by Tim Poland
“Coyotes up this way, too, but we’ll look out for each other, won’t we, old fella.” Keefe tousled Stink’s head and the dog licked him again.
“I could use some coffee,” Sandy said, wanting to get past this topic as quickly as possible. “Do you want some more?” She turned to go inside.
“Love some,” Keefe said. “There should be plenty of tea in there if you prefer.”
“Feel like I need a little coffee today.” Sandy disappeared inside the bungalow.
Keefe’s coffee was rich, dark, and bitter. He drank his black. Sandy had sloshed a healthy portion of milk into hers. Back on the porch, sitting by Keefe as the clearing began to take shape in the morning light, she drank calmly from her mug, glad that fetching the coffee had provided the diversion she’d hoped it would. Stink and coyotes were no longer a topic of interest.
“Rain’s let up now,” Keefe said. “Feels good now that the heat has broken.”
“Can sleep a lot better now that it’s cooler.” The ironic falsehood of Sandy’s reply didn’t faze her for a second. She was too happy in the moment. They were talking about the weather. The one topic everyone in a region had in common. The one subject about which they all shared the same information and experience. This was what old people talked about. “Hot enough for ya?” This was what two people comfortable with one another talked about. Weather. Sandy smiled, slipped her hand around Keefe’s arm, sipped her coffee.
Sandy listened to the distant rush of river water spilling into the pool. The shapes and depth of the clearing were now visible in dim morning light. The ragged grass of the clearing, the leaves and branches encircling it, shimmered under the coating of morning mist. Several minutes of coffee and quiet passed before Keefe spoke. He held up his hand and pointed in the direction of the head of the pool.
“A new snag washed into the pool a couple days ago. Can you see it there?”
Sandy followed the line out from Keefe’s finger and nodded her head to confirm she could see it. A small trunk, about eight inches in diameter, she guessed, had wedged into the pool and rose from it at an angle, cutting the current, tilted against one of the larger boulders on the far side of the stream.
“It’s thrown a couple new twists into that back eddy. They’re already starting to hold under its shadow.”
Sandy nodded her head again.
“Breaking news from the heart of the headwaters,” Keefe said.
She grinned, tightened her hold on his arm, pulled closer, and set her head to the side of his shoulder.
“Tiny scratches on the surface of time and the river,” he said.
“I can tell you’ve been sitting in the cave,” Sandy said.
“Forgive me, my dear. Sitting there, within the stones of a time so deep, well, I guess it makes me too philosophical. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like it when you’re philosophical.”
Keefe drained the last of his coffee and set his cup on the porch planks. “Curious how we humans seem to think eternity can’t take shape until we happen onto the scene. Nonsense, of course.”
“Definitely been in the cave,” Sandy said. She leaned away from his side and set down her mug. “I’d better get going to work now,” she said. “Thanks for watching Stink.”
“My pleasure. Perhaps we’ll take each other for a little hike today.”
She set her hands to each side of his face, felt the press in her palms of the stubble on his jawline, the lines in his flesh. He was fine. Clearheaded as the waters in the clearing pool. She’d been a damned fool to twist herself into knots over two screwed-up yellow stoneflies. She pressed her lips to his and kissed him gently but long, then laid her face into his neck. When his arms found their way around her back to return her embrace, she knew he would be fine.
“I love you.” She could feel the words vibrate in her throat, click over her tongue, but she didn’t know now if she’d actually spoken them aloud. Neither of them had ever uttered these words to the other. She only just now, perhaps, realized that for her to say them would be to speak a truth. Whether or not Keefe would, could, say the words as well, to do so would send a shudder through the space compressed between their two bodies at this moment, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
When she drew back and looked into Keefe’s face, it showed the same calm, clear-eyed, unperturbed aspect it had when she kissed him. She hadn’t given voice to the words humming in her throat. He was fine. They were fine.
A Country unto Himself
Seed corn and suet, Karo syrup and some berries, stirred into thick, pasty clumps. Good bait to attract any black bear. There was little room for mistakes at this point. He’d get it right this time, from start to finish.
