The back of Grandpa Ross’s house faces down a south slope that’s been cleared of pines an’ brush. So it only has big ol’ trees with branches low enough to make shade, an’ high enough so they ain’t in the line of fire. Grandpa gener’ly sits in the kitchen, leanin’ over his elbows an’ breathin’ like a horse with heaves. He’s got what the docs called emphysema, an’ his whole body sways forward an’ back. An’ he’s thin as a fence rail—so thin his pants won’t stay up without suspenders, an’ he can’t weigh more’n 130 pounds for all he was six feet tall once. Grandpa’s got sparse white hair an’ a dirty gray beard that he combs through, from time to time, with his fingers, which’re yellow from smokin’. He allus sits under a light that makes his face look like death warmed over, with his hands hangin’ down ’tween his knees, an’ a cigarette hangin’ from his fingers by sheer habit. Keeps his coffee, or shine or whatever he’s havin’, in a old Stagecoach Cafe mug on the floor ’tween his feet.
The way the kitchen’s laid out, Grandpa kin sit with his back to the windows an’ watch the yard in the big mirror over the sink. At the time the trouble started, he must’ve been sixty or so, but with the hard years he had on him, he looked closer to eighty. Folks all think he’s wiser than anyone. Maybe he is—he’s mostly got the sense to keep his mouth shut, so nobody knows for sure.
Anyway, the day it all started, he was parked in his usual spot. Rye Willis (no relation to Bruce, though he is related to damn near every livin’ soul in Boone County) had stopped by with a sample of his latest batch of shine in a mayonnaise jar, to get the old man’s opinion an’ fill him in on all the local news. With both of ’em smokin’, you could’a cut the air with a knife. Nina was there, too. It was late afternoon Saturday, so she was off from the post office. She was prob’ly the real reason Rye showed up. Seemed like he was rackin’ his brain for any recent event he could think to tell the old man, anythin’ to stretch his stay. Everyone knew he needed a wife an’ he was sweet on Nina. Fat chance he had with her, even if he wasn’t fifteen years older. Nina’s the smartest of the old man’s get, too smart to settle for the likes of Rye, too smart to smoke even. She was near twenty that summer, for all she’d been runnin’ the post office goin’ on three years. She was samplin’ Rye’s brew, too, out of one of those little half-size Mason jars. I was the only one holdin’ back ’cause I was on duty. (My boss didn’t cotton to havin’ his deputies roll up smellin’ like a still.)
Anyway, it ’peared Nina was startin’ to get bored with Rye’s idea of current events when he threw out his ace. “That lay-brother-religious-fellow finally threw in the towel.” Rye sounded surprised.
“Left town?” I said.
“Ash Jackson run him out,” Nina opined. “Been fillin’ the heads of all the young ’uns with ideas of education.” Not that Nina was opposed to schoolin’.
“Why’d Ash give a damn?” Rye demanded.
“One of ’em’s Angie Boone,” Nina said. “Ash’s sweet on her.”
“But she’s his cousin,” Rye said. “An’ she can’t be but fifteen or so.”
“Lotta that runnin’ round in Ash’s family,” Nina told him.
Rye shook his head an’ changed the subject. “When’re you gonna give in an’ go out with me, Nina?”
“How ’bout January 26, 2102?”
I grinned. I could tell by the look she shot me that she appreciated there wasn’t two dim bulbs lightin’ up her life just then. The old man got it, too, almost killed hisself laughin’ ’cause it started him on a coughin’ fit.
“When’re you gonna go out with Homer?” Rye axed her when Grandpa’d got his breath back. Rye meant me, Ajax “Homer” Deters (though nobody’s called me “Ajax” since I broke Ash Jackson’s jaw for makin’ fun of me in the second grade).
Anyway, Nina give me a sizin’-up look, then said, “When he gets done his schoolin’.” I could feel myself go red down to the soles of my feet. Nina added, “You’ll have to ask him when that’s gonna be.”
I was saved from further embarrassment by the ruckus that broke out next. Nina’s cat come streakin’ through the room an’ knocked over the jar of shine, causin’ Grandpa to sit up an’ grab behind him for his twenty-gauge. Rye swung a kick at the cat that would’ve killed it if he’d connected. He hates cats anyway, an’ the waste of all that good liquor gave him a excuse to go after this one. Fortunately for the cat, Rye don’t move a lot faster than he thinks; the critter ’scaped back the way it come. Nina grabbed the twenty-gauge from Grandpa an’ would’ve perforated Rye with it, but I took it away from her an’ removed the shells.
Grandpa wheezed, “Homer, you gimme my gun.”
So I stuck it back in the corner an’ tole him I’d run him in if he didn’t stay out of it.
Nina ducked out the back door an’ took off runnin’. Rye hit the doorjamb on his way out after her, an’ that slowed him enough to let him see he hadn’t a prayer of catchin’ up. He stopped just outside the door, an’ the two of us watched her disappear round the side of the house. She was pretty as a half-growed doe, but I personally would’a rather messed with a momma bear.