by Jim Nelson
Spreading out the newspaper in full across the table top surfaced a little nostalgia. She remembered as a child finding the comics page in the morning paper and coloring in the pictures with her crayons. Her mother would do the crossword puzzle on lazy Sunday mornings while drinking coffee and picking at a bear claw pastry.
She couldn't recall her sister ever reading the newspaper. Cynthia was more interested in television and video games. Cynthia went outside when she was bored. Ruby was inclined to cuddle up on her mother's side. Quiet time at home was her face against her mother's lap, eyes closed, half-dozed off. The sound of her mother's pencil scratching letters into the crossword's squares was comforting. The rustle of the newspaper, the faint slurp of her mother's hot coffee, light cream…these were the memories Ruby found herself entertaining in the library.
Searching the corral, she spotted the local paper, the Calaveras Gazette. It reported California had deployed more National Guard units along the state border. The state activated its reserves and were sending units to border check stations—
The story was continued on the back page beside a color advertisement for Griffin Dodge. California accused Jefferson's all-volunteer militia of crossing state lines to harass motorists and threaten businesses along the border. They were pulling over drivers in California and demanding documentation proving they'd entered the country legally. They vandalized and damaged the property of any business they suspected of harboring or providing aid to Hagars. One video posted to the Internet recorded a group of Jefferson militia taking a blowtorch to a Hagar's Jug painted near the front desk of a motor hotel. A California state investigation declared this was the reason the original CHP crossed into Jefferson: The unit was pursuing Jefferson militia who'd run a passenger vehicle off the side of Highway 4 on California's side of the border.
Jefferson's response was that these groups were not militia, as none of the trucks chased down by the CHP were marked as state vehicles and none of the armed men were state employees. "They don't even know if these folks live in our great state," said a lawmaker. "As usual, California is blaming us for their problems."
This morning's edition of the Redding Daily Tribune offered a similar story on their front page. The headline read Indefinite Detention Proposed for Folsom, Susanville Convicts. The same Amador representative now argued the "The California Five Hundred," as he dubbed the list, "should remain incarcerated for life."
"We'll never release them—never," he told the newspaper. "They can finish out their time in their cells and we'll send California the bill for their room and board."
Fifty-four
At four in the morning, the scorching sensation of fire flared down Kyle's right leg, so sudden and excruciating, he yelled Ruby awake in the bed upstairs. She hurried down bleary-eyed, screaming over his yelling, "What's wrong? What's wrong? What is it?"
Kyle had yanked aside the bedspread to get its weight off the bad leg. She peeled back his gown. Nothing seemed amiss. The very touch of her fingers on his leg sent him into the sweats.
"You need to take your pain pills." She cupped his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. "That's why the doctor gave them to you. Your leg is healing. This is your leg healing." The electric shocks and burning sensation down his leg were his nerves restoring themselves.
"No pills." His eyes were wet.
"Why not?"
"I'm not getting addicted to that stuff."
Ruby opened the one pill bottle untouched since she'd first moved into the house. Inside it, the horse pills were piled like felled trees. She removed one and held it between her fingers. It weighed like six normal-sized tablets pressed together into a weighty cylinder. The bottle was marked with warnings and dosages, but the only word she paid any attention to was the drug's name, Morphine.
"You don't have to suffer," Ruby said. "You're allowed to heal without pain."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "This is the price."
"Price of what?"
"The price," he said, voice sharpening with desperation and guilt. "All my mistakes have returned to me. A man makes his decisions, and then his decisions make him."
Ruby heard the creak of floorboards. She went to the staircase in time to see Henry scamper back into this bedroom.
She wet a cloth in the kitchen sink and wrapped inside it a few ice cubes. She dabbed it across his forehead and cheeks. Like an ice cream headache, the burning sensation faded until it subsided. He remained breathing hard and flushed. He took her hand and kissed it once.
"It's time you told me about this hunting accident," she said to him. "The whole story."