Leaving the one carcass behind was a mistake. He’d fired too hastily. The shot had gone off mark and hit the bear in the rump. By the time he’d tracked it down and delivered the kill shot, the bear was far too deep in the ravine to haul it up to his truck on the fire road. The only road close enough was an access road to Willard Lake, sparsely traveled, but traveled enough to pose too great a risk of discovery. He’d taken the paws and bladder on the spot and left the carcass behind. No doubt it had been found weeks ago. They would be on the alert now. He’d have to be more careful and precise from here on in.
The heat weighed heavily on him, but he bore it, keeping himself gloved and covered to minimize his scent. His bait blind was far enough down from the fire road for cover but close enough to haul the body of a bear to his truck. In the hollow dug just deep enough to contain it, he dumped a bucketload of the sticky bait. Not too much—no need to waste it. He was only salting the hole right now. Get them used to coming around. Once they’d come to expect it, once they’d grown at ease with the spot, he’d wait for them, take three or four bears all at once, perhaps. He’d seen as many hanging around a food source together. If he shot with precision, and he would, he could dispatch them quickly. Once they were cached properly, he could hike out unseen and return with his truck. The long-abandoned logging road was barely visible or passable, but the truck could make it to where it met the national forest fire road. He would then drag each carcass up to his truck, drive out of this alien land, and arrive safely back at his own sovereign ground before anyone could possibly know. Three or four hides to sell or use. Three or four bladders, twelve or sixteen paws, all to sell. Enough meat to last him and the dog for many months. Enough of their money for ammunition and to keep the freezer running. That he’d be hunting out of season, taking well over the limit, of no consequence. The spoils of war. Their laws, their limits, did not apply to him. Their society was in conspiracy against manhood, but he was not part of their timid, puny mob. He was a society of one.
He dragged four heavy lengths of poplar over the baited hole and wedged them into place. Each length six or seven feet long, a good foot in diameter. Far too heavy to be moved by anything out here other than a bear. He’d return in a week or so to see if the bait had been found.
He slung the strap of the Winchester over his shoulder, pushed his glasses up his nose with his index finger, and climbed back up to his truck. The location was good. The ravine unfolded below him. A well-trained eye, alert and at the ready, could see what it needed to see, both prey and threat. He’d scouted this ravine and the next one over the ridge thoroughly. Nothing but forest and stream for at least three miles in any direction, save for the one old man in his fishing shack, and that was nearly two miles down the fire road. He’d watched him for a while one day, through the scope on the Winchester. The old man had been fishing when he first spotted him. He fished well, he had to give him that, but when he saw the old man release the fish he caught, any respect he might have mustered for him vanished instantly. As he watched a while longer, the old man waded from the stream, sat on a rock on the bank, and simply stared into the water. Just a moony old fool. He would pose no problem.
He sheathed the Winchester and tucked the case behind the cab seat. Before climbing into the tru
ck, he raised his nose into the breeze and scented it in a series of short breaths. One. Two. Three, four, five. Yes, there it was again, something of what he’d sensed before. A new scent on the breeze.
8
THE SUMMER HAD UNFOLDED INTO EARLY AUGUST RATHER uneventfully, and Sandy was glad of it. The fishing had been good enough, considering the season. The low water levels of summer in the headwaters made already cagey brook trout even trickier to catch than usual. But if she adapted her approach, chose a fitting fly pattern, and delivered it with a little extra care, she could still take a good fish here and there. Most of the time, she and Keefe and Stink had strolled the fire road or sat on the bank and imagined how the fishing would be in early autumn when water levels increased and the brook trout grew more aggressive in preparation for their fall spawning. Once they even had a picnic together in the clearing at the old Rasnake homestead. And Keefe had been fine. Not once in the time she’d spent with him had she seen anything to rekindle the fears she’d experienced at the beginning of summer.
