by Joe Meno
“Dig there,” he mumbled, and the boy set a spade against the dirt and commenced to dig, his face wracked with sweat. Once a shallow hole had been made, Jim leaned over and set the trap carefully inside.
“What about the smell?” Quentin asked.
“Smell?”
“The smell of our hands. Won’t they get scared off?”
“They ain’t afraid of the smell. If they’re coming this close to the house, and they know they gonna find a meal here, the smell of us ain’t gonna spook ’em any.”
Jim took a handful of twigs and leaves and camouflaged both the trap and chain before moving to the next one, a few paces on. Again, they chained the trap to a post, dug a hole, buried both the trap and chain, and then carried on, setting four traps altogether.
Past seven o’clock and the grandfather and the boy had finished the last of their work. They could hear the familiar commotion of crickets and locusts. Together the two of them marched up to the front door of the farmhouse, Jim taking off his hat to murmur his respects, once again turning down Lucy’s offer for dinner, his grandson shyly saying goodnight. They climbed back into the pickup, tired, salt-faced, worn-through. The grandfather did not start the engine up right away. Instead, he sat there in silence, staring out at the field, a few stars so distant they might as well be imaginary. The grandfather leaned over and, out of habit, switched the CB on. The voices—fragile, full of static—interrupted the quiet for a moment before the grandson decided to speak.
“What are we waiting for?”
“We’re waiting to see if any of them try to come in. Why? You got somewhere to be?”
“No,” the boy said glumly.
“You did good today.”
“What about my money?”
Jim dug out the worn leather wallet from his back pocket and searched for a ten and a twenty; his grandson had worked as hard as he knew how, and although he did not show any kind of initiative, he also did not once complain or try to disappear the way he would have a year before. Jim lifted the bills from his wallet and placed them solemnly in his grandson’s hand. “This is only an advance.”
“A what?”
“We got plenty left to do around the house. You want this money, you got to promise me you’ll help before you go back to school.”
The boy considered the proposition, staring down at the money in his hand.
“Do we have a deal or not?” the grandfather asked.
The boy nodded and folded the money into the front pocket of his shirt.
“Glad to hear it.” The grandfather stared at the boy for a moment and said, “Now lean back there and get my shotgun.”
The boy reached over the backseat and lifted his grandfather’s gun from its mount—a Winchester Model 12—and passed it across the front seat. Jim switched off the CB, took the rifle in his hands, and checked the magazine to be sure it was loaded.
“What are we doing?” the boy asked.
“We’ll go shoot off a couple slugs.”
“What for?”
“So she thinks we scared them off. It’ll give her peace of mind. Go on. Grab the flashlight.”
“Right,” the boy said with a wise-looking smile.
Jim was surprised at how happy the boy seemed to be a part of some secret. He stared at the boy’s face and then said, without much of a thought, “Anything ever happens to me . . .”
At those words, the grandson’s eyes went wild with doubt. “What?”
“Anything ever happens, that horse is yours. I want you to know that. I’m going to tell Jim Northfield to put it in writing.”
“But . . .”
“But nothing.”
“But . . .”
“We can talk about it later. I just thought you oughta know.” He patted the boy on the shoulder and opened the driver’s-side door. “Come on now. Let’s go finish up.”
Once more they trampled through the mud, back along the fence line, careful of their own traps, the air still warm in their lungs and noses. Vapor from the heat of their breath rose between them like apparitions. Jim lifted the gun into the air and fired, shooting twice. Their reports crackled in the air like a storm hovering off in the distance. They walked on a little more. As they approached the third or fourth fencepost, something gave a scream, the sound of which was like a spirit being skinned.
“What’s that?” the boy asked, his eyes bright with fear.
“Don’t know.”
“It sounded like a banshee,” the boy whispered.
“A what?”
“An avenging ghost. They walk the night in search of all sorts of evildoers.”
“Well, I can rightly say I don’t think it’s that. Mind you don’t step in a trap.”
