by Callan Wink
—
The old house was set back against a low, rock-plated hill. A year-round spring wept from the face of the rock, and the dampness of it filled the house with the smell of wet leaves and impending rain. The house was a single-level ranch, low slung like a dog crouching to avoid a kick. August’s mother’s parents had built the house with their own hands, and lived in it until they died. The old house looked up at the new house, the one August’s father had finished the year after August was born. The new house was tall with a sharp-peaked roof. It had white shutters, a full wraparound porch. August’s grandparents had both died before he was born and the first thing his father had done when the farm became his was sell fifty acres of fallow pasture and build the new house.
“He feels like it’s his own,” August’s mother had said to him once, smoking in the kitchen of the new house. “His people didn’t have much. Everything we got came from my side, you know. He would never admit it in a hundred years, but it bothers him.” She coughed. “It’s too big. That was my complaint from the get-go. It’s hard to heat, too, exposed up on the hill like this, the wind gets in everywhere. My father would have never done it like that. He built a smart house for himself and my mother, but, that’s the type of man he was.”
August tapped the door a few times with the wrench and went inside. The old house was built by folks interested in efficiency, not landscape, and the windows were few and small. The kitchen was dimly lit by a single shaft of light coming through the window over the sink. The room smelled like frying bacon, and the radio was on. Paul Harvey was extolling the virtues of a Select Comfort Sleep Number Bed. At my age there are few things I appreciate more than a night of restful sleep. Get this mattress. It was dreamed up by a team of scientists. It’s infinitely adjustable. Your dreams will thank you.
“Augie, my fair son, how does the day find you?”
His mother was at the kitchen table playing solitaire. A pan of thinly sliced potatoes fried with pieces of bacon and onion sat next to her ashtray. She smoked Swisher Sweets cigarillos, and a thin layer of smoke was undulating above her head like a smooth, gray flying carpet waiting for a charge to transport.
“I made lunch and it smelled so good while it was cooking, but then found myself suddenly not hungry. I don’t know, I may have finally broken through.”
August pulled out a chair and sat across from his mother at the small table. “Broken through to what?” he said.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you? I’ve been devoting myself to a new teaching.” She stubbed out her cigarillo, and shook another from the pack sitting on the table. She lit it, a fine network of lines appearing around her mouth as she pursed her lips. Her nails were long and gray, her fingertips jaundiced with tobacco stain. “Yeah,” she continued, “I’ve become an inediate.”
“A what?”
“An inediate, you know, a breatharian?”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Air eaters? Sky swallowers? Ether ingesters?”
“Nope.”
“You can attune your mind and your body, Augie. Perfectly attune them by healthy living and meditation so that you completely lose the food requirement. I mean, not just that you’re no longer hungry—that’s not too hard. I’m talking about all you have to do is breathe the air, and you’re satisfied. You get full and you never have to eat. And you can survive that way, happy as a clam.” She took a sip of coffee, smoke dribbling from her nose as she swallowed. “That’s what I’ve been working on.”
She pushed the pan of potatoes and bacon toward him, and August ate some even though Lisa had told him she would make him a sandwich when she got up from the barn. The potatoes were greasy and good. The bacon in it was little pieces of semi-charred saltiness. The onions were soft, translucent, and sweet. August ate, and wiped his hands on his jeans, and put his wrench on the table for his mother to see.
“Dad gave me a job,” he said. “For money.”
“Oh, well I’m proud to hear it. Did you negotiate a contract? Set a salary review option pending exemplary performance?”
“No, I’m just killing some cats.”
“I see. And this is your Excalibur?” She tinked the chrome-handled wrench with her fingernail.
“Yeah. It’s a spanner wrench.”
She made a low whistle and coughed softly into the back of her hand. “It’s a big job, Augie. Is he paying you upon completion or piecemeal?”
“I’m taking the tails. We’re going to settle up at the end of the week.”
“Grisly work, son. That’s the kind of work you stand a chance of bringing home with you, if you know what I mean.”
“The haymow smells like piss. It’s getting real bad.”
“Your father. This is gruesome, even for him. Jesus.” She looked down blankly at the cards in front of her. “I keep forgetting where I’m at with this.” She gathered up her game, her nails scrabbling to pick the cards up off the Formica. “I can get only so far with solitaire before I get stumped. You ever win?”
“I never play.”
“I suppose it’s a game for old women.”
“You’re not old.”
“If I’m not, then I don’t want to feel what old is like.”
“Are you ever going to come back to the new house?”
“You can tell him no, if you want. About the cats. You don’t have to do it.”
“She’s been staying over.”
“I found all Grandma’s old quilts. They were in a trunk in the back closet. Beautiful things. She made them all. Some of them took her months. All of them hand stitched. I never had the patience. She used to make me sit there for hours with her learning the stitches. I’ll show them to you if you want.”
“Sure. I should get to work now, though.”
“Next time, then.”
August ate a few more potatoes and then stood up.
