Calling Home

by Janna McMahan

  The problem with Virginia was she didn’t have any vision, or any patience. It takes a while to get a business off the ground, but she couldn’t wait. She never took chances, never gambled. If something went wrong for Virginia, she was quick to pin the blame on somebody else. But Roger wasn’t her problem. Never had been. He was tired of being the dog that got smacked every time something didn’t go her way. He’d been going to leave long before Bootsie showed up. Bootsie had only kick-started the process. Roger had counted on Virginia being too proud to ever let him come home, but she had surprised him, had left the door open even after he had moved in with Bootsie. Sometimes a woman, even a woman like Virginia, would surprise you.

  Roger snaked the car slowly up a hill. At the top, he spied Bootsie’s yellow Chevette parked out front. He smiled, remembering the first time he saw her at Shelby’s Shooting Range. His little Browning was hot. He was hitting 24 or 25 out of each round. He’d just picked off another guy’s missed shot when he heard a woman’s laugh, the kind that made a man stop what he was doing to look. She was crawling out of Harley Jones’s muddy truck in the loudest clothes Roger had ever seen. Her slacks were so tight you could see panty lines. Her hair was what women called frosted, and her teeth were perfect, like two neat rows of white sweet corn. Roger always was a sucker for pretty teeth.

  Instead of going into the snack bar building where wives and girlfriends congregated to drink watery coffee and smoke and complain about how much they hated coming to trap shoots, this bright, thin bird of a woman hung around the shed watching the games. Somebody handed her a set of ear protectors and she said, “Those look like stereo headphones.” She balanced on the back of a bench in the shelter so she could see the targets over the shooters’ heads and Roger grinned to himself thinking she looked like a dragonfly with those big things on her little head.

  Roger handed his two dollars to the range manager and got in line for the next round. The first shooter said, “Pull!” A target flew out of the trap house and report rattled down the hollow. Shot rained into the steel gray bank behind the range where buckshot had peppered the leaves off the bottom of the trees in a wide oval against the hillside.

  “This is exciting,” the woman said. The usual profanity and ribbing was replaced by concentration when it became apparent that a woman was going to watch. One by one, shooters took their turn, five shots at each line. They advanced to the next post to the right like clockwork, silent except for shots. It was a game of constant motion, a well-orchestrated dance.

  The next heat was Killer. Thirty men stood shoulder to shoulder while a serious young man walked behind the lineup with a remote-control launch button in his hand. “Pull!” the first shooter said. The boy pushed the button, a target flew, shot broke it, and the pattern repeated until someone missed. “Pull!” Another target. A hit. The next. Same story. Everybody was on. Gunpowder made the air sour and metallic. It was Roger’s turn. “Pull!” The target flew to his left. He shattered the bird. He broke open his gun, tossed the spent shell into his side bag, fed a loaded shell into the chamber, and rested the open barrel on the hook at the toe of his boot. The game moved fast. Two misses and a shooter was out. The field was down to ten. Onlookers whittled and smoked. A deer sauntered onto the back of the range. The men blasted away. Bootsie cried, “A deer!” More shots. “Pull!” Bootsie ran to the side of the range, that little yellow ass twisting like crazy. Everybody stopped to watch. “Well, I’ll be,” someone said. “She’s a spitfire,” somebody else said. Bootsie clapped her hands at the deer, but it only stared at her with big dopey eyes. She got right up on the animal and flung her arms and yelled, “Run, you stupid thing!” It bolted back into the trees and she returned to the shelter as quickly as she had gone out.

  “Damn Bootsie, that was dumb,” Harley said. “You could of got shot.”

  “Somebody had to do something,” she said, adjusting the bulbous headphones that had gone catawampus on her head.

  “Should of shot it and took it home for supper,” somebody joked.

  “I like a good venison steak,” another guy said.

  “Don’t mind them,” Harley said.

  “It was like it wanted to get shot,” she said. “Why would it stand there and take such a pounding and not run away? Anything ought to have more sense than that.” In that instant, Roger knew he had to have her. He waited until Harley Jones went into the snack shed.

  “That was a real brave thing you done,” he said to her.

  “Think so? I can’t believe it walked right out onto the shooting range.”

  “Happens a lot.”

  “Really?”

  “They live here and don’t think nothing about the shots.”

  “They’re numb to it? I don’t see how anything could get used to being shot at.”

  “Guess you can get used to anything after a while. Where you from?”

  “I live in Falling Rock now.”

  “How come I don’t know you?”

  “I married Randall Hutchings. We moved here last year, but we didn’t last. I opened a beauty shop and I got the house, so I thought I’d stay. Give small-town life a try.”

  “Why’d Randy move back here?”

  “Lost his job. He’s a construction contractor, but nothing’s being built right now.”

  “Yeah, lots of folks are moving home. Economy’s bad all over.”

  “What is it you do?”

  “I own a taxidermy shop.”

  “You stuff animals?”

  “And snakes and fish.”

  “You ever done a dog?”

  “No. But I could.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But that might be kind of weird.”

