DU PRÉ DROVE THROUGH a strong May blizzard out to his house, wondered if this heavy snow would crush the old shed he had been meaning to shore up for the last ten years or so. He only remembered it when he couldn’t do it, like the leak in the roof.
Maria was in the kitchen, baking bread. The table was piled with books and there was a new computer, too, one Bart said he could not possibly use because he was just a simple shovel operator. The computer still had the warranty card on it.
“Papa,” said Maria, “there is something funny hanging in the tree back there.” She leaned over the sink and pointed out the window to the willow by the little creek.
Du Pré squinted. Something white, had a couple birds on it.
“Looks like a piece of suet,” said Du Pré.
“Well,” said Maria, “I didn’t hang it up there, pretty high.”
A good eight feet off the ground. There was a path through the snow to it, from the yard, the trail went out across the white field beyond the creek.
“That’s funny,” said Du Pré.
The suet was hung over the stobs of the lilac Catfoot Du Pré and his young bride had planted so long ago. The lilac had died, the leaves had turned yellow a couple of years ago. Du Pré had cut the dead trunks away and he had meant to grub up the roots but he had forgotten to do that.
Like hell, I hate digging up roots.
Du Pré looked down at the tracks in the snow. Coyote. The animal had stood beneath the suet, tried to leap up and get it and couldn’t. When the birds pecked the slab of fat some chunks broke off and fell down into the snow. The coyote had scratched around a lot, for the good fat after this hard winter.
“OK,” said Du Pré, “you old fucker.”
He went to the shed, got a spud bar and a shovel. The ground was thawed, it always did under the snow. He slammed the spud into the earth, grabbed the shovel, and down about a foot and a half he hit something hard but not like a rock is hard.
Little brass box, size of a Bible.
All green, been here a while, thought Du Pré.
He took it to the house, put it in the sink and washed the dirt off. A little box, well-brazed seams all around. Du Pré looked at the bead.
Catfoot’s bead, that, as much his as his handwriting.
“What you got there?” said Maria.
“Something I think belongs to Bart,” said Du Pré.
He went back out to the shed, got a cold chisel and a hammer. Cut the top off the box on the kitchen floor.
Nice and dry in the box. Catfoot lay up good tight bead, there.
A suede envelope, black. A flat packet wrapped in foil. Du Pré pulled them both out. Nothing else.
“See this, now,” said Du Pré to Maria. He opened the suede envelope. He lifted out the necklace, green gems and gold, all brilliant in the light.
“Oooohhhh,” said Maria. She reached for the necklace. Du Pré let her have it.
Du Pré peeled back the foil. Thick packet of hundred-dollar bills.
“What’s this?” said Maria. “What is all this?”
Du Pré told her all of it.
She sat at the table, looking out the window, at the failing light.
Du Pré reached across the table, took her hand, squeezed it.
“I got to go up to Bart’s a minute,” he said. “Talk to him about a couple Masses.”