At work she’d had to recommend the firing of Edie, the nurses’ aide, for her persistence in belittling or neglecting the residents. Such things happened from time to time in the nursing home, and no one was any worse off for it on this occasion. Edie hated her job and made it quite clear to Sandy on her way out that she “was gonna quit this shit job anyway, you bitch.” Better for everyone involved, including Edie, that she was canned, and Sandy didn’t give it a second thought afterward.
Margie called once or twice a week, mostly just to chat, and Sandy welcomed the calls, though she didn’t share her friend’s penchant for gabbing on the phone. Sandy listened, putting in her two cents here and there, while Margie held forth. Of late, Margie had been most focused on how work-worn J.D. was and on getting her sons, Luke and Matthew, clothing for the new school year that would begin soon. Luke was the older by two years and growing rapidly as he approached adolescence.
“Jesus, the child grows so fast, I’ve barely got him in one set of clothes before he outgrows it,” Margie had said. “And now Matthew’s whining about getting his brother’s hand-me-downs. Insists on nothing but his own stuff. They keep this up, I may just let them both run around naked.”
In particular, Margie was mystified by her elder son’s recent interest in bird-watching after J.D. had given him an old field guide to North American birds. He spent hours watching the trees and keeping meticulous records of all the different species he’d seen.
“Suppose I should be glad he’s not a video game junkie like most of these kids today,” Margie said. “But geez. Latest thing, he’s obsessed with finding, what is it? A perforated woodpecker, something like that?”
“Pileated woodpecker.”
“Yeah, that’s it. What in hell is so special about a woodpecker to an eleven-year-old boy?”
“They’re big. And pretty secretive.”
Another woman might have found the summer in the valley insufferably boring. Sandy found in the dull days a sort of soothing evenness and had settled into them gratefully.
OTHER than an occasional wave from the truck window as they drove past one another on the road, Sandy hadn’t seen J.D. since she’d been up to their house for her futile pie-baking lesson. He was walking out of the Citgo station in Damascus, his cell phone to his ear, when Sandy pulled in to gas up after work. She pulled her truck into the pump island and stopped right behind J.D.’s dark green SUV.
“Fine, fine,” J.D. said into the phone as he arrived where Sandy stood by the gas pumps. He raised his hand in recognition of her. “I’ll be up there in a little bit.” He switched his phone off with an irritated flourish and tossed it through the open window onto the seat of his SUV. “Damn it all. Like I have time for this foolishness. Hey, Sandy.”
“Hello, J.D.” Sandy set the clip on the pump nozzle and turned to him as her tank filled. “Long time. How’ve you been?”
“Same old same old,” J.D. said. “Running around like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.”
“Sounds as if you just got another ass to kick.”
J.D. smirked and sighed. “Yeah, definitely another one. Got to take a run up your way, actually. Tommy Akers is raising a ruckus about something again.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not sure,” J.D. said, and opened the door to his vehicle. “Claims something got into his cattle. Whatever it is, he’s sure to be just as much of a nuisance as he usually is. I’d better get on up there.”
J.D. plopped into the seat of his SUV and slammed the door. Sandy’s gas pump shut off, and she set the nozzle back into its bracket. “Good to see you,” she said. “Tell Margie I said hey.”
“If I ever get back home tonight. Good to see you, too.” J.D. extended his arm through his open window and waved as he pulled out of the Citgo and Sandy walked inside to pay.
AS Sandy slowed and turned into her driveway, a deputy from the county sheriff’s office passed her in his patrol car going the opposite direction on Willard Road. Since Tommy’s was the only other place between her house and the dam, she knew the deputy had been up there. She thought it would be good to drive down and see why Tommy had called in the local representatives of the government he held in such low regard and that he normally wanted nothing to do with. Sandy collected Stink from his tractor tire and drove back out onto Willard Road, curious as to what might be down the road to intrude upon this uneventful summer she’d come to appreciate.
