by Lee Martin
“C’mon,” Captain said again, and he tugged her along to the ruined trailer.
She hadn’t planned on this. She didn’t want to be there and to look at what was left after the fire, but Captain wouldn’t let go of her hand. He wanted to show her what all could be seen in the charred mess.
He pointed out the few items that were distinguishable in the rubble: a frying pan; a toaster oven; a door knob; the warped frame of Junior’s stroller; the silver-plated lid, blackened now, from the heart-shaped jewelry box her mother had kept on her dresser; a metal hoop earring from a pair their father had given Hannah on her last birthday; a Slinky the twins had loved to play with; a buckle from the OshKosh B’Gosh overalls Gracie often wore; a rhinestone hair barrette that had belonged to Sarah; a 4-H pin Angel had stuck into the bulletin board in her room. She remembered the green shamrock on the pin, a white “H” on each leaf—Head, Heart, Hands, Health.
Captain said, “I wanted to save it all for you, but my dad wouldn’t let me.” He got a very serious look on his face, and he nodded his head. “So I’ve been keeping watch.”
There it was—what remained of a life lived in that trailer. It hit Angel hard, how little was left, and she had to turn away and look off across the barren fields, corn stubble poking up through the snow, and tell herself not to cry. They were standing along what had once been the backside of the trailer. Captain had led her around the perimeter, pointing out the items, and now they were stopped at where the living room had been.
Angel took a step, and she felt through the thin soles of her Converse tennis shoes—Brandi had told her to wear her snow boots that morning, but she’d refused—something hard. She looked down and saw a pocketknife. It was pressed into the snow, and Angel knew it might have stayed there until the spring thaw when the meltdown began if she hadn’t stepped on it just right so the butt of the handle dug into the ball of her foot. If she’d been wearing her snow boots, she might not have felt it, this sharp pain that made her hop to the side and then look down at the knife.
She recognized it right away: a Case Hammerhead lockback knife with black and cream handles. She knew that if she were to pick it up and nick out the blade, she’d find a hammerhead shark engraved on it. She knew the knife belonged to her father. He kept the blade honed and the handles polished. When she was a little girl, she’d asked him over and over to show her the fish on the blade, and he’d always obliged, opening the knife, telling her to be careful, holding her finger and tracing it over the etching of the shark. He loved that knife.
She said to Captain, “Is your dad home?”
“We’ve got your goats,” Captain said. “C’mon.”
This time he didn’t grab her hand. He turned and started hurrying toward his house. Before following him, Angel stooped and plucked the knife from the snow. She closed her hand around it and stuck her fists into her jacket pockets.
“C’mon,” Captain said again. He turned around and waved for her to hurry, and she caught up to him in the road.
Shooter was in the barn behind the house. He had the goats penned in the stable that had been empty since he gave up his cattle, sold the last of the Red Angus and the Herefords. He and Captain had cared for the goats since the night of the fire. Shooter showed Captain how to milk the nannies, wrapping his forefinger and thumb around the base of the teat to keep the milk from going back into the udder when he squeezed with middle finger and ring finger and pinky, one after another, in a smooth motion, the milk spurting out into the galvanized bucket.
“Just like that,” Shooter said as he stood behind the stool where Captain sat. “One, two, three.” He laid his hand on Captain’s back and let his fingers tap out the rhythm. “Don’t pull. Just squeeze. One, two, three.”
They milked the goats in the cold barn while dusk fell. The milk made a pinging sound when it hit the side of the bucket. Shooter broke open some bales of alfalfa hay, and the air was sweet with its dust. It was all right there in the barn with the fading light and the steady rhythm of the milk and the smell of the hay, and Shooter touching Captain with assurance, letting him know that despite what had happened with Della’s trailer, there still could be the grace of these small things.
