by Lou Cadle
“Arch, honey,” Kelly said.
Quinn said, “Bullshit. I have concrete. I have pipes. I have a plan for the gate. I have the best locks money can buy and four sets of keys, one for each household on the street. If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself. Without your help.”
“It’d be too big a job to do yourself,” Pilar said, keeping his voice soft.
“Devlin will help me.”
Pilar wanted to defuse the man. “Quinn, give it a week. See if gas arrives in Payson. See if everything goes back to normal.”
“It won’t.”
Kelly said, “We don’t know that yet.”
“I know it,” he said.
“Maybe things will start to go south soon. But I think you’re jumping the gun,” Pilar said.
“I think you’re a soft, lefty pantywaist.”
“I don’t even know what a pantywaist is.” Pilar wanted to laugh, but he knew not to.
“Think you can stop me from putting up the fence?”
The belligerent tone broke Pilar’s resolve, erased his good intention to come over here with a conciliatory attitude. “If you do, I could call the sheriff.”
“You’d call the sheriff on me?”
“I might.”
“If you want to fight with me, why not fight like men? Come on out into the yard, and let’s settle it there.”
Pilar took three deep breaths, trying to keep himself from responding in a way that would escalate the man even more. Part of him wouldn’t mind punching Quinn right now. But that was the worst part of him, the childish part of him. He said, “Kelly, try and convince him to wait until we see what happens with gasoline, would you? I’m sure you can talk some sense into him.”
“I’m sure I could knock you back into your own yard with one punch.”
Pilar stood, and keeping his voice carefully soft said, “I always thought that ‘fighting like a man’ was a ridiculous phrase. Real men find ways not to fight.”
“Fuck you.”
“Quinn!” Kelly had her hand on her chest and looked frankly shocked.
“I’ll talk to you soon, Kelly,” Pilar said, and walked out of the house.
Devlin was standing not four feet from the door, looking wide-eyed.
“Try to talk your father out of putting up that fence,” Pilar said, but he immediately regretted it. He shouldn’t ask a boy to fight his fights for him. He had to find a way to convince Quinn to act reasonably. Or, if he was going to act unreasonably, to do it on his own property, not on a common road or public property.
He walked back up the gravel road, fuming, trying to find the peace he’d begun the day with, and failing miserably. That Quinn. Paranoid. Violent. “Testosterone-poisoned,” Lisette had called him. Pilar wondered if that wasn’t exactly the situation. The man was a walking battle plan, just waiting to erupt into violence. No, not waiting. Longing to.
“Bodhi,” he called out, as he tromped up the driveway. “Let’s go for a hike through the woods.” The upper half of his property was beyond the stream, stretching into the shadowed pine forest. He didn’t go up there often, but he needed to now, to get away from people. The chickens would have to fend for themselves without the watchdog. He left the door to their fenced area cracked open. They could scoot through it if they had a half a brain. Between Arch Quinn and a laying hen, it was a close race in the brains department. “Heel,” he called to the dog.
Bodhi fell into step beside him. For fifteen minutes, they pushed through the forest undergrowth, moving fast uphill, until Pilar was panting. He emerged into the center of a ring of trees. Underfoot the pine duff had suppressed all low growth. Above, tall pines stretched into the sky, leaving a clear blue coin of sky overhead. He looked up and took several deep breaths, smelling pine and normal decay and good fresh mountain air.
“I feel better already,” he said to the dog. “Don’t you?”
Bodhi looked up and him and wagged his tail. Bodhi never lost his equanimity or patience. He never held a grudge.
“We should all be more like dogs, don’t you think? Then Quinn could just piss higher on a tree and we’d be done with the dominance games.” Hmm. Did he really think Quinn was dominant?
Well, yeah, he was. Aggression, dominance, same thing. He wondered how dogs arranged things when there was a dog who had some other talent than physical superiority. So there’s a pack of feral dogs, and there was one big bully, the alpha dog. What did the clever rat terrier who could climb into places the others couldn’t do? How did he rank? Was he thanked for his abilities, given compensation when he snuck into a concrete pipe and pulled out a rat to eat? Or did the alpha dog just bite him on the rump and steal whatever the clever little dog had found?
“Okay. I’m glad Quinn isn’t biting me on the rump. So maybe it’s good we’re humans.” He squatted to scratch Bodhi’s ears and ruff. “What you say we hike up another ten minutes then get back to our jobs?”
Bodhi was amenable.
By the time they returned to the henhouse, Pilar felt better. The woods helped him that way. He’d keep an eye out and make sure Quinn didn’t do anything to the gate at the end of the road. And before he went into town on Thursday, he’d ask Kelly if she had a grocery list for him.
Bodhi ran around to count the scattered chickens, dashing from one to the next, herding them subtly back into a tighter group he could protect more easily. The rooster spread his wings and crowed its defiance at Bodhi, but Bodhi was used to his posturing and ignored him. Probably some people wouldn’t believe Bodhi could count, but when it came to the hens he could. He knew when he was short one and did not stop until he’d hunted her down and returned her to the flock.
