Solom

by Scott Nicholson

  Except the drugs would have to go. That was part of the deal, and the part Jett felt responsible for. She wondered how much of Mom’s hasty decision to marry was fueled by a desire to whisk her daughter away from the big city lifestyle and the accompanying bad influences she had collected. Jett was surprised she didn’t miss most of her friends, but instead of seeing her dad every weekend, she had only seen him once since the move.

  But she had the letter ...

  Jett was starting up the flagstone walk when a bleat erupted behind her. A goat stood by the wire fence, gnawing on a locust post. The green irises glittered in the afternoon sun, the boxy pupils fixed on her. Like it was sizing her up. Inviting her into the loft.

  “No way, Joshua boy,” she said, louder than she wanted.

  She backed the rest of the way up the walk and onto the porch, not letting the goat out of her sight. Just before she opened the door, she glanced at the barn. A figure stood in the upper window, in tattered clothes, face lost in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. Jett slipped inside the house and slammed the door closed, then leaned against it, trying to catch her breath.

  “Honey?” Katy called from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

  Jett didn’t trust her voice enough to answer. Instead, she eased the backpack off her shoulder and peeked through the curtains at the barn. Nothing. Even the goat had turned away and ambled up to a tangle of blackberry vines.

  A for-Christ’s-sake flashback. Acid bouncing back like a cosmic boomerang to whack her on the ass.

  “Jett?” Katy appeared in the kitchen doorway, wet dough nearly up to her elbows.

  “Hi. What are you making?” Jett forced a smile, an expression she’d avoided since getting braces. A grimace went well with her glum Goth look.

  Katy looked down at her hands as if surprised to find them coated in white goo. “Chicken and dumplings, I think. And scratch biscuits.”

  “Cookbook?”

  Katy shrugged. “An old family recipe. I found it in the pantry.”

  Jett nodded. When they first moved, she and Mom had a long talk about Rebecca, Gordon’s first wife. Mom insisted she wouldn’t try to replace Rebecca. Mom was sure Gordon would appreciate her for who she was, and she might not be the world’s greatest homemaker, but she was willing to try. “I’ll never be the next Rebecca Smith, but I’ll be the first Katy Logan, and that’s the best Gordon could hope for,” Mom had said.

  Except a little of the sparkle had faded from Mom’s eyes, and she seemed a little shaken today. Jett felt a pang of guilt for even thinking of breaking her promise to stay clean. Katy had enough to worry about. Like whatever was causing that smoke in the kitchen.

  “I think your biscuits are done,” Jett said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The dinner table was made of ancient oak, the legs hand-carved by some distant Smith ancestor. It wobbled slightly when Katy put her elbows on the table. She caught Jett’s eye and frowned. Jett was staring off into space, right in the middle of Gordon’s blessing. Then she realized her own eyes were open, and she turned her attention back to the lump of mashed potatoes. The potatoes were a bad choice with the dumplings. The meal appeared gray and bland, even with the pink meat of the chicken stirred among the dumpling juice. At least they had fresh broccoli, and Katy was grateful for the hardy crop that continued growing through the early frosts.

  “... and may the Lord bless this bounty placed before us, and the hands that prepared it,” Gordon said, in a voice Katy imagined he used when delivering a lecture to half-asleep sophomores. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” Katy said.

  Gordon flipped out his cloth napkin with a flourish. Katy had never used cloth napkins in Charlotte, considering them an extravagance, the kind of thing that led to a premium charge at a fancy restaurant. But Gordon had showed her the drawer that held the table linens, and explained how Rebecca had always kept three clean sets of the same off-white color. He didn’t exactly order Katy to lay out cloth napkins with each dinner, but if Rebecca was able to do it, then why shouldn’t Katy? So what if it meant extra laundry and another three minutes of her day wasted?

  “These dumplings look plumb delicious,” Gordon said. He speared a lump of cooked dough with his fork, brought it to his nose, and sniffed. He took a bite.

  Jett picked up a sprig of broccoli with her fingers, tossed it into her mouth, and began chewing noisily. Katy didn’t even think to ask Jett to mind her manners because she was so intent on Gordon’s reaction.