She went to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. In the den, she dragged over the chair she kept in the corner beside his bed. When she sat down, his hand was already gripping the railing. It had become a familiar place for them to connect. She placed her hand over his and kept it there.
"I never take a first-timer hunting," he said to her. "That's my rule. It's a tough rule to keep. I've turned down good-paying work from people willing to pony up for a full week in the bush. Stockbrokers and Silicon Valley CEO types. Hollywood money, even. It was a rule I forced myself to keep. I broke that rule one time, and that was taking Pastor Hargrove hunting."
"Why?"
"Because he's my pastor," Kyle said. "I would've turned down anyone else in Angels Camp who'd never gone hunting before. I don't lead people up into the mountains to shoot up speed limit signs or put holes in beer cans. We're there to bag game. I don't take tourists. I take hunters hunting."
He motioned to the sliding glass door on the other side of the room. The mountain seemed to spring up from just beyond the property's rear fence.
"That's Fremont Hill. 'Hill' is a joke the gold miners used when naming it. It's one of the tallest mountains in the Sierra Nevada. Sometimes I wish I'd lived when the miners ran this stretch of Jefferson. Sometimes I feel I'm of their stock."
She squeezed his hand. "You're probably right."
"We have a cabin up there." He motioned toward Fremont Hill. "It's near the summit. I built it over three summers' time. Henry was two and three and four, as I recall. Lea stayed here and raised him while I was putting it up."
"Do you miss it?"
"One day, I'll return there. Once I can hike the trails on my own, that's when I'll go." He shook his head dolefully. "This place, Angels Camp—I grew up here, but I don't recognize it any longer. Something passed me by." He gazed at the state flag of Jefferson hanging limply on the wall. "I thought separating from California would make this place mine again. Make me feel like how I felt when I was six years old. I thought it would bring something back."
"What happened? What changed?"
"Too much television, too much cable news and Internet," he said. "It tricks them into thinking they live some place else. They see those celebrities and politicians on the screen and they think they're standing beside them. They think those people on TV are their friends. They think they 'know' them. They don't. We're here in Angels Camp, five hundred miles from Hollywood and three thousand miles from Washington." He shook his head in disgust. "Maybe Angels Camp didn't change. Maybe I did."
"Lea's death changed Henry." Ruby whispered in case Henry had returned to the top of the staircase. "The school said he was different before the car crash. Was he hurt?"
"Not bodily hurt, no," Kyle said. "The police pulled him from the car with only scratches. For two hours, he watched his mother die. That hurt him." He whispered as well. "The church helped, but they didn't help Henry. They treat him like a dummy. The school didn't know what to do with him. Everyone gave up on Henry." He spoke just above a breath. "Except me."
"And me." Ruby squeezed his hand again.
"Pastor Hargrove had been on me for months to take him hunting," he said to her. "He would not let it go. He even got Griff into the act. Both were pressuring me."
"What could he possibly want out of killing some innocent creature?"
"Prove he was
a man," Kyle said, almost spitting it out. "Hang a buck's head over his fireplace and tell everyone the story how he tracked it day and night." His voice lowered again. "The pastor has been making trips to Redding. He's on a council of spiritual advisers to the governor. Our church was very vocal about Jefferson separating." He grimaced. "Griff and the pastor told me my state contracts would improve if I took him up the mountain."
"State contracts," Ruby said. "Thinning the deer population."
"Course, they left me to wonder what would happen to those contracts if I refused him. Finally, I gave in." He took in a deep breath and growled it out. "I had to take him to Clark's Fish & Tackle and walk him through the store. I showed him what rifle to buy, what ammunition to get, and the right scope. He had none of the necessaries. And I signed him up for a gun safety course. I only found out after I was shot that he'd failed to show."
Ruby sucked in air, angered at what she was hearing.
"First day in the bush went fine." Kyle was staring off now. "No sight of a buck. We made camp in the cabin."
"The cabin you built."
"No," he said. "My cabin's only for family. No, I rent a cabin up there for hunting trips."