“It’s okay, isn’t it?” Shooter said. “Just the two of us right here, right now. Yes sir, don’t you worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Captain stopped milking for a moment, and he looked up at Shooter with eyes that seemed to be lost. Then Shooter patted him on the back. “One, two, three,” he said again, and Captain smiled and went back to his work.
They’d kept the goats because Shooter told Wayne Best he would, until Wayne decided if he wanted them for his own.
“I don’t mind,” he said. “I’ve got room in my barn.”
“Lois says she wouldn’t be able to stand having those goats around,” said Wayne. “They’d make her think of Gracie and Emily and Junior.”
So it was decided that Shooter would keep the goats for a time. The days stretched on into weeks, and he wasn’t even tempted to bring the subject up again. As much as Shooter had always cursed those goats and the way they always got out of Della’s pen and ran wild, he took to them now, helping Captain with the milking and the feeding and the mucking out the stalls. For the first time, it felt like the two of them were sharing something that brought them closer.
They sampled some of the milk themselves and Shooter sold what was left to mothers with babies who couldn’t tolerate cow’s milk or to elderly folks who swore that goat’s milk helped their digestion, eased their arthritis, lowered their cholesterol.
Shooter was just about ready to step outside the barn and call for Captain to come help him with the feeding when he heard the door creak open. The light from outside swept into the stall, and when Shooter turned to look he saw Captain and the girl, the oldest one, Angel.
“Honey,” he said, “what are you doing way out here?”
She took a step forward, coming up around Captain, her feet tamping down on the packed dirt floor of the feedway. Shooter watched her through the gaps between the wood-slat stanchions above the manger. Just a slip of a thing, her face all lips and eyes. Her cheeks were red from the cold, and her hands were in the pockets of her coat.
Captain was behind her, and, excited, he said, “Dad, Dad. Look who it is.”
Angel kept walking until she was level with Shooter. If he chose, he could reach through the stanchions and touch her just like he’d held out his arms to take Emma from Della on the night of the fire.
“Mr. Rowe, I’ve come to ask you—” She stopped then, looked down at her feet, lost whatever nerve she’d been able to muster. “What I mean is, I got to know. I came all this way. Surely you’ll tell me the truth.”
He couldn’t bear to see her stumble around, especially since he feared he knew exactly what she’d come to ask him. Word had finally gotten around to finding her.
“Your daddy?” he said, and she nodded.
He looked around her to Captain, who was reaching through the stanchions to pet the head of one of the goats, the billy that Della and the girls had always called Methuselah. Captain was saying something to Methuselah in a low voice that Shooter couldn’t make out. The other goats bleated as if they recognized Angel and were asking her where she’d been.
“Captain,” Shooter said, “run on up to the house and fetch my cell phone off the charger. It’s on the kitchen counter, right where I always keep it.”
“I’ll hurry,” Captain said and started running down the feedway to the barn door.
“Slow down,” Shooter called after him, and he stopped, his hand on the door. “Take it easy. Nothing’s on fire.”
As soon as he said it, he was sorry. That word, fire. Would that ever be a word that anyone could say in the presence of Angel or any of her sisters?
“Did you see him?” she asked once Captain was gone. “Did you see my dad at our trailer that night?”
“That’s nothing for you to worry a
bout, honey.”
“I need to know.”
Shooter kept his voice even. “Some things aren’t meant for kids.”
“Did he set the fire?” She wouldn’t back down. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“If you’ve got something you want to know, go ask your daddy. It’s not for me to talk about.”
“But you’ve been talking about it. Tommy Stout said—”
Shooter reached through the stanchions and placed his finger on her lips, silencing her. “I guess you’ve already got your answer, don’t you?” He could see that Angel was scared. She bowed her head. He took his finger away from her lips. He touched the underside of her chin and nudged it up so she’d look at him. “Listen to me now. You came asking, so I’m giving you what you want. Yes, your daddy was out there that night.”
Captain was back with Shooter’s cell phone. He was panting, having run to and from the house even though his father had told him not to.