Sandy pulled her truck in beside J.D.’s dark green SUV, the gold emblem of the state game and fisheries department imprinted on the front door. Tommy and J.D. stood in front of the vehicle, and Tommy’s hand was raised, pointing to some distant spot across the pasture. In his other hand he held a shotgun.
“Hey there, neighbor,” Tommy said as Sandy got out of her truck. “Always happy to see you, but you keep that dog of yours in that truck, okay? Got enough trouble with the cattle today.”
It had been some time now since Stink had the agility to make the leap out of the truck’s open window, but Sandy raised it halfway to appease Tommy. Stink sat calmly on the seat, his eyes fixed on Tommy and his shotgun, a low growl humming in his throat.
“Stay there, baby.” Sandy closed the truck door and walked over to Tommy and J.D.
“You just come on out there with me, and I’ll show you,” Tommy said. His round, stubbled cheeks flushed red.
“Oh, come on, Tommy,” J.D. said. “There ain’t been any mountain lions in this part of the country for a hundred years.”
“Tell that to the dead yearling I got out there.” Tommy turned to Sandy. “Got a dead yearling at the far end of the pasture, and if it wasn’t killed by a cat, then I don’t even know my own name. And the government man here, well, suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he don’t believe me. Won’t even go out there and see for himself.”
“Damn it, Tommy. I’ll go take a look with you. Of course I will. That’s my job. I’m just saying it couldn’t be a mountain lion.”
“I know what I know,” Tommy said.
“Why don’t we just go take a look?” Sandy said.
“That’s what I been saying. Now it’s two against one. You coming, J.D.?” Tommy said.
“All right, all right,” J.D. said. “Let’s go. And it’s not two against anything. This ain’t a contest. Besides, what’s she know about mountain lions, hunh?”
“Sandy here is a right smart little lady,” Tommy said as they all began moving to get into J.D.’s vehicle. “She knows plenty, don’t you?”
“Not about mountain lions,” Sandy said. “I’ve never even seen one.”
“And you don’t need to bring the shotgun, Tommy,” J.D. said as they settled into the SUV. Sandy had climbed into the rear seat, and Tommy took the passenger seat beside J.D. in the front. He held the shotgun upright between his legs, both hands wrapped around the barrel.
“I’ll keep my shotgun right here with me, if you don’t mind, government man.”
“Stop calling me that.” J.D. huffed, slammed his door, and fired the ignition.
J.D.’s government vehicle rolled and bumped over the embedded rocks and ruts in the cow pasture of the “skinniest” farm in the valley. Tommy directed J.D. to its farthest edge. Overhead, two turkey vultures spiraled in the air. Tommy pointed to a spot by the line of trees and brush that separated the pasture from the river, a short way past the pen where he kept his bull fenced off from the other cattle, and J.D. brought his vehicle to a stop there. A single tall oak tree stood solitary at the other side of the pasture. Most of the cattle were gathered under it in a bunch, and Sandy paused a moment as they got out of the SUV to notice how placidly the herd chewed at their cud, indifferent to the slaughter Tommy had brought them out here to witness.
Ten yards in front of them, just inside the tree line, a half dozen or so turkey vultures perched on an indeterminate hump of carcass. At the vehicle’s approach, they had paused in their tugging and shredding of the remains to assess the threat. Tommy leaned his shotgun against his shoulder and took a step forward, waving his free hand to shoo the birds away. A couple of vultures hopped down from the carcass and strutted back and forth a pace or two.
“Why don’t you just shoot them?” J.D. said.
“Why? They’re just doing their job,” Tommy shot back. “Which is more than I can say for some people.”
As J.D. turned to Tommy with the beginnings of a snarl on his lips, Sandy stepped to his side and patted him gently on the shoulder. Tommy advanced further on the vultures, shouting and waving his arm. “Go on, you old buzzards. Scoot. Get on out of here.”
Sandy could feel a slight breeze on her face from the flapping of their prodigious wings as the vultures took flight, sailing out over the pasture, then circling back to come to roost in the nearby tree line.
