom filled her ears. How had silence swallowed this roar when she’d shot at him? The boys yelped and scattered. Shit. If her father was home by now, the noise would bring him on the run. Not for a moment did she think that she’d actually hit anything. In her fantastical view of guns, a wild aim was destined to miss.

  Dinah’s loose, tangled hair blotted out the sun. She was grinning. Even with the sun behind her, Emily could see every detail of her wide smile and shining eyes. Dinah admiring, the one joy of that summer. But her hands were shaking as she grabbed the gun and helped Emily to her feet.

  The dog was still frozen in place. The light brown rings around its ankles quivered. The can was nowhere in sight, and the boys had fled to the clearing’s edge. Spectacles looked ready to dive head first into the withered cornstalks.

  “Jesus Christ.” Rick’s voice cracked.

  “You’re an asshole,” the farmer said. He was staring at the poor shivering dog, so Emily couldn’t tell if he meant Rick or her. She deserved it. Her own knees were shaking as badly as the dog’s. What if she had hit this dog, or Rick? Or Dinah? What was wrong with her that her impulse to shoot had obliterated any thought of harm?

  Dinah turned to Rick. “Pay up, twinkle toes.”

  “Shit.” Rick left the oak tree’s cover, came out into the clearing. “My dad’s gonna go ballistic.”

  “What does your dad care?” The farmer’s watchful, wondering gaze never left Emily.

  “Socks is his fucking dog.”

  “Socks is a fucking cat’s name, man.”

  “Fuck you. I didn’t name it.” Rick snapped his fingers. The dog limped over to him. “At least it’s got a name. Fucking farmers never even name their shit.” Rick pinched the scruff and hauled Socks over to Dinah. “All yours, beautiful, but don’t your crazy-ass friend here deserve the prize?”

  Dinah clapped the Mauser barrel back and forth between her hands. The dog leaned into her leg. “Seeing you shit-scared was her prize, sport.”

  Rick shook his head. He mumbled, “Sped,” and dug out the wicked, dirty postcards to give back to Emily.

  “Keep them,” she said and turned on her heel.

  “That’s one sick girl.” As Emily slipped into the cornfield, one of them, probably S
pectacles, spoke just loudly enough for her to hear. Maybe on accident, maybe on purpose.

  Dinah caught up with her a few rows from where Emily would take the path through the trees back home. Emily heard the Mauser bumping along before she saw Dinah burst through the stalks. Socks trotted at her bare feet.

  “Well, Em, there’s more to you than meets the eye.” Dinah gave her back the gun. “Guess you have your alibi. They’ll never forget that as long as they live. Where’d you get those crazy pictures, anyway?”

  Now that she had the Mauser back, Emily’s one thought was to get it up on the pegs before her father came home. The stalks’ shadows splashed the dirt furrows in front of her, the air was dense with pent-up heat, but it could be any time of day. Emily had no sense at all of how long it had been since she stumbled upon Dinah on her way to him.

  Socks came up to her and sniffed her hand. Emily touched his bony head. Tears rose to her eyes, the sting so unfamiliar she couldn’t for a moment understand why the dog’s ruff was blurry. Nothing had made her cry since before him. “You shouldn’t have made me do that.”

  Dinah grinned. “Now that’s an interesting perspective on the day’s events.”

  But you did, she wanted to say. Emily was nothing but a joke to those boys, right up until the moment she fired. They didn’t believe the old war gun would actually fire, or that a girl like Emily could shoot it. But Dinah had known and let her go through with it. She’d even risked her own hide. Emily might have just as easily shot her on accident as Rick or that poor dog.

  Dinah was studying Emily with her already familiar appraisal, half-teasing, half sizing up, you’re so provincial, Em. “That asshole’s right. You won this dog fair and square. But you don’t look like you have it in you to take care of him.” Her voice dropped, softened. “Do you, Em? Maybe you need to be taken care of, too.”

  Socks shook his head and loped back to Dinah. Emily wiped her eyes. Suddenly she wanted to be rid of this girl. She wished she’d told her to fuck off in the first place. Sharing him with Dinah was dangerous. So was Dinah’s bullshit sympathy, stupid and mean after egging her on to shoot. “I don’t want that scrawny old dog,” she said coldly. “I already have a pet.”