Pilar gathered eggs again, candling them with an LED flashlight before he put them in the basket, letting the routine tasks soothe him more. Eggs were being laid in earnest now, and if he had time he checked three times a day. He’d be eating omelets and frittatas every lunch for a while.
He’d let two hens brood soon, getting him and Sierra this year’s fryers and next year’s hens. When the days grew longer, he would need to use the trap nests, figuring out which of the hens were so old they had quit producing the minimum he needed of them—five eggs per week—and needed to be “retired” at the end of the season, as he used to say to Sierra when she was younger. Stewed, is what he meant, or turned into ground chicken for meatloaf.
The meatloaf recipe they liked best used barbecue sauce. He could make his own, but commercial was so cheap and easy, he used it. Another good thing to add to his list, if Walmart or the store still had it. A case of barbecue sauce would probably last years. If there wasn’t any, he’d have to look up a recipe and make sure the ingredients were on hand. Vinegar, brown sugar, tomato paste? Something like that.
Thursday, he’d have to go into town. He hoped there’d be gas, as promised.
Not to be as paranoid as Quinn, but he worried there would not be.
Chapter 7
The next morning, Arch Quinn woke thinking he’d been a bit of an ass with his neighbor the day before. It was often like this for him. In the heat of the moment, he’d sound off. The next day, he’d realize it might not have been the best strategy for getting what he wanted.
But he knew, even if Crocker did not, that the gate was a good idea. It wasn’t a perfect solution, of course. All people needed to do was to detour through the woods, and they’d come right onto his land. But people wouldn’t move as quickly through the woods. They couldn’t come up in an armored SUV with machine guns on full auto. They’d be limited to the weapons they could carry, and when they stepped from the cover of the woods, he and Devlin and Kelly could pick them off, one by one.
He didn’t want to turn his wife and son into killers. Not really. But if it came down to it—and it was Arch’s belief that it would—he knew he had trained them to do what had to be done. In fact, he needed to up their training schedule. They all kept up with target practice once a week, usually driving into the national
forest, far away from any neighbors.
But now, he wanted to train every day, and there wouldn’t be time to drive off to do it. Straight target practice one day. Move and shoot another day. Reloading under various conditions the next. Mix it up, and keep them all three on their toes. Warn the neighbors they’d be hearing shots.
“What are you thinking about, Arch?” Kelly asked sleepily. “I can hear your brain working.”
“Military training. How we need to work harder at it now.”
“Mmm,” she said sleepily. “I was thinking of something else.”
“What?”
“This,” she said, and she reached over to run her fingers up his thighs.
All thoughts of target practice flew from his mind. “Can you?” he asked her.
“I believe I remember how, yes.”
“I meant are you well enough?”
“Perfectly well. Especially for this,” she said.
A half-hour later, Arch was still working to catch his breath. “Damn. You are really good at that, you know.”
“I believe I might be. Still, a girl likes to hear it from time to time.”
“You sound smug.”
“I feel smug,” she said, with a throaty laugh he loved hearing.
“Did we wake Devlin?” He thought he might have been a little noisy.
“I don’t care.”
“Kelly!”
“He’s old enough to know his parents have sex. It won’t traumatize him for life if he hears you scream.”
“I did not scream,” Arch said.
“No, but you wanted to.”
He rolled over and gathered her into his arms, feeling a wave of fear that he’d lose her. “I’ll keep you safe. No matter what happens. I promise.”
“I know you will,” she said.
“I wish we could spend a whole day like this. Like we did in our twenties.”
“Before we owned property,” she reminded him. “And before Devlin could walk.”
“I know. But weren’t those great days?”
“They were. I’d limp into work on Monday, sore but happy.”
He bit her earlobe playfully.
“Now stop. We do need to start the day. What are you going to do about the fence?”
“Talk Crocker into it.”
“Maybe you should let me try next.”
“You think you can?”
“You know what I think we should do?” She kissed his forehead and then rolled out of bed, pulling on her robe.
“What?” He watched her finger-comb her hair, then twist it up and clip it on top of her head. Some strands of gray grew from the crown, but it was still thick and beautiful.
“Have a neighborhood meeting. We need to talk about conserving gas and diesel by carpooling into town, and we can talk about the fence too. I’ll try to get Curt to come.”
“Good luck with that.”
“I’ll bribe him with baked goods.”
“Bribe him with a promise of a short meeting, or one where no one says a word, and you’ll do better.”
“Look, Arch, if you’re right about this—”
“I’m right,” he said.
“If you’re right about all this, and the shit really is about to hit the fan,” she went on, “we need to be a solid unit, the whole road, all four families. We need to coordinate. We need to train not just as a family, but all together. We need to train them to our system of signals in case there is an incursion.”
“You’re right.”
“And the best way to start, I think, is with food. A meal, or a big dessert table.”
“What about Sybil Morrow?”
“I think Mitch can leave her alone for an hour. If not, we’ll meet there. You know he’d be willing to do that. We can use their deck.”
“It might be better to meet there anyway,” Arch said. “Neutral territory for both me and Crocker. No home field advantage.”
She gave him a curious look. “After twenty years, you still sometimes surprise me. That’s a damned good point.”
“Could be I get more creative when we make love.”