  “Mmm,” Gordon said. “Acceptable. Most acceptable indeed.”

  Acceptable? What in the hell did that mean? That Rebecca’s were better? But all she said was, “I’m glad you like them, dear.”

  “Maybe we should tell him about the scarecrow now,” Jett said.

  “Scarecrow?” Gordon reached for the white wine. Katy would never have dared select a suitable wine. She was a gin girl, at least on her infrequent opportunities to imbibe. Since Jett’s drug problems began, though, she had denied herself the dubious pleasure of alcohol. Gordon didn’t seem to care about intoxication. He rarely drank more than a glass or two. To him, it was an affectation, like his pipe, the requisite habit of a tenured scholar.

  “The scarecrow in the barn,” Katy said.

  “Oh, that old thing? What about it?”

  “Yesterday, it was out in the cornfield. Now it’s hanging on the wall.”

  “Maybe Odus Hampton brought it in. He was doing some work for me a few days ago, while you guys were shopping in Windshake.”

  “It was on the wall, then it was gone yesterday. And it was back again today.” Katy didn’t want to tell the other part, about the goat had dragged it away, about how she thought it had moved under its own power. And how it must have put itself together, climbed the wall, and snagged itself on the hook again.

  “Just like the story you told us,” Jett said. She didn’t seem as enamored of Katy’s dumplings as Gordon was. She worked on the broccoli and her milk, and then dipped into the bowl of cinnamon apple slices that Katy had prepared as a side dish.

  “The scarecrow boy,” Gordon said, breaking into a grin. His cheeks were flushed from the wine.

  “I saw it, too,” Jett said. “The night I”—she shot a glance at Katy—“freaked out in the barn.”

  Gordon’s eyes narrowed, and Katy saw a hint of cruelty in his face. “You haven’t been messing with drugs, have you? I thought I made it clear to your mother that I wouldn’t tolerate that business in my house. It’s bad enough you have to go around dressed like a prostitute at a funeral.”

  Jett slumped in her chair, jaw tightening. She fingered the studded leather band around her throat as if it were cutting off her oxygen.

  “Gordon, please,” Katy said.

  Gordon sipped his wine. “Rebecca would never have allowed such foolishness, God rest her soul.”

  “Jett’s not doing drugs anymore,” Katy said. “She promised. We both promised.”

  Gordon patted his lips with the cloth napkin, and Katy wondered if she’d have to spray Spot Shot on it later. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair. I did accept you for better or worse, after all.”

  Katy flashed a pained smile at Jett as if to say, See, I told you he’s not so bad. We all just have to get used to each other. Except part of her was thinking, If Rebecca was so wonderful, why didn’t she bear Gordon a perfect child, one who wasn’t individual and human and as achingly beautiful as Jett?

  She squeezed her own napkin under the table until her fingers hurt. Jett said, “It’s okay, Gordon. No sweat.”

  Gordon didn’t know Jett well enough to detect the sullen defeat in her voice. Gordon raised one eyebrow at Katy in a When is she going to start calling me Dad? expression. Katy wondered when they were going to quit communicating in unspoken words and actually talk to one another. But that was silly, because Gordon wouldn’t even talk to her in bed when the lights were out and her heart was beating hard with expectation. Perhaps Rebecca had suffered the same neglect. The thoug
ht brought a sudden smirk to her face.

  Jett pushed her plate away. “I’ve got homework, folks.”

  “You didn’t finish,” Gordon said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Jett stood, her chair scraping across the floor. The sound cut the silence like a scythe through a tin can. Katy waited to see how the power struggle would play out, praying she wouldn’t have to take sides, mentally exploring a way to broker a peace settlement.

  “You shouldn’t waste what God’s blessing has brought to our table,” Gordon said.

  “I’ll put it in the fridge and she can have it for a snack after school tomorrow,” Katy said.

  “I don’t want it tomorrow,” Jett said.

  “Honey, we’ve all had a long day,” Katy said. “Why don’t you go do your homework and we’ll be up to talk about it later?”

