“I’d put it over my door.”
“That would look good,” Henry said.
“Can I help?”
“No. There’s other things that need finishing.”
“But you—”
“But nothing. Fetch me the arsenic soap, if you want.”
Sam crossed his arms. “Fetch it yourself.”
Henry shrugged and left the barn, owl in hand, shotgun propped against his shoulder. Sam glared at his brother’s back, and shivered even though he tried not to; the morning was bitter cold.
Henry set the bird on his desk. Through his bedroom window he could see the field where Sam now worked, digging out rocks from the ground softened by Indian summer and carrying them to the well near the forest’s edge. The well was dry, and they’d been dumping rocks in it for as long as they could remember. Years before, peering over the edge with Sam, his brother had asked him if the well had a bottom, or if it just kept going.
Henry watched Sam kneel on the dirt and figured he was playing with the sluggish beetles he’d uncovered, using his finger to make them crawl in circles around the sockets of earth. Henry wanted to start work on the owl, but it would have to wait. First a cup of coffee, and then he’d lift the heavy rocks his brother could not.
Henry frowned and set the water to boil; he sighed as he sat at the kitchen table with a steaming mug. He was fourteen and believed this ritual set him on the correct path to adulthood, because his father did the same thing every morning, preparing his coffee with great seriousness. Sometimes his father talked about common cattle diseases, sitting at the table with the mug held in both hands under his chin. Multiple abortions in the breeding herd usually meant lepto. Lameness and spongy swellings along the shoulders and hips often indicated blackleg. Henry kept quiet during his father’s lectures; his sonorous voice and the thick smell of coffee were conversation enough.
Sam banged through the front door and ran into the living room, shouting Henry’s name. Henry set down his mug and whistled for him.
“There’s a man,” Sam said, breathing hard. “In the forest. I think he’s dead.”
They found the man in a shallow trench along a stand of bare maples. He was missing one shoe and his toenails were dirty. Henry saw a dark hole in the man’s thigh, black trails snaking down to the bottom of his blood-stiffened cuff. His brown hair was mashed to his forehead, and bits of dirt stuck to the tips of his eyelashes. His lips were almost white.
Sam picked up a stick and poked the man’s shoulder. “Is he dead?”
Henry put his ear to the man’s chest. “He’s alive. Stop poking him.”
“I’m just trying to wake him up.”
“You can’t. He’s hurt bad. We need to bring him inside.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll freeze out here. Now hold his arms, and I’ll grab his feet.”
“What happened to his leg?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Sam sniffled. “It’s from a bullet. Don’t tell me it isn’t.”
“So what. He was hunting and had an accident.”
“He doesn’t look like a hunter.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about anything.” Henry grabbed the man’s ankles. “If you won’t help, I’ll do it myself.”
The boys worked quickly and quietly. They dragged him from the forest and across the bumpy field. They rested near the broken tractor, the man lying between their feet. Henry wiped his forehead with his sleeve and spat.
“Ready?” Henry said, and Sam nodded.
By the time they’d put the man on the living room couch, Henry thought he might throw up. He ran to the bathroom and waited by the toilet. Sam knocked on the door.
“Go away,” Henry said. “I’m sick.”
“Is it because of the man?”
“It’s because I’m sick. Hurry up and fetch a hot compress for him, and make some tea.”
“Dad says that tea is for guests.”
“Well, he’s a guest, isn’t he?”
Henry waited until he heard Sam walk into the kitchen. Then he flushed the toilet, rinsed his face, and took the necessary tools from the medicine cabinet.
Cleaning the wound wasn’t as hard as he’d expected; he plucked bits of pant cloth from the clotted hole and poured alcohol until the blood dissolved and soaked into the gauze like watered-down wine. The man moaned and shifted when Sam put the hot compress on his forehead, and Sam drew back.
“I bet you he’s a criminal,” Sam said.
“He might be,” Henry said.
“Do you think he lost his shoe before he got shot, or after?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it’s before he got shot, then he’s just a bum,” Sam said. “Walking around with one shoe. Dad won’t care if we brought in a bum. Dad likes bums. Remember when we gave that smelly old man a ride to town?”
Henry probed with the tweezers; the man grunted and gripped the couch. His hands reminded Henry of his father’s—large and rough, with fine black hairs.
“He looks kind of young for a bum,” Henry said, and he pointed to the man’s scarred knuckles. “Those are boxer’s lumps. Uncle Frank had them.”
They ate an early dinner in the kitchen while the man slept. Sam drank his milk and licked froth off his upper lip, then set the glass down with a bang.
“He’s probably hungry,” Sam said.
Henry cut a piece of chop. “When he wakes up I’ll give him some pork, if he wants. Whose turn is it to scrub?”
“Yours.”
“I hate scrubbing.”
“Me, too.”
Sam pushed his corn around on his plate, fork tines scraping.
“Henry?”
“What.”
“You think we should get the doctor?”
“Not tonight,” Henry said. “It’s too cold, and I’m not leaving you here alone.”
