i was called to see to ira hirsh,

who moved here from new york with his little girl.

i found a soft-nosed rifle ball had passed

through ira’s left arm above the elbow,

scratched a two-inch gouge across his chest,

then passed through his right arm

to land in a

waterbucket beside the table.

sara chickering sounded rattled enough

when she phoned from iris weaver’s.

sara chickering, who never gets rattled.

doc, i left him with esther. i’m sure he’s bleeding to death.

hurry.

when i got to sara’s kitchen,

she had ira on the floor and she and

esther were holding handkerchiefs tightly to the wounds.

sara said he was sitting at the table after dinner

and in his lap was esther, not leaning back in his arms as usual,

but leaning forward,

studying the crossword puzzle he’d just finished.

someone came onto the porch, so silent, and sara’s dog

dead.

the curtain was shut. they must have aimed their rifle

through the keyhole.

why would someone do such a thing?

i asked sara.

klan,

sara answered.