Five

Friday, October 11

Little Jump Off, North Carolina

THE RASPY, INSISTENT caaww of a crow awakened Jonathan Walkingstick. All night he’d slept in the same position, his back turned to his wife, his body stiff with anger. Though Ruth had slept beside him, she lay equally rigid, facing the other side of the bed. The fight that had been simmering between them all week had risen to a boil last night, spilling over and blistering everyone at Little Jump Off with caustic words and bitter accusations. Clarinda, Ruth’s newly arrived cousin from Oklahoma, had finally tuned them out by sticking her nose in the latest Danielle Steel novel. Little Lily, however, had no escape from their hostility: long into the night the baby had squalled inconsolably. When they were at last able to silence her, they both lay down in icy silence, both keeping to their own sides of the bed, careful not to let their bodies touch.

Caaawwww. The crow cried again. Jonathan raised up. In the leaden light he could see most of the parking lot, the highway that curved along beside it, and past that, the river beyond. Wispy tendrils of early morning fog rose from the Little Tee, making it look hot instead of cold. The Styx, Jonathan thought, remembering his old mythology book and the seething stream that bordered the ancient Greek underworld. Maybe that was where they lived now. Some backwoods corner of Hades reserved for people ill-suited to be married to each other.

He sighed as he watched the fog curl wraith­-like into the air. Last night they’d fought over a man who’d called and wanted to hire him out as a boar guide. Last week they’d fought over her taking Lily to the rally in Tennessee. Last month they’d fought over Ruth contributing a hundred dollars to a Micmac Indian running for a congressional seat in Maine. Maine! One way or another, it always came down to money. He hoarded dimes like a squirrel hoards nuts; Ruth spent money as if they were rich. He had thought Lily’s birth might make his wife more cautious with their dollars, but Ruth had grown worse, throwing money away on the most ridiculous of things. If Lily got sick this winter, he didn’t know what they would do. He doubted Ruth’s goofy herbal remedies would make much headway against pneumonia or the croup.

A sudden dark movement caught his eye. The crow that had awakened him swooped from the roof and landed in the parking lot. It strutted over and hopped up on the rim of the trash barrel beside the gas pump. With a flick of its sleek black wings, it began to pick through the garbage, expertly perusing the trash for a cast-off French fry or moldy crust of bread.

“Koga,” he whispered. Crow. Though the sleek black birds did not usually remind him of Mary, today he thought of her. What would she be like as a mother? Would Lily’s fragility and utter dependence terrify her as much as it did him? Or would Mary have Ruth’s blind faith that nature and fate would sort things out? She would be vigilant, he decided. Like him. Life had taught both of them both a lot about taking precautions.

He rolled out from under the blanket. Grab­bing his jeans and a T-shirt, he tiptoed to the bathroom and closed the door, wanting to dress without waking anyone up. When he cracked the door back open, neither his wife nor daughter had moved.

He crept over to check on Lily. She slept on her stomach, her head turned toward her mother. Soft, dark hair curled around her shell-like ears, and she was making a sucking motion with her jaws, as if even in sleep she dreamed of eating. He stopped and kissed the soft spot on the top of her head, feeling her pulse throb against his lips. How amazing Lily was! She’d be­ come a fundamental part of him the instant she’d entered the world—no less essential than his heart or his brain. Ruth could leave him, Little Jump Off could fall down around his ears—as long as Lily was safe, everything would be okay.

Smiling, he turned and padded downstairs. The cot in front of the fireplace lay empty, and the scent of brewing coffee wafted through the store. Damn, he thought wearily as he walked toward the coffeepot. Clarinda must be up.

“Hi, Jonathan.” Ruth’s cousin appeared at his elbow so suddenly, he jumped. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” he replied tersely. She must have been in the bathroom, behind the bait cooler. A pretty enough girl with firm breasts and a tight rear end, he’d known a number of Clarindas when he was in the Army. All were like those multi-colored drinks you got in fancy bars. You had a hell of a good time while you were drinking them, but the next morning you were hanging your head over the toilet, wishing someone would just come along and put you out of your misery.

Clarinda pressed her hand against the small of his back. “You and Ruth make everything better after you went to bed last night?”

Pouring his coffee, he considered his response.

He could lie and say Yes, we went to bed and fucked like monkeys and now everything’s just fine; or he could tell the truth and say No, the coldest spot in the nation today continues to be the bedroom of Jonathan and Ruth Walking­stick, of Little Jump Off, North Carolina. That was what irritated him about Clarinda—every question she asked worked on about three different levels, each deeper and more dangerous than the last.

“We slept alright,” he finally answered, deciding that he was too tired to play her games. “How about you?”

“Okay.” She sighed, massaging a little circle on his back. “But it got pretty cold down here in the middle of the night.”

“Sorry,” he said, moving away from her hand. “You should have asked for an extra blanket.” He took his coffee over to the front window and stared out into the parking lot. Yesterday a man named Duncan had called, wanting to hire him for the weekend as a boar guide. Jonathan had never taken this Duncan out before, but the man spoke as if he knew the area well, and he was willing to pay top dollar. Though he told Ruth it would mean five hundred extra dollars, she would not hear of him going. You said you’d go with us to Tennessee, she cried last night. You promised.

Suddenly he heard a piercing wail from upstairs. Miss Lily Bird Walkingstick was greeting the day.

Clarinda heard her, too. “Why don’t you take Ruth some coffee?” she suggested, pouring milk and sugar into a cup and topping it off with coffee. “Here. She used to drink it like this in Oklahoma.”

He took the cup Clarinda offered and walked upstairs. Ruth was sitting up in bed, Lily plugged into one breast.