He continued his story. "Over dinner the first night, he wouldn't let go about not spotting a buck. I told him the worst day hunting is better than the best day working. Walking through Nature and being a part of its majesty—a man of God should understand that. He accused me of taking him to the wrong places. Finally, I asked him where I should have taken him. He couldn't answer that, of course." He shook his head, lost in his memories. "I felt bad saying it almost immediately."
"Because he was your pastor," Ruby said.
"I wasn't happy Henry seeing his pastor act this way. Damn child is what Hargrove sounded like that first night. And he expected me and Henry to do all the cooking. That's not how it works. Everyone pitches in on my hunting trips. It's not fine grub—not like your cooking—but if everyone works together, you'd be surprised how well everyone eats."
"I'm not surprised," Ruby said.
"Second day out, Hargrove starts getting antsy. We're about three-quarters of a mile from the road. Without my noticing, he lines up his sight. Well, I was up an incline and didn't see. Henry—" He motioned upstairs. They were whispering still. "Henry was right behind Hargrove. He spotted what Hargrove's taking aim at. Right before he squeezed a shot, Henry pushed the rifle barrel up and Hargrove missed."
"What?" Ruby said, voice jumping. "He did what?"
"It's not what I taught him," Kyle whispered, "but it was the right thing to do."
"Why?"
"Because the buck only had one point," Kyle said.
She shook her head. "I don't understand."
"Every year, the males grow a single point in their antlers. They're only fair game if they have three points. He was killing a young one. Adult males are what you hunt for. Never the children or the females."
Ruby peered around the room. "Why don't you have any heads on your walls?" Only photographs of bagged deer, she now realized.
"I don't hunt for trophies," he said. "Everything I hunt is consumed."
"But Pastor Hargrove?"
"Like I said, he wanted a rack for his den," Kyle said. "Something to show off when our representative in Redding comes to town for a visit." He shrugged. "I don't force my rule on my clients. If they bag it, it's theirs to do what they want. But it's gotta have three points."
His hand felt warm inside hers. His weathered skin created a rough shell over him. Maybe her warmth could penetrate that armor.
"Third day, still don't spot a buck," he said. "Hargrove was plenty steamed at Henry. And he was steamed at me for leading him to 'dead spots' and wasting his time. Well," he breathed out, "I'd had about enough. I planned to tell him we were packing it in early. When I hear a man badmouthing my son, I lose interest in state contracts and better pay." He cleared his throat. "I was seeing the real man on that trip. The curtain was pulled back."
He shifted his jaw. He was preparing himself for what he was to say next.
"We were returning to the truck after a morning out and about," he said. "Empty-handed, of course. I told Hargrove to set his safety and unload his rifle. I had to tell him every little step. He didn't know a thing."
Kyle stared off, reliving the moment.
"I go to open the driver's door. Hargrove is on the other side of the truck. Henry rides in the back. The door handle is in my hand. Hargrove was putting the rifle away. There's a sleeve on the floor of the cab. It runs along the bench seat where your feet go. You probably never noticed it," he said to Ruby. "I prefer to keep the rifles on the window rack, but for some reason, Hargrove spotted the sleeve along the floor and stored his rifle there. I think it was easier for him to reach. He wasn't used to the rifle's weight."
Kyle took another long breath while staring off. "He kinda jostled the rifle into the sleeve and—"
"Oh my God."
"I didn't hear a thing," Kyle said softly. "A burst of air against my hip. And then came this burning, like someone had set my leg on fire with gasoline. Next thing I remember, I was in the dirt. My legs were kicking around." He stared at her. "I thought I'd slipped and fallen."
"How did it happen?"
"I know exactly what went down," Kyle said with a confidence Ruby believed in. "I saw Hargrove remove the rifle's clip. He thought he'd unloaded the rifle."
She prompted, "But he didn't?"
"He liked to walk around with a round in the chamber," Kyle said. "That way, he had a bullet ready to fire when he pulled the trigger. It's bad practice. Even Henry knows better."