  Shooters began another game. Roger leaned in toward Bootsie.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Justine Brooks. Some people call me Bootsie.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Cause I had a pair of white go-go boots when I was a kid that I wore every day until my feet were about to bust out of them.”

  “So you was always a fancy dresser?”

  “You making fun of me?”

  “No. So what happened between you and Randy?”

  “I kicked him out because he cheated on me. But we were done by then anyway. We both knew it. You married?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Figures.”

  Roger balanced his shotgun in the crook of his arm with the barrel once again resting on his boot hook. He took out his earplugs. “Where’s your house?”

  “Way out Lemmons Bend Road.”

  “Yeah? How about that? That’s where I live. I’m Roger Lemmons. My people all lived out that way at one time.”

  “You country folks like to bunch up, don’t you?”

  “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “Just making an observation.”

  “You and Harley together?”

  “Just tonight.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “When are these things usually over?”

  “Harley never leaves till the end. Around midnight or one.”

  A clay pigeon exploded twenty feet from the target house.

  “I always stay up late,” she said.

  The taillights on Harley’s truck blinked in and out of trees and bends in the road. Roger let them get ahead, but when a straight stretch came, Roger could see Bootsie’s outline in oncoming headlights. She flicked a cigarette out her window and a tumble of sparks hit the road. He followed them through the creeping traffic in town. Midnight, and a few teenagers were still out. Roger nodded to a couple of girls poised on the tailgate of a truck. Limp hair framed pale faces and black-rimmed eyes. One giggled and coyly leaned her head on the shoulder of the other girl’s blue satin jacket.

  “Hey, girls,” he said. He was feeling reckless, energized. “Hey, I’ll be back later.”

  “You wish, grandpa,” the one in the jacket said.

  When Harley headed out Lemmons Bend Road,
Roger hung back and let them get out of sight. He sped past his house, his truck’s muffler an unmistakable sound to anyone inside. Light bled from the small rectangular basement window where his son was most likely watching television with that cute redheaded girlfriend of his; Will was probably getting more action than Roger had in years. Down the road about a dozen miles, Roger pulled into a gray, weathered barn and cut the engine. After a while, Harley’s truck rolled past and Roger smiled to himself. Harley Jones would be the one spanking the lonely monkey tonight. It had been hard for Roger not to jerk off while he was waiting, but he wanted to fuck this woman. He wanted to fuck her good for all the bad fucks he’d had from that cold-fish wife of his.

  But that wasn’t exactly fair, was it? Virginia hadn’t always been so cold. She had tried to love him in the beginning. Her heart just wasn’t in it. She was devoted, a good mother and wife in most ways that counted, always concerned with responsibilities. She just didn’t love him. Had never loved him, so what difference did it make if he screwed this woman tonight?

  Bootsie’s house was snugged up to the road with no garage and no way to pull around back, but he didn’t care. He didn’t give a shit about anything right now. The porch light flicked on and Bootsie opened the door.

  “Hello there, stranger,” she said. “Come on in.”

  Roger followed her back to the kitchen where she handed him a beer. He didn’t usually drink much, but he gulped the beer and threw the can in the sink. Bootsie unbuttoned her tight floral blouse and her nipples were pressed into a silky, see-through bra.

  “Come here,” he said. He pulled her bra down and she spilled out, round and full. He didn’t kiss her, but he watched her cherry mouth quiver, all wet with gloss as he slowly twisted her nipples.

  “You want to hurt me?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  She unzipped him, knelt on the floor and took him between her lips. Her tongue was like silk, like the wettest dream he’d ever had. He thought about the girl in the shiny jacket as he watched himself move in and out of Bootsie’s red mouth.

  6

  Squirrels ran around a spotted sycamore, their claws scratching and scratching the scaly bark. Suddenly, they leapt to a sweet gum branch and sticky pods dropped, leaving thin hollow tunnels in the snow.

  “Look—mistletoe.” Kerry pointed to green bunched high in bare branches. “Gimme a kiss.”

  “If you teach me how to drive,” Shannon said.

  “Sure enough. We could practice in that field.” He pointed to a pasture where a couple of dozen Herefords stood motionless in white up to their knees. “That way, you couldn’t run over nothing.”

  She brushed her lips lightly across his cheek.

  “Well, that’s the sorriest kiss I ever did get,” he said.

  She laughed swirls of steam. Kerry had been coming around for supper a night or two each week. They had sneaked around last fall, but after Christmas they started dating and Virginia did nothing to stop them. Her mother had sort of let go now that Aunt Patsy lived with them and their dad wasn’t around anymore.

  “I get my learner’s permit this summer.”

  “If you pass the test.”

  “Like I won’t pass that test.”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to be a senior next year.”

  “I know. Everybody else in my class is already driving. Almost makes me wish I hadn’t skipped a grade.”

  “You’re so smart you couldn’t help it.” Kerry pushed his hand underneath her jacket and brushed his gloves against her breasts.

  “Stop it. That’s cold!”

  “Okay. Get on top of me.” He grinned. “I always wanted to say that.”

  “Shut up and get on the sled.”

  “Okay, here goes.”

  Kerry lay on the sled and gripped the front steering shaft. Shannon climbed on his back and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “Don’t choke me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You ready?”