The man cried out, and the boys ran into the living room to find him sitting upright, glassy-eyed, the front of his shirt soaked with sweat. His hair stuck up at odd angles. He was shivering.
The man dragged his gaze across the room and stopped at Henry.
“Did I yell something?” the man said.
Henry nodded.
“What’d I say?”
“Nothing. You just yelled.”
The man coughed. “Am I in a yellow farmhouse?”
“You are,” Henry said.
“Is your father home?”
“He’s at market.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Selling cattle.”
Sam stood by Henry’s side, holding his arm. The man smiled at Sam. His left eyetooth was missing.
“Hello. I’m Jacob.”
“I’m Sam Beasley.”
“You scared of me, Sam Beasley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jacob slid back down, rested his head on a bolster pillow, and held his wounded leg.
“I couldn’t find the bullet,” Henry said.
“You dressed it all right.” Jacob closed his eyes. “Will one of you boys fetch me something I left in the woods?”
Henry and Sam looked at each other.
“I might,” Henry said, but Jacob was asleep.
Cort sat in a booth, sipping coffee thick with sugar and cream. He dumped a handful of coins on the table and watched the diner’s parking lot through the window. A week of Indian summer had melted all the snow; now the cold wind returned. The pavement glittered with frost, and car windows reflected the moon. Fields across the road were spiked with broken stalks.
He pondered what had gone wrong. He’d kept it simple, as always—stand in the middle of the road, wait for the bank truck, and level the sawed-off when the driver gets close. But Jacob hadn’t frisked the guard properly, and the guard pulled a Chief’s Special from his boot, popping off two shots before Cort leaped on him and plunged the blade into his eye. Jacob limped into the woods with the sack of money banging against his side. He moved fast de
spite being wounded; Cort tracked him until leaves swallowed the blood trail.
Even if the shots proved fatal, Cort figured Jacob was at least a few miles away from where they’d left the truck, and he wouldn’t be dead yet. He knew if Jacob was going to come anywhere, it would be someplace like this. A friendly spot, where he could tie off his wounds and ask for a doctor. There would be questions, but Jacob wouldn’t care—he was weak, and frightened, and he’d probably confess the world in exchange for a warm bed.
“More coffee?”
Cort looked away from the window. His eyes were small and dark, his black hair cut short. He had thin lips and a thin nose.
“No, ma’am,” he said.
The waitress smiled. “We got some fresh pie. Apple and pumpkin.”
“Apple’d be nice.”
“Whipped cream?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled again and walked away. Cort stared at her back, wondering what she smelled like up close and in the dark. Then he returned to the window and waited.
Jacob woke in the middle of the night. Sam was upstairs, awake in bed, but Henry sat in the living room chair. His father’s shotgun lay across his thin thighs. In the dark room lit by the moon, Jacob looked like a dead man, his face drawn, eyes sunk behind large black circles. He moved his hand to the wet, sticky gauze laid over his wound.
“You been sitting here all night?” Jacob said.
“I have.”
Jacob grinned. “Watching over me.”
“Just watching,” Henry said.
“You’re being smart. You’d be even smarter if you got my bag from the woods. It’s near that old well.”
Henry nodded at the bloodied sack sitting on the floor. “I got it.”
“Finders keepers,” Jacob said.
“I don’t want it.”
“Your father might.”
“He won’t.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“We will. He comes back Friday.”
“Friday?” Jacob winced and drew in a deep breath. “You don’t have that long.”
“There’s a doctor ten miles south,” Henry said. “Our tractor’s broke, but I can send Sam first thing. The doctor is good. He fixed my arm a few years back.”
“Do you have a phone?”
Henry shook his head. “The lines haven’t made it out here yet. They were supposed to have them done by last year.”
“Goddammit.” Jacob rested his arm over his eyes and sighed.
Henry waited. He heard the kitchen faucet dripping into the sink.
“I’m sorry,” Jacob said.
“For what?”
“For not dying in a ditch, far from this place.”
Henry gripped the butt of the shotgun.
“You know, I killed a woman in Litchfield,” Jacob said. “Six months ago. She was young. Younger than me.”
Henry imagined his father driving back home, through the night, gripping the steering wheel and staring ahead. It’s just a feeling I got, his father would say. My boys are in trouble. I couldn’t sleep. Saw their doom in a nightmare.
That’s not how life works, Henry told himself. Stop thinking like a child all the time.
“Funny thing about that woman,” Jacob continued. “Wasn’t what I expected. You ever watch Death Valley Days?”
“We don’t have a television.”
“Well, that’s good. Nothing about it is real. Makes everything look clean. I shot that woman in the throat, and she flopped around for a full minute. The worst thing I ever saw, swear to God. She made these noises.” Jacob paused. Then he uncovered his eyes and looked straight at Henry. “Take your brother and leave.”
“Why?”
“You have to. He’s coming.”
“Who is?”
“He’s looking for his money.”
“Who?”
“Goddammit,” Jacob said, and that’s all he would say, no matter how many times Henry asked.