Before they made it to the middle of the fence line, Jim knew it wasn’t a coyote. The pale arc of the flashlight in the boy’s hand leapt back and forth as they walked, both of them wary not to get too close to the fence, the narrow chains of the traps momentarily visible and then gone again. A few dozen yards from the eastern corner of the property, they could hear it and see it clearly: it was a cat. Its soft white fur was smeared with blood, its eyes wide with panic, its neck broken mercilessly by the trap.
“Damn,” Jim mumbled. “Damn, damn, damn.”
It was Lucy’s cat, of course, its white fur now mottled pink. The cat continued to hiss and wail for a moment while its tiny face wound itself into a horrible grimace, and then, with a soundless twitch, it seemed to give in and die. Jim did not know he could ever feel so old or bleak. He held his hat in his hands, stamping back and forth over the same patch of dirt, cursing to himself.
The boy slid off his muddy jacket and knelt down beside the dying animal, and with his small, unsteady hands, he pried open the jaws of the trap. He wrapped the animal up in his coat and held the lifeless creature against his chest. The look on the boy’s face was both ghastly and serious, lit up from the far-off lights of the farmhouse. He was mumbling to it now, some kind of song, though it was no melody the grandfather recognized.
* * *
The grandfather and the boy rode silently in the blue pickup, the hour closer to midnight than eleven o’clock. Lucy Hale could not be consoled. Neither the grandfather nor the boy knew what to say—what excuse, what explanation, what promise to offer to get the pale-eyed woman to stop her crying. Finally, after her third round of sobs, they offered their condolences one more time and decided they had no choice but to give up.
* * *
Premier Arms. Don’s Guns and Cast Bullets. Bradi’s Guns, Plainfield Shooting Supplies. Gander Mountain. Elmore’s Firearms. Popgun’s Indoor Range. Lingle Guns. Bill’s Guns. Uebhelhor’s Bait and Gun Shop. Cosner’s Gun and Knife Shop. Second Amendment Guns. 500 Guns. No permit to purchase a handgun in Indiana. No registration to purchase a handgun in Indiana. No license to purchase a handgun in Indiana. No permit to carry a rifle or shotgun. The billboards flashing past along the side of the highway like the white faces of wandering souls.
* * *
The pickup drifted to the dark farmhouse. The grandfather shut off the engine and swung the door open. As they walked indoors, the boy stopped and held out his hand. Jim glanced down and saw the two folded bills—the ten and the twenty. The boy frowned, holding out the money, Jim watching with surprise. Something about the gesture carefully moved the old man. Without a word, Jim took the bills and put them back in his wallet.
_________________
Monday morning was a whole new day. The sky was pale pink and blue, the clouds strung up in picturesque rises. It was the last week before the boy had to go back to school, which called up certain feelings of tenderness in the grandfather. He stood over the boy, glancing down at his watch, then up at the drapes, which were blocking out the rising sun, then down at his watch again. 6:01 a.m. He took in the shape of the boy’s open mouth, recalling the same funny tilt when he used to come in and watch Deirdre sleep. Something in him went soft and he slowly clodded away, deciding to let the boy
have his rest.
He and Rodrigo fed the horse and the birds, then counted the peeps, candled the eggs. The grandfather stood alone in the corn, the leaves as high as his shoulders now, some rising higher than that. He broke off an unripened green ear, pushing the silk and smooth leaves apart, checking to be sure the cob was free of vermin. He loosened a yellowish-gray kernel free with his thumb and placed it on his tongue, enjoying the bright, tart greenness.
At ten a.m., he roused the boy from his bed. Playfully, he dragged the blanket off, then the sheet, the boy moaning, falling onto the floor in his dingy briefs.
“For God’s sake, look at you. You’re almost a grown man. Get some clothes on.”
The boy looked up from the floor and smiled.
Downstairs the grandfather whistled, frying up some eggs and potatoes in a pan, placing them on the boy’s plate with an unfamiliar flourish.
Later they mucked out the horse’s stable and combed her, giving her coat a wash with baby shampoo, softly rubbing it in the direction of the short fur.