“Café Tahlequah.” Jonathan handed her the mug. “Compliments of your cousin.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice cold.

“Lily okay?” He watched the frowning child pulling at Ruth’s breast, her gaze serious and in­tense upon her mother’s face.

“Her appetite is.”

“How about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then I guess you haven’t changed your mind about the rally.” Jonathan wondered if she’d ever once heard, in the past month, any of his concerns about their shrinking bank account.

Ruth’s face immediately locked down into the hard, angry lines of the night before. “No, Jonathan, I haven’t changed my mind. I’m going. Lily’s going. At last count, you were going, too.”

“It’ll cost us a almost a thousand dollars.”

“How so?”

“It’s the peak weekend for tourists. If you stayed here and kept the store open, we might clear three hundred bucks.”

Ruth set her coffee cup on the bedside table and lifted Lily to her shoulder. “That’s not a thousand by my arithmetic book.”

“That guy Duncan. He’ll pay me five hun­dred to take him boar hunting for three days. I’m supposed to meet him in Murphy tomorrow morning.”

“Now I get it,” Ruth said sarcastically, as Lily started on her other breast. “This is really about you going boar hunting.”

He rubbed his forehead in frustration, hating the way she could always box him in with her words. “No, Ruth, it’s about making ends meet. We’re almost broke.”

“Broke? We weren’t broke last week when you bought that new fishing reel. Or that chain saw.”

Involuntarily his hands curled into fists. “Damn it, Ruth, I spend one dollar to your ten. Fish is what we eat! Wood is how we heat this place! Right now it’s mid-October. We have a cold, damp winter coming. If you take Lily to that rally and she gets sick, how are we going to pay for it?”

“Breast-fed babies have immunities, Jonathan,” Ruth replied smugly. “They don’t get sick like other babies. I’m taking my medicine bag, and anyway, we’re only going to Tennessee. It’s not like she’s going to catch bubonic plague there.”

“You don’t know what could happen, with Clarinda watching her.”

“Jonathan, you have fought me about this rally since day one. Go ahead and go boar hunting if you want. I don’t care. Just don’t make rude remarks about my cousin and stupid excuses about not having enough money to get poor little Lily through the winter!”

He was so angry, he couldn’t focus his eyes. Since Lily had been born, it had been like this every time they argued. He’d say one thing and she’d twist it into something entirely different. For the first time in his life, he wanted to hit a woman. Instead, he turned away and stormed down the stairs, where he found Clarinda perched behind the cash register, eating a carton of strawberry yogurt.

“Is all your stuff packed up?” he asked gruffly, at that moment hating her as much as he did Ruth.

“Right there with yours.” With her spoon, Clarinda pointed to the front door. If she heard the fury in his voice, she didn’t show it.

Ruth had stacked all the gear she’d packed for the trip—their clothes, Lily’s clothes, food, diapers, toys, and a portable playpen—in a pile by the entrance to the store.

Without bothering to put his shoes on, he flung the door open and started hauling everything out. Ruth had already worn out one clutch on her truck in the eighteen months she’d lived in the mountains, and she was fast working on wearing out another. Not wanting to take the chance of the thing going bad on her and Lily, he loaded their gear into the back of his old Chevy. By the time the morning fog lifted, he’d attached the camper to the trailer hitch and filled up the tank. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he looked at his work. Though the makeshift rig looked like something the Beverly Hillbillies might drive; the brakes worked and the clutch was good. It should make the trip over the mountains to Tennessee without any problems.

He strode back inside to find Ruth settling Lily into her car seat. Lily grinned at him. Ruth looked as if she might spit in his eye.

“All packed?” she asked, her voice like glass.

“You and Lily and Clarinda are.”

“What about you?”

He did not take his eyes from her face. “I’m going to earn some money this weekend,” he said evenly, knowing that Clarinda was watching from behind the cash register.

Ruth studied him for a moment, her eyes rekindling their vicious blaze. Then she said, “You really are one selfish bastard.”

Once again, rage boiled through him. “Well, Ruth, this selfish bastard has just loaded your car, checked your tires, and made sure you had enough Pampers to get to Tennessee. Here.” He jerked the car keys from his pocket and tossed them to her. She made no move to catch them, and they clattered to the floor. “And this selfish bastard is giving you his truck. Don’t ride the clutch on mine like you do on yours.”

“Fine,” she said as she stooped over and picked up the keys. “You know where I’ll be.”

“Have a good time. Make the world safe for the Cherokees.”

She snapped Lily into her car seat, then picked it up in her arms and walked past him. Clarinda followed. He watched as they got into his old camper, then he turned back inside the store. Something on the counter caught his eye—the black woolen bag Granny Broom had woven for Ruth. Her medicines! He leaped over and grabbed it, then ran out the door. Ruth had driven to the edge of the parking lot and was about to roll onto the highway.

“Wait!” he called, running toward her. “You forgot this!”

Ruth’s brake lights came on as she stopped the truck and rolled down her window.

“Here,” he said, loping up. “You might need this.”

“Thanks.” She took the bag and for once, looked at him with soft, pre-Lily eyes. “Sure you won’t come with us?”

He considered it: closing the store, losing even more money, then having to bunk in with Clarinda. “No, thanks,” he replied.

“Fine.” said Ruth, her mouth pinching downward. “Have it your way.” She shoved the truck into gear, then pulled onto the road that ran along the river, heading west. He watched until they disappeared around a curve, then he fumbled in his pocket for a slip of paper. Clootie Duncan, he’d scrawled on a gum wrapper, along with the time and meeting place. 828-555-9572. “Wax up your bowstring, Clootie,” he said savagely, turning back toward the store. “I’m taking you out for boar.”