“It was on the counter,” he said. “Just like you told me.”
“Good job, Captain.” Shooter took the phone from him and then handed it to Angel. “Call your daddy,” he said. “Tell him where you are. Tell him I’m going to drive you home.”
_________
Ronnie was furious. He’d dropped off Sarah and Emma at Brandi’s and found only Hannah there to take care of them.
“You were supposed to be here,” he said over the phone. “But, no, you had something more important to do, something all about Angel. Where in the world are you, anyway? We’ve been worried sick.”
So Hannah hadn’t told him where she’d gone. If not for the fact that she was standing there in the barn with Mr. Rowe and Captain listening, she might have told her father what she really wanted to say—that he was supposed to have been home with them the night the trailer burned, but he’d left for something that was all about him. She wanted to tell him that she had his pocketknife, was squeezing her hand around the handle in her coat pocket at that very moment and feeling the nick where, if she took a mind to, she could pry up with her thumbnail and open the blade. She wanted to say she’d found it in the snow behind what had once been their home. She wanted to tell him what she knew he’d surely find out before long: Shooter Rowe had seen him come out from behind their trailer on the night of the fire.
But all she said was, “At Mr. Rowe’s. I rode my old bus out the blacktop.” The next part, though a little bit of a lie, was true in its own way. She just hadn’t known it until now. “I wanted to be out here. I wanted to be close.”
Ronnie’s voice was a whisper when he finally answered. “To your mother?”
“Yes.” She could barely speak because of the ache in her throat. She choked back the tears. “And to Gracie and Emily and Junior. To where we all lived. I just—I don’t know.”
“Okay,” Ronnie said, and she could hear him forgiving her. “It’s getting dark. I’ll come get you.”
She couldn’t bear to think of the ride back into town, just her and her father in his Firebird.
“Mr. Rowe said he’d give me a ride.”
He held out his hand, and Angel gave him the phone. “Ronnie?” he said. “It’s Shooter. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of getting your girl back to you.” He listened for a few moments. Then he said, “Nah, it’s not. Not for me.” The light was fading and Angel thought he winked at her then, but she wasn’t sure. “Not a problem at all. I’ll take care of her.”
She sat between Mr. Rowe and Captain on the drive to town. Mr. Rowe drove an old stubby Ford Bronco the color of a yellow peach. It had a bench seat up front and that’s where Angel sat while the heater blew hot air onto her feet and the gear box pressed into her knee even though she kept her legs angled to the side. The little black steering wheel seemed so small in Mr. Rowe’s big hands. He jostled her with his shoulder whenever he made a turn.
Captain counted the cars that they met, the headlights coming out of the dark, folks on their way home. Not so long ago, Angel thought, one of those cars might have belonged to her mother, and she would have been with her.
It made her sad now to think of how stupid and blind she’d been to the love all around her. In the last months of her mother’s life, she’d been a difficult girl and for that she was sorry.
Mr. Rowe had on the radio, and because it was that time of the evening when WPLP, the voice of Phillipsport and Southeastern Illinois, broadcast the local news, they listened to the reports of a proposed increase in city water bills, a Phillips County United Fund fish fry at the American Legion, and the kickoff of this year’s Relay for Life at the Phillips County Memorial Hospital.
Then the announcer said, “The Illinois State Fire Marshal’s Office—”
But at that point, Captain reached over and punched a button that took the radio to a pop music station. Lady Gaga was singing “Bad Romance.”
Mr. Rowe jabbed a button and turned off the radio. “Who wants to listen to that junk?” he said. “Just a bunch of noise.”