Around noon, the telephone rang. Jim set down his sandwich and stared at the phone suspiciously, then glanced over at the boy. The boy shrugged and gave him an uncertain look. The grandfather frowned, walked over, and wiped his hands on his shirt. By the time he put the plastic earpiece to his ear, the dial tone had already begun buzzing. He put the phone back in place on the wall and stared at it awhile before sitting back down at the table. He tried to finish his sandwich but kept peering at the phone’s yellow shape. The thing he did not like was that they could call at any time. At any time they could call now and tell him they wanted the animal back. It was what made life and everything so hard: the not knowing, the never knowing. He waited for the phone to ring again and when it did not, he slid his sandwich across the table to the boy.
* * *
On Monday afternoon Bill Evens pulled up in his brand-new Ford, rolling over the grandmother’s flowerbed, which both the grandfather and the boy had been dutifully trying to ignore. Bill Evens climbed out laughing, slapping the straw hat over his head. From the passenger seat of the Ford, a lean-looking stranger appeared, dressed in a business shirt and tan slacks, with a face as red as a rummy’s. They marched right over to the fenced-off pasture, staring at the mare, while the grandfather wiped his hands on his pants and approached tentatively.
“Afternoon,” Jim said.
“Afternoon,” came the reply from both men. Bill Evens turned, tilting his hat up, and said, “This here is Duane Rose. He came up from the state capital. He’s got some business in Bellwood but I told him about your horse and he’d like to see her run.”
Jim glanced at the other man’s bright red face and extended a hand. They shook firmly, and the man turned back to study the horse.
“You raise racehorses, Mr. Rose?”
“I do. I heard this one here ran the quarter-mile in twenty-one seconds. That’s awfully good.”
“She likes to run,” Jim said.
“I’d say. How about we set us up a race, your mare versus mine? I got a five-year-old with legs like you’ve never seen. We all say she’s part giraffe.”
“When were you looking to race?’
Duane Rose smiled slyly. “I’m in town for a couple of days. Working on that bridge over in Bellwood. How’s Thursday night?”
“Thursday night. Where at?”
“How about over at Bill’s place? I brought my mare up all this way. Thought we could have a few runs.”
“I don’t know,” the grandfather said. “Thursday’s awful short notice.”
The stranger grinned, leaning against the fence, his face now looking pink as a baby’s in the sun. “Come on. You look like a gambler. It’s easy money, isn’t that right, Bill? What do you say?”
They shook hands, the three of them, Jim turning to watch them climb back into the manicured Ford. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and they walked over to the shed, the grandfather whispering, “Looks like we got ourselves another race.”
* * *
Gilby did not know what he was doing. In the afternoon, he laid on the dirty sofa beside the brown-eyed girl, the baby monitor crackling with static on the end table beside them. Some police show was on the TV though no one was watching it; someone was chasing someone else in the dark.
“What’s wrong with you today?” the girl asked. It was the third time she had posed the question, passing the lit joint his way. The thing he liked about this girl was how skinny she was; he liked looking at her and seeing the narrow-looking collarbone jutting out of the top of her shirt. Also, she always had weed and the house where she babysat was nice; he liked to come by in the afternoons, when the baby was taking its nap, and lay together with her on the couch. It seemed like the house was their house, the kid their kid, the two of them grown and married, all the frightening decisions, all the uncomfortable choices already made.
He took a deep hit and exhaled, the smoke jetting out through his nostrils. “Belinda,” he whispered, smiling.
The girl laughed, coughing up a mouthful of smoke.
“Belinda,” he repeated, enjoying the way her name sounded, like some foreign country, or the name of a castle maybe.
“What?”
“Belinda.”
She laughed again. “Jesus. You are being so weird today.”