  She knew Gordon wouldn’t join in on the talk. He had rarely been in Jett’s room, apparently considering it some sort of den of iniquity. Rock posters, a black light, a tarantula in a small aquarium, melancholy music playing constantly, at least while Gordon was home. No, Gordon hadn’t yet reached out to his stepdaughter, though he expected automatic respect by sole virtue of Jett’s residence under his roof.

  “Sure, Mom.” Jett left the room and Katy took her first taste of the chicken and dumplings. Too salty. Rebecca’s recipe had called for two tablespoons. Or was it teaspoons? The recipes were handwritten, and Katy could easily have made a mistake.

  “Do you really like them?” Katy asked.

  Gordon was staring out the window at the darkness that had settled on the farm as they ate. The crickets chirped, katydids rubbed their wings together, and moths fluttered against the window screen.

  “They were fine,” Gordon said, absently.

  “Can we get rid of the scarecrow?”

  “The scarecrow?”

  “The one in the barn.”

  “What about it?”

  “I don’t like it hanging in the barn. It spooks me.”

  Gordon laughed. “That’s been in the family for years. I put it up for the winter so it doesn’t rot.”

  “I thought you said Odus Hampton put it up.”

  “Yeah. I guess he did.”

  “It’s out there now. I saw it.”

  Gordon reached across the table and took her hand. He smiled, his eyes bright, cheeks crinkling in the manner that had first attracted her. “Let’s forget about the silly scarecrow.”

  “You shouldn’t be so hard on Jett.”

  Gordon drew his hand away. “It’s just that I care about her. About both of you. I want you to be happy here.”

  Katy was about to say she would be a lot happier if she didn’t feel the invisible presence of his first wife. But as she opened her mouth, a brittle clatter arose from the kitchen and something broke on the floor.

  “Sounds like you have some work to do,” Gordon said.

  ***

  David Tester cut over Lost Ridge, taking the shortest route from his house to the church. Though it was dark, David knew the path well and carried a flashlight. An owl hooted in the unseen treetops and other nocturnal animals scurried on their way to put up winter supplies. The leaves were still crisp underfoot, though dew was starting to settle on the ground. A sodden wedge of moon tried to break through the canopy overhead.

  He was on the upper edge of the Smith property, a forested hilltop that Harmon Smith had owned and which now belonged to Gordon Smith. Rush Branch started as a trickle between some worn granite boulders near the peak, but gathered momentum and a few stray springs before churning into a frothing waterway by the church. Harmon Smith had deeded property for the church, though the original log building had been torn down and replaced after the turn of the last century.

  Harmon had ridden his horse over this very trail, had slid off the saddle for a sermon many times before mounting up and heading to neighboring counties. This walk had become something of a pilgrimage for David, as if he expected to find an answer to the mysteries of the Circuit Rider, faith, and love lying along the trail.

  Too bad Gordon took only Smith’s surname and none of the fervid, passionate blood. Primitive Baptists didn’t have the duty of saving souls, but the preacher had to tend his flock all the same. David knew the weight of that responsibility. His brother Ray had disowned him because of it and had taken up with the Free Willers. Maybe Ray needed the little extra comfort that came from bringing the Lord into your heart. But Ray was born to believe he already had a place waiting in heaven, whether he forgot it or not.

  David played the flashlight over the trail, dodging the snakelike roots of oak and buckeye. Walking this trail had always soothed him and rejuvenated him, as if he were drawing on the spirit of those who had served before him. Walking right, that was the ticket. Following the path.

  Occasionally an acorn or nut slapped through the leaves and bounced silently on the ground near him. The woods had the earthy scent of loam and the salamander smell of muddy springs. David came to a strand of hog wire and knew he had reached the corner of Gordon’s pasture. The professor’s flock was made up entirely of goats. That said plenty about the current state of the Harmon Smith legacy.

  “Don’t be bitter, now,” David said to himself. “Gordon likely has a place in heaven the same as everybody else.”