"But you told him to set the safety," she said. "Doesn't that help, somehow?"
"I did tell him to set his safety," Kyle said. "And if he'd done that, I'd have been spared all this. But a man like Hargrove thinks the safety is for children, like Henry. Not a big man like Pastor Benton Hargrove." Kyle shook his head in disgust.
"So when he put the rifle in the sleeve—"
"The barrel was pointed at the driver's door, where I was standing. I think his finger slipped on the trigger when he tried to get the rifle in the sleeve. The bullet went through the door and fragmented. See, hunting ammunition is designed to break into pieces on impact. Well, when it emerged on the other side of the door, a cone of eight fragments sprayed into me. My leg, my gut—" He patted his colostomy bag. "My intestines."
"He did it on purpose," Ruby said. "He wanted to hurt you."
"No," Kyle said, again with a confidence she could only trust. "He's a fool."
"But—didn't you talk to the police?"
"Sure," he said. "At the hospital, they took my statement and they took his statement. No crime was committed. They said it was up to the insurance people to work out. If I wanted to, I could take him to court."
"Why don't you?"
"No," Kyle said, stiffening up. "Not Pastor Hargrove."
Fifty-five
"Henry," Ruby whispered.
"He got me off the ground." Kyle's Adam's apple bobbled like a fishing lure as he swallowed back the memories. "He had the sense of mind and the sheer strength to drag me into the back of the truck. He applied a tourniquet around my leg with his belt. Good thinking."
"Didn't Hargrove help?"
"He was paralyzed," Kyle said. "Henry had to drive us off the mountain. Hargrove just sat on the passenger's side completely quiet. I was flopping about in the back of the truck like a fish. I was in a bath of my own blood. The blankets and the carpet were soused."
"How long did it take you to get to the hospital?"
"Forty-five minutes. Felt like ten hours. I'm damned lucky. The E.R. surgeon told me one of the fragments had passed near the main artery running down my right leg. If that artery had been severed, all my blood would have drained out in minutes flat."
Ruby found herself vaguely ill. She'd not felt this squeamish-sick since the first week of changing his bandages. She excused herself and returned with t
wo cups of coffee. He accepted his with a "Thanks."
"There's no cell reception on the mountain," Kyle said. "So when we reached the base of the mountain, I thought Pastor Hargrove was calling ahead to the hospital."
"That's what I would have done," she said.
"But when he started talking, I realized he was talking to his lawyer," Kyle said. "He never said a word to me, not then and not since. Last I saw Hargrove, I was being wheeled into the surgery room. I yelled at him to take care of my son. He was green. Hell, I should have told Henry to take care of him."
Ruby let herself cry. She'd listened quietly so far, but no longer. Drops splashed into the coffee. Tan ripples fanned across its surface.
"Henry saved you," she wept.
"He would have made Lea proud."
"He made me proud."
His left hand returned to the familiar spot on the railing. He clasped it as though grasping for a handhold, any leverage at all. She wiped her cheeks and placed a damp palm on the back of his hand.
"Stay with us," he said, looking into her wet eyes. "Live with me and Henry. Up in the mountains. In my cabin, my real home. Far away from all of this."
Her chest palpitated. She wiped her face again and stood. Hot coffee slapped about in her mug and spilled over its sides. She shook her head once, stared at him, and then shook it once more.
"I don't know," she said with a wet voice. "I don't know how long I can stay here."
"Cynthia—"
Hearing the name sent her scurrying from the bed. The real Cynthia was strong—Kyle and Henry were strong—and she was not. At the foot of the staircase, she again spotted Henry at the top of the stairs eavesdropping. Their eyes locked for a moment before the teen retreated to his bedroom.
"Cynthia—"
She ran up the stairs two at a time and closed the master bedroom door behind her. Hair in her hands, crying, she looked left and right as though the answer to all her problems was lying on the floor somewhere—kicked under the bed, maybe, or sitting forgotten at the base of a standing lamp.