Ahead, Angel could see the lights of Goldengate, few as they were. Mr. Rowe steered the Bronco through the last curve before town, and then they were passing the lit-up houses on the outskirts near the Pine Manor Nursing Home and J.D. Parker’s Body Shop. The Bronco slowed to the speed limit, and just before Main Street, the yellow sign at the Casey’s convenience store came into view. Then they were driving by the Real McCoy Café and the IGA and the time and temperature clock at the First National Bank. They bumped over the railroad tracks, and Mr. Rowe turned the Bronco onto Locust past the school where not so long ago Angel had gotten onto Lucy Tutor’s bus and set out to find out what she could. “You’ve always got your nose into something,” her mother used to tell her. “Sometimes it’s best not to know everything.”
Her mother had been right. Angel knew that now as she saw Brandi’s house lit up ahead of them at the end of Locust. You could know too much. You could know more than you could figure out what to do with.
Mr. Rowe eased the Bronco into the driveway. Angel could see her father at the living room window, peering out, his hand shading his eyes.
“I guess this is it,” Mr. Rowe said. “I guess this is where you live. Open the door, Captain, and let her out.”
Captain got out of the Bronco, and Angel started to slide across the bench seat.
That’s when Mr. Rowe took her by the arm. He leaned toward her and he whispered in her ear. “You got what you came looking for, didn’t you?”
At first, she didn’t answer. “Didn’t you?” he said again, and in a soft voice, she said, yes, yes she had.
Then he let her go.
_________
Her father met her at the front door. He said, “We were scared. We were all scared. Hannah said she didn’t know where you were.”
Angel wanted to believe that Hannah had kept quiet because they were sisters looking out for each other, but then the thought came to her that maybe Hannah hadn’t said anything out of spite, knowing that the less she said the more worried her father would be and then Angel would be in trouble.
The light was on in the kitchen, and through the archway Angel could see the table set for supper. Emma was pulling out a chair. Brandi carried a teapot to the table and poured a cup for herself. Angel knew it was ginger tea, which Brandi drank because her nose was always stuffy these days and the doctor said the tea would help. It wasn’t uncommon, she’d said one night at supper, for a woman in her second trimester, as she was, to have a stuffy nose and headaches. She didn’t mind. They’d go away eventually. The main thing was the baby was healthy. Brandi had just had her amniocentesis test, and everything, she was pleased to announce, was as good as gold.
Angel, though she’d never admit as much, was fascinated with Brandi’s pregnancy. The way she’d always been enchanted each time her mother had gone through one. Angel was careful not to let on to Brandi that she took note of anything at all, but the truth was each step along the way—the belly’s swell, the darker patches of skin on B
randi’s face, the amnio—were little thrills in what had become a long winter of loss. “You want to feel my belly?” Brandi asked her that morning when they found themselves in the bathroom at the same time, Angel brushing her teeth and Brandi in her stretch pants and a bra putting on her deodorant. Angel forced herself to put a bored look on her face. “Please,” she said. “My mother had six babies after me. It’s no biggie.”
Now Brandi turned and spotted her through the kitchen archway. She came to her and wrapped her up in a hug. “Sugar, we were so worried. I came home from work and your dad was here just out of his head. He didn’t know what to do.”
Angel hated the musky perfume that Brandi wore because she used too much of it. Pressed into its heavy, animal smell now, Angel couldn’t bear it. Before she realized what she was doing, she pushed Brandi away.
It wasn’t a particularly hard push, not the kind Angel would have given Hannah if she’d been angry with her. Bat-shit-crazy mad. Just a little shove to free herself from Brandi’s hug, but it was enough to make Brandi stumble back a step. The edge of the coffee table hit her in the back of her knees. She tried to twist away from the table and lost her balance. Arms flailing, she fell so hard that Angel felt the floor shake.
Brandi lay on the floor on her side, her right arm slung across her swollen belly. Angel started to go to her. She felt horrible about what she’d caused. Then her father grabbed her by her shoulders. “Look what you did,” he said. “My god.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You pushed her.” He spun her around so she was facing him. He gave her a shake and her head snapped back. “What are you, crazy? A woman with a baby and you push her?” His voice was getting louder. “Your mother was right. You’re out of control. You’re hateful.”