“Probably you get all the fight drained out of you.”
“Breaking training,” he said agreeably.
“Let’s break it again real soon,” she said with a wicked smile, and she left the room.
* * *
Later that day, after her chores were done, Kelly grabbed a pad of paper and pen and jotted notes: food she should make, talking points. She’d start with the Morrows and make sure Mitch was willing to play host. She’d do all the cooking, though if someone else insisted on bringing a special dish, she’d be excited and thank them profusely. She wouldn’t use the word “meeting” with Curt Henry. “Get-together?” No, too social. “Brief discussion” might work. Something like that would be least appalling to his hermit sensibilities.
Once she had her plan worked out, she checked herself in the mirror, decided to change into a checked cotton shirt, and took her pad and stylus with her down the road to the Morrows’.
Mitch was happy to see her. She gave him a hug and said, “Can I look in on Sybil?”
“Sure, but she’s probably asleep.”
The sick room was neat as a pin, but the scent of urine and feces was still detectable. He was getting up there in years, but he was still spry enough to take care of his wife. “She looks peaceful,” she said softly. “Do you think she has any pain?”
“I don’t believe so,” he said. “Or maybe I just hope not.”
“I remember meeting her when you first moved here. Such a lovely woman.”
“She was and is.”
“If you ever want me to come over and do her hair, just let me know, would you?”
“That’s a kind offer, but honestly, she wouldn’t know the difference. I keep it short and clean, and I think that’s enough.”
Kelly knew that the woman had two kinds of illnesses, one mostly physical and one mostly mental. It wasn’t Alzheimer’s but some other form of dementia. She wondered if the woman knew she was here, or if she knew anything at all. Maybe it was a blessing if she didn’t. “I’ll see you soon, Sybil,” she said to the closed eyes, and she and Mitch left the room.
“How are you holding up?” she asked Mitch, as he served her a cup of tea. Real tea, too—black tea.
“Tell you the truth, I get lonely sometimes.”
“If you want, you can come over any time you wish. Have your evening meal with us. Or lunch.” She felt guilty she hadn’t been checking on him more often.
“I like Devlin’s company. Whenever he comes over to do a chore, it’s a real treat for me. You raised him well, Kelly, you and Arch.”
“Thank you.” She felt a real glow of pride at that. “Arch thinks he needs a better work ethic.”
“He’s doing fine. He’s what, fifteen?”
“Almost sixteen. You know,” she said, as the idea popped into her mind, “Sierra Crocker is graduating from high school. I hadn’t been planning on much for Devlin’s birthday, but maybe I’ll have a little party, just for us on the street, for both of them.”
“That’s nice of you,” he said.
“In fact, I came here to ask you to help me with a different sort of get-together. You know there’s no gas in town right now?”
“I heard it mentioned on citizen’s band this morning.”
She explained about wanting to get together to coordinate things, leaving out anything about fences, guns, or military training. Start with the basics of getting food from town, create a stronger sense of community, and build up from there. She’d have to remind Arch to play nice, especially this first time, and keep him on a short leash.
“Sounds logical. My car can always go.”
“You can make it all the way up the hill?”
“Perfectly well. The problem would be more with how much I could carry.”
“This is exactly the sort of thing we need to talk out. How’s Saturday for the meeting?” She’d
rather do it tomorrow, but that was short notice. And it might be better to see if gasoline and diesel did appear on Thursday, as promised, and how quickly whatever gas was delivered might run out. If they had to wait until Friday to meet, they may as well wait until Saturday when Sierra could attend. The kids were old enough to be part of this. If the worst did come to pass, both of those kids would need to take up arms and defend their homes.
They finalized the details over a second cup of tea. Mitch was not only willing to host, he seemed cheered by the thought. “I’ll take care of beverages,” he said. “And you can do the food.”
“Sounds great. I’m looking forward to it.”
When she left, she stopped on the front walk and jotted a note to herself to have Mitch over once a week for supper. He could surely leave Sybil alone for one hour per week. If he wouldn’t do that, she’d send Dev over more often with some excuse, but really to keep Mitch company.
Curt Henry was outside. It was lucky, for at times, though he was home, he simply did not answer a knock at his door.
He was a hermit. Not a crazy hermit. He showered, he dressed neatly, usually in worn flannel shirts and jeans. But he either didn’t like or was afraid of people. He seemed to do better with men than women.
Kelly wondered if that was because of his looks. He was tall, lean but well-built, but his face was strange and his voice was strange too, low and—it was hard to describe. It wasn’t really a speech impediment, but the words were just a little off somehow, the pronunciation garbled in his throat, rather than on his lips and tongue. She had no idea if what was wrong with him was congenital, or from a childhood accident, or what. He was certainly a homely man.
He had a pronounced brow ridge, a thrusting jaw, and cheekbones that made him look more gaunt than he was. His hands were big too, and he seemed shy about that, sometimes folding them under his armpits when he spoke to you.
He was tinkering with what looked to be a homemade stationary bike in his back yard.
“Knock, knock, neighbor,” Kelly said.
“Hi,” he said. The pitch of his voice surprised her every time she heard it—not that often, to be honest. He was a basso profundo.