  That was one of the things that bothered David about predestination. If the Lord already knew you were going to be worthy of eternal reward, why did He make you go through the whole works? Why didn’t he just beam your soul straight up to heaven from your mother’s belly? But that would make God little more than a parody of Scotty from the old “Star Trek” show.

  So God had to want something more. He laid out tests for you. David wondered if even thinking about God’s plan was somehow wrong, the kind of sin that wasn’t written about in the Bible.

  David climbed across the fence. His boot hung in a bottom strand of wire as he planted it on the far side, causing him to lose his balance. The flashlight fell to the ground and the beam flickered and died. David hung on top of the waist-high fence, the top wire digging into his upper leg. He righted himself and tried to free his boot. A wetness trickled down his left hand, and he felt the first burning of a cut.

  Something scuffed the leaves twenty yards to his right, inside the pasture.

  The moon glinted off the flashlight’s metal switch. David reached down from the top of the fence for the flashlight, but it was just beyond his fingertips. He stood up again, the wire yawing back and forth between the support posts. He yanked his stuck boot, but one of the eye hooks must have been caught on a stray sprig of rusted steel.

  Crackling leaves heralded the approach of something big. There was little to fear in the mountains except rabid animals. All the large predators like mountain lions had died out along with the buffalo and elk that had fed them. Black bears might attack if threatened, but David didn’t feel very threatening with his foot stuck and his crotch riding the thin line of the fence top. He swung his free leg over and planted it on the ground, giving a painful twist to the ankle of the trapped foot.

  Now his back was turned to the approaching creature. David twisted his neck and almost laughed.

  “What in tarnation are you doing out here?” David said. “Trying to figure out who’s trespassing?”

  The goat stood ten feet away, head lowered, the bottom half of the face lost in shadows. Its emerald eyes glittered in the muted moonlight.

  “The Lord’s Prayer says forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

  The goat lifted its nose and sniffed at the air as if it could care less about the Lord’s Prayer. The wicked curves of its horns suggested it was a billy buck. Though the horns were angled flat against the slope of the animal’s skull, they had the look of serious business. Goats butted heads as a mating ritual, or used their horns to drive away predators like foxes, bobcats, or wild dogs. But they didn’t attack people.

  David put his fr
ee foot beside the stuck one and tried to jimmy the wire. He was sweating from the exertion. After a few seconds of struggling, he sat down, scooted himself close to the boot, and began unlacing it. Maybe once his foot was free, he could work the boot loose. Now he could see the cut on his hand, the blood black in the weak light. It would need a heavy bandage, maybe stitches.

  Served him right, walking in the dark like that. Even though he thought of the trail as a sacred path, that didn’t mean it wasn’t treacherous. Rattlesnakes lived in the granite crevices along the ridge, and it was easy to trip over a root or stone and break a leg. Out here, he might not be found for days if he became immobilized. And it wasn’t like the Lord cast down a holy beacon to show the way.

  No, this wasn’t a test. Just too much tread on a Timberland workman’s boot.

  As his fingers loosened the square knot, he looked back at the goat. It was three feet away now, and its strong musky scent filled his nostrils. Goats were such nasty, stubborn animals. David didn’t understand their growing popularity among local farmers, no matter how exotic goat cheese and goat meat sounded to people raised on beef and beans.

  “Just be glad the Lord doesn’t require sacrifices like he used to,” David said. “Abraham would have you up on a rock altar right now, a blade against that stringy neck of yours.”

  The goat bent its head down and stepped forward, the dark cloven hoof landing right next to David’s thigh. The animal panted, its breath rank with half-digested goldenrod and maple leaves. The elongated face swung near David’s cheek, the tangled beard whisking across his shoulder. The goat sniffed, the black nostrils flaring, the queer, oblong pupils fixed on David.

  “Go away, boy. Aren’t you supposed to be in the barn or something?”

  The animal sniffed the length of David’s arm.

  “Get,” David said, louder now, almost angry.

  And, if he dared to admit it, a little scared.

  The goat drew back a step. Saliva sparkled on the protruding lips.

  David tore at the boot laces, sweat stinging his eyes. The goat moved in again, this time going lower on his arm. The animal’s tongue darted out and licked at his hand.