  “Go.”

  They jiggled and scooted to make the sled inch forward. Kerry put his hands in the snow and pushed. They finally dropped over the edge and when gravity grabbed them Shannon squealed. The sled cut around a limestone outcropping and through a stand of gnarled black cherry trees. When they broke into the clearing at the bottom of the hill, they were airborne for a second. Freezing wind stung their eyes. They shot toward the creek in the bottom.

  “Look out! Stop!” Shannon yelled.

  Kerry dug the toes of his boots into the snow and cut a hard right to prevent them from sliding into the ice-edged water.

  They flopped off the sled into the snow, laughing, their hearts throbbing.

  “That was great!” Shannon said.

  “Come on, let’s do it again.”

  “Okay.”

  Kerry pulled the sled up the hill. Shannon trudged behind. They stopped halfway up to catch their breath.

  “The trees look like capillaries,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Capillaries.” The open sky tinted the rolling hills of snow a soft blue and she imagined it was the earth’s skin with pale veins snaking beneath the surface.

  “You say the strangest things.”

  “Go on,” she said, pointing up the hill.

  When they reached the top they collapsed on the sled to rest. “That’s my papaw’s old place.” Kerry pointed to a crumbling structure in the distance. “We house tobacco there some now. Over there will be my land when I graduate. Think I’ll grow some soybeans and see what happens.”

  “Lots of people are doing that. Crop rotation is supposed to be good for the soil.”

  “What do you know about crop rotation?”

  “I know about erosion and soil depletion and all kinds of stuff. I pay attention in class, unlike some people I know.”

  “Boy, ain’t that the truth. I should pay more attention. Dad said if I wanted to go to UK and major in Ag that he’d pay.”

  “You should take him up on it.”

  “I’m tired of school.”

  “Agriculture is turning big business.”

  “Yeah, I know. You want to live on a farm?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t planned on it. Guess it would depend on what kind of farm and where it was. I wouldn’t mind living on a horse farm in Lexington.”

  “Shit. I guess not.”

  She laughed. “You ready to go down again?”

  “Wait a minute,” Kerry said. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re my girl, right?”

  “You know I am.”

  “Well, everybody got class rings last week and I wasn’t going to get one.”

  “I know. You told me. Waste of money.”

  “But I thought about it and decided that maybe I needed one. I mean, one for you to wear.”

  He pulled off a glove and reached into the pocket of his jeans. He held out a thick gold ring with a red crest and a tiny gold cardinal in the middle.

  “Will you go with me?” he asked.

  Shannon stared at him, then at the ring, then at a flock of birds that trailed across the sky. She had hoped that they would continue to date, but not make this commitment.

  “Come on, Shannon. Don’t turn me down.” He looked truly hurt.

  “I’m not turning you down. I was looking at it, silly.”

  She tried the ring on, but it was too large for even her thumb.

  “It doesn’t fit,” she said.

  “That’s okay. We’ll find a way to make it work.”

  Shannon unhooked her necklace. She strung the ring onto the chain and slid it down into her sweater.

  “Oh, it’s cold.”

  “Leave it out then.”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to tell anybody just yet.”

  Later that night, as they watched television in her basement, Shannon ran Kerry’s ring back and forth along the chain making a zipping sound. When she let the ring fa
ll back to her chest she was aware of its weight. Eddie Van Halen’s guitar screeched, and lights flashed from the television. David Lee Roth whirled in the air and came down on the end note with a flourish. “That was the energetic chords of Van Halen with their 1978 hit single, ‘Runnin’ With the Devil’,” Don Kershner said in his monotone voice. “Next up on ‘Don Kershner’s Rock Concert’ is their number one hit, ‘You Really Got Me’ from last year’s self-titled album.”

  “Those boys have some big hair,” Kerry said. They were slouched down on the couch, holding hands over a half-empty bowl of popcorn.

  Shannon stretched like a kitten. “I like them. I’d like to go see them, but Momma would never let me go.”

  “Didn’t Will go see the Stones last year?”

  “Yeah, but she won’t let me, I bet.”

  “I don’t blame her. Too many drugs and orgies in the parking lot.”

  “How would you know, farm boy?”

  Kerry moved the popcorn bowl and pushed Shannon back and kissed her. His hand crept under her blouse. “You’re so soft,” he said. She squirmed under his touch and her nipples grew hard.

  “Shannon, I love you,” he whispered into her ear. She kissed him back; the bitter taste of beer and the sweetness of tobacco mingled in their mouths. He touched her stomach and she moaned. He ran his hand down between her legs.

  “Kerry, stop it!” She pushed him away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Shannon. I just thought—”

  “You just thought what? You thought if you gave me a ring that I would do that?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I was kind of hoping. Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” He stood up, walked away, turned back, shrugged. “I’m stupid. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it until you said you were ready.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I just can’t do that. We talked about limits and that’s definitely it.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  She touched the ring dangling from her necklace. “Do you want this back?”

  “No. That’s not why I gave it to you.”

  “You sure?”

  “I read you wrong is all. I thought you wanted to.”

  “I want to, but I can’t. You have to respect that. I just can’t.”