“I wish you Godspeed,” his mother said, coaxing another cigarillo from the pack with her lips. “May your arrows fly true.”
“I don’t have any arrows.”
“I know. It’s just an old Indian saying.”
She blew smoke at him. “I don’t care about the cats,” she said, smiling at him in such a way that her mouth didn’t move and it was all in her eyes. “I look at you, and it’s clear as day to me that he hasn’t won.”
—
The barn was empty. His dad and Lisa were out rounding up the cows for milking. August put on his gloves and wedged the wrench down under his belt. He climbed the wooden ladder up to the haymow.
Half-blind in the murk, holding his nose against the burning ammonia stench of cat piss, August crushed the skull of the first pale form that came sidling up to him. He got two more in quick succession—and then there was nothing but hissing from the rafters, green-gold eyes glowing and shifting among the hulking stacks of baled hay. August tried to give chase. He clambered over the bales, scratching his bare arms and filling his eyes and ears and nose with the dusty chaff of old hay. But the cats were always out of reach, darting and leaping from one stack to the next, climbing the joists to the rafters where they faded into the gloom. August imagined them up there, a seething furry mass, a foul clan of fanged wingless bats clinging to a cave roof. This was going to be harder than he had thought.
August inspected his kills. A full-sized calico and two skinny grays, thin and in bad shape, patches of bare skin showing through their matted fur. He pitched them down the hay chute and climbed after them. On ground level, he breathed deeply of the comparatively sweet manure-scented air, and fished his knife from his pocket. He picked up the first cat by the tail and severed it at the base, dropping the carcass on the cement with a wet thud. He dealt similarly with the other two cats, pitched them all in the conveyor trough, and went looking for a hammer. By the time he returned to the barn his father and Lisa had the cows driven in and stanchioned in their stalls. The radio was on, loud enough so Paul Harvey’s disembodied voice could be heard over the muttering of the
cows and the drone of the compressor. I don’t know about you all, but I have never seen a monument erected to a pessimist.
August nailed his three tails to a long pine board, and propped it up in the corner of the barn where it wouldn’t get knocked over by cows milling in and out. He could hear his father doing something in the milk room. He passed Lisa on his way out of the barn. She was leaning on a shovel and spitting sunflower seeds into the dirt. She had on blue overalls and muck boots, and her frizzy blond hair was tamed into a ponytail that burst through the hole in the rear of her Seedco cap.
“Hi, August,” she said, scooping seeds out of her lower lip and thwacking them into the dirt at her feet. “You didn’t come up to the house for lunch.”
“Yeah. I ate at the old house with my mom.”
“Oh, okay. I’m going to stick around tonight. I think I’ll make some tacos for you guys for dinner. Sound good?”
August looked at her face, her round, constantly red cheeks. She called it rosacea, a skin condition. It made her seem to exist in a state of perpetual embarrassment. He wondered if she’d been teased about it at school.
She was only seven years older than him and had graduated from the high school last year. In her senior year August’s father had hired her to help him with the milking, and she’d worked before school and after school and on weekends. August’s father said that she worked harder than any hired man he’d ever had. Now that she was done with school she put in full days. She could drive a tractor with a harrow. She could muck out the barn. She could give the antibiotic shots to the cows—and when the calving season came she could plunge her hands in up to her wrists to help a difficult calf come bawling into the world.
“Crunchy shells or soft shells?” August said, knocking at the toes of his boots with the wrench.
“Soft?”
“I like crunchy.”
“Well, I’ll see what you guys have in the cupboards, but I bought some soft ones already.”
“Flour or corn?”
“Flour, I think.”
“I like corn.” August spat at his feet, but his mouth was dry so the spit trailed out on his chin and he wiped at it with the back of his sleeve.
“I asked your dad what kind he wanted and he said it didn’t matter.”
“He likes the crunchy shells too. Trust me. Do you make them with beans or without?”
Lisa hesitated for a moment and tugged at the brim of her cap. “Which do you prefer?” she said.
“Well, that depends.”
“I bought some black beans. I usually put some of those in. But I don’t have to.”
“I like beans. But, I don’t eat black beans. I think they look like rabbit turds. My dad thinks that too.”
“Okay, I’ll leave those out, then. Sound good?” The red on Lisa’s cheeks had spread. A crimson blush was leaching down her neck all the way to the collar of her barn overalls. “All right, August, see you at dinner. Your dad’s probably wondering where I got off to. We have to get these cows taken care of.”
Lisa headed into the barn, and August wandered out to the back pasture, swinging his wrench at stalks of burdock and thistle, stepping around the thick plots of fresh manure.
—
He climbed the low hill before the tree line on the property boundary and sat next to the pile of rocks that marked Skyler’s grave. There was a slightly bent sassafras stick with the bark whittled off jutting up from the rocks. It had once been the vertical member of a cross August had fashioned from two such sticks lashed together with a piece of old shoelace. It was a gesture August had seen performed in all the old westerns he watched with his father. Any time a gunslinger went down his buddies erected a cross just like that. Over the course of the past year the sun had rotted August’s old shoelace so that the horizontal crosspiece had fallen off, leaving just the vertical stick pointing up at the sky like a crooked, accusatory finger.
Skyler had been his birth dog. His father had brought the tiny six-week-old pup home when August had been out of the hospital less than a week. It was something August’s father had said that his own father had done for him. He thought it good for a boy to have a dog to grow up with. And, against August’s mother’s objections, he put the soft, pug-faced shepherd mix in the crib with August—“to get acquainted,” he’d said. “A boy with a dog is healthier, more active, less inclined to allergy and listlessness.” And, it seemed true. August had been a particularly healthy baby, a bright, energetic boy who grew up with a tongue-lolling, shaggy, good-natured four-legged shadow.
At twelve, Skyler had been in remarkably good shape, a little stiff in the mornings, but by noon harassing the barn cats like a dog half his age. And then, one day after school, August didn’t see him anywhere in the barn or yard. He went to the equipment shed and found him, stretched out on his side with a greenish-blue froth discoloring his grayed muzzle. He’d chewed through a gallon jug of antifreeze that August’s father had stored under the workbench.
August and his father had carted the body up to the hill, and they took turns with the pickax and shovel. When they finished, they stood and regarded the cairn of rocks they’d stacked over the raw earth to keep the skunks out.
“I guess twelve is as good an age as any,” his father had said. At the time August thought he’d been talking about the dog. Later, he thought that maybe his father had meant that twelve was as good an age as any for a boy to lose a thing he loved for the first time.
—
August watched the sky in the west become washed in dusky, pink-tinged clouds. Unbidden, the turning sky made him think of Lisa, the crimson in her cheeks that spread like hot infection down her neck and shoulders and back and arms, all the way to her legs. That this was the case wasn’t mere supposition. He’d seen it.
It was an early dismissal day last fall. August off the bus and out of his school clothes, eating a piece of cake from the new house. He wandered down to the barn, the air sharp with the acrid tang of the oak leaves his father had been burning in the front yard. The pile smoldered. There was no one around. Skyler slept in the shade of a stock tank. The cows were yoked up in their stanchions. The whole barn was full of the low rumble of suction, the automatic milkers chugging away.
And then, through the open doorway of the grain room, there was his father. Muck boots on, barn overalls around his legs, thrusting behind Lisa, who was bent over a hay bale, her cheek and forearms pressed down into the cut ends of the hay. Their overalls were around their legs like shed exoskeletons, like they were insects emerging, their conjoined bodies larval, soft and pale. August saw the flush of Lisa then, the creeping red that extended all the way down her back to her thick thighs to her spread calves. She had her underwear pulled down around one knee and their brilliant lacy pinkness was a glaring insult to the honest, flyspecked, gray and manure brown of the barn.
On his way out, August turned the barn radio up as loud as it would go. Golf, Paul Harvey was saying, is a game, where you score a six, yell “fore,” and write down a five.
—
At the dinner table, Lisa and August’s father each had a beer. Lisa cut a lime wedge and jammed it down the neck of her bottle and August’s father said, what the hell, he might try it like that too. They smiled at each other and clinked their bottles together and drank, and August watched the lime wedges bobbing in their bottles like floats in a level held on a surface that was out of true. When they’d finished eating, August’s father leaned back in his chair and belched mightily, wiping taco juice from his hands, his rough, callused fingers shredding the paper napkin.
“Best meal I’ve had in a while. Thanks, Lisa.”
Lisa smiled and said, “You’re welcome, Darwin. I’m glad you liked it.”
“I got three cats today,” August said to break up their stupid smiling competition. “I did it with a wrench. Right in the head. They never knew what happened.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lisa wrinkle her nose slightly.
His father finis
hed his beer and piled his fork and knife and napkin on his plate. He was a large man, all his joints seemed too big, hard knobby wrists and knuckles, his hands darkened from the sun up until the point where his shirt cuffs lay. He was forty-five years old and still had all his hair, dark brown, just starting to gray at the temples. In the cold months, he liked to wear a bright silk cowboy scarf knotted up around his neck. He smiled at women often, and, August noticed, women often smiled back. His mother used to say that for a guy with manure on his boots he could be fairly charming.
“Come on now, Augie. I gave you a job and I appreciate you getting right down to it. But there’s barn talk and there’s house talk. I’m sure Lisa wouldn’t mind a little house talk now. How about you clear the table and clean up the dishes. And why don’t you thank Lisa for making that delicious meal? She worked all day, and then came up to do that for us.”
“Thanks,” August said and scooted his chair back loudly. He stacked the dishes into a precarious pile and carried them off to the kitchen. He ran the water until steam rose and squirted in soap until the bubbles grew in great tumorous mounds, and then he did the dishes. Clanking plate against plate, banging pots against pot, running the water unnecessarily, making as much noise as possible to cover the low murmur of Lisa and his father talking in the next room.