Ed’s Bar was dim and quiet, the sort of bar Cort preferred because it reminded him of his youth, when he’d sit at a corner booth with a pint of cheap beer and watch the crowds until closing. Now a small scattering of men sat along the bar and at tables pushed against the rough plank walls. Cort ordered a beer and took a seat in the back. He sipped and waited.
After an hour, Cort approached a man seated in the far corner.
“You ever make it down to New Haven?” Cort said.
The man glanced up. He wore a baseball cap pulled low and a felted sweater. Years of farm sun had creased his face. His nose looked like it had been broken several times.
“I’m certain I’ve seen you there,” Cort said. “At Charlie’s Tavern. Am I right?”
“Never been to Charlie’s,” the man said. “Nor New Haven.”
“My mistake.”
“No harm.” The man tipped back his beer and smacked his lips.
Cort sat down and rested his elbows on the table. “I’m just passing through. Selling watches, if you can believe that.”
“You should keep passing. Nothing here except dogs and ditches. Couple of farms still trying to make it, but give them time. They’ll suffer, just like the rest.”
“Does that include you?”
“It does.”
Cort grinned. “I wonder what our wives would think of us now. Wasting our days.”
The man held up his left hand. Cort held up his own ringless hand.
“Only way to go,” the man said.
“You know it.”
“I got close, once.”
“I didn’t,” Cort said.
The man looked at Cort.
“What was it you came over here for?”
“A ride,” Cort said. “My transmission dropped.”
“I thought you were selling watches.”
“I am. Selling other things, too.”
“What sort of things?”
“That all depends on what you need.”
The man paused, glass held in midair. “I might help you, provided one of them watches looks good enough.”
Cort grinned. “It all looks good.”
The man finished his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked over his shoulder at the shadowed room. Everyone sat with their heads down.
Cort followed him to the parking lot. He retrieved his shotgun from a stand of weeds, tucking it under his coat. The man drove a blue Chevy sedan, rust spots over the wheel wells and a long crack across the windshield. They pulled onto the main road and Cort rested his head against the window. He stared at the pale morning sky.
After a few miles Cort said, “I have to piss. You mind pulling off somewhere?”
The man slowed near an elm with a scarred trunk and killed the engine. He looked in the rearview, at the empty road.
“Bit public for my tastes,” the man said. He dropped his hand to his crotch and left it there.
“I’ll be careful,” Cort said. He reached into his boot and withdrew a short blade. He turned and thrust it into the man’s throat. The man grabbed Cort’s arm. He kicked and gurgled as blood streamed down the front of his shirt. Cort pulled out the blade, watched the pump of blood slow to a trickle, then hauled him across the seat and switched places.
After he’d dumped the man by the side of a pond and covered him in a loose scab of leaves and twigs, he rinsed his hands in the icy water and looked to the cloud-covered sun. He walked back to the blue Chevy, drove to the main road, and found the first farm within minutes.
Two men worked in front of a red house; a dog loped across the yard. Cort crept through the bare woods, shotgun low and ready, white breath rising above his head. He didn’t mind if the dog smelled him—he figured he could shoot the thing and get back to his car before the owners knew what had happened. Cort sat on a crumbling stone wall and watched the men work, one pushing a wheelbarrow and the other walking in and out of the barn. The scene was perfectly normal, he decided, so he got back in the Chevy.
Before dawn Henry felt better, but Jacob’s breathing had turned ragged. Sam stood at the end of the couch and pressed a cool cloth to Jacob’s forehead. Henry left the shotgun on the floor and waited by the window, for what he didn’t know—he just felt like staring at the frost-covered fields still lit by the moon.
“I shouldn’t have fought with you,” Sam said to Henry. “I should have hurried up and helped you carry him.”
“You did.”
“But I didn’t want to.”
“It doesn’t matter, Sam.”
“It does. He’s real sick. Is he dying?”
“I think so.”
“We should go for the doctor.”
“Not until the sun’s up. It’s too cold.”
“But he’s dying.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you care?”
“I do.” Henry continued staring out the window. “We’ll leave at sunrise. I promise.”
Sam eyed the bloody bag sitting on the floor. “What’s in the bag?”
“Money,” Henry said. “Don’t touch it.”
“I shouldn’t have poked him with that stick.”
“It wasn’t your stick that hurt him. He was shot.”
Sam started to cry. Henry stared at the floor. He heard the rattle in Jacob’s lungs and remembered the same sound at his mother’s side, when Sam was a baby sleeping in the other room.
“Minute the sun comes up,” Henry said, “we’ll head out.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. And after Doc fixes him, we’ll finish hauling those rocks. Everything will work out just right. Now go on and take a bath. Make the water good and hot. We got a long walk ahead of us.”
Sam glanced at Jacob.
“He’ll be okay,” Henry continued. “I’ll change his bandage and make more tea.”
Sam frowned. “Are you just saying this to make me feel better?”
“No.”
“Swear?”
“I swear.”
Sam inhaled deeply and scratched his head. “You call me back in if anything happens?”
“I will.”
Sam wiped his cheeks and ran upstairs.
This is how it should be, Henry thought, and he picked up the compress. This is what men do for each other.
The Best American Mystery Stories 2