He closed his eyes, laying his head down against her chest. The girl put her hand in his greasy hair, watching the TV for a moment. The monitor crackled again, the baby shifting in his sleep. Gilby kept his eyes closed and moved his mouth over the girl’s collarbone, his hands going greedy. He pulled himself on top of her, lifting up the dark gray faded sweatshirt, her bra soft pink, his mouth moving over that too, his eyes still closed, his stubble tickling her chest, his mouth moving down, across the soft white plain of her belly, the invisible hairs there getting wet, the girl not laughing anymore, turning the television set up, as his mouth found the slanted harp of her hips, her kicking the blue jeans off, his mouth edging along the lines of her pink and white panties, the cop show getting louder now—a police siren followed by gunshots, then more gunshots—the girl’s hand in his dark mass of hair, his eyes still closed, the girl making the short little hums, eyes glued to the TV, more gunshots, her hips rocking back and forth, him unbuckling his pants, yanking the girl’s underwear down to the end of one of her feet, finding the dampness there between her legs and putting it in, but slow, trying to go slow, the girl’s eyes still fixed on the television set, the police sirens and gunshots, slow, slow, slow, then too late, overcome, cumming, her still watching TV, him shuddering, the baby monitor beeping again, then fading, the two young people lying there half-dressed, a police detective standing over a dead body. And then the quiet, the cop show ending, the girl’s hand still in his hair, his head on her chest, his ear up against the collarbone, him turning to face her, the round eyes, dark brown, with flecks of gold in them, the next television show starting, some tabloid program about celebrities, the look on her face pleased, content but still questioning. Him staring at her, wondering if he would ever know what it meant to love something. The way her mouth looked, when she was not smiling, still a kind of smile. The two of them watching each other for a while, the television loud beside them.
“Can you keep a secret?” he finally asked.
* * *
Around seven p.m. that Monday evening, the telephone rang. Jim set down An Encyclopedia of American Equines, pulled himself up from the sofa, and slowly crossed into the kitchen. “Hello?” he answered, lifting the cheaters from his eyes.
“Mr. Falls?”
It was the female voice again, though he did not recognize it right away.
“This is him.”
“Mr. Falls, my name is Lila. I work in the offices of McNamara and Holt. We spoke a few weeks ago.”
“Of course.”
“As I mentioned the last time we talked, there have been some complications with the will in which you were named a beneficiary. It’s com
e to our attention that several assets may have been improperly distributed, including the property that was signed over to you.”
“The horse.”
“Yes sir, the horse. I’m calling because there’s been an interesting development. One of the countersuits was recently dropped, which means the horse is to remain in your possession.”
“It is.” Jim smiled, stunned, holding his hand out against the back of the kitchen chair to keep himself steady.
“I’ve been in touch with your lawyer, Mr. Northfield, and he suggested I give you the news myself.”
“He did?”
“He did. As far as we’re concerned, the matter is now settled.”
“Settled. Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“It’s ours.”
“It’s yours.”
“Ours.” Jim leaned forward, pressing the phone closer to his ear. “Do you mind doing me a favor then? Would you be nice enough to tell me where it came from? Who sent it, I mean.”
“Now that the countersuit has been dropped, I’d be happy to. It was from an estate up in Boston. The Hollaways. Maybe you’ve heard of them? They’re involved in a lot of manufacturing. They have a soap plant about an hour north of the city. Terrible shame. William and Florence, they were both in their eighties . . . well, there was an automobile accident and . . . apparently, you happen to share the name of a former horse trainer of theirs . . . It seems the Hollaways were great horse enthusiasts.”
Jim looked out the kitchen window at the darkening sky.
“Mr. Falls, are you still there?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Are you still listening?”
“I am. It’s just . . . well, is this all the honest-to-God truth? Someone made some kind of clerical error and that’s how the horse showed up here?”
“It is. Apparently, a mistake was made by one of the lawyers representing the deceased’s estate; as I said, I believe it was Mr. Holloway’s intention to leave the animal to a man from East Hampton, another Jim Falls. The difficulty we now face is that this other Jim Falls is deceased, has been for some time. So you can see where that puts us. As I may or may not have mentioned, there have been a number of other similar mistakes, as all of this was done rather quickly in order to avoid further legal . . . entanglements among the deceased’s children. Their children . . . as you can imagine with an estate that size . . . there have been some disagreements as to . . . It’s already taken more than two years to reach this current settlement. To be honest, one missing horse is hardly of value compared to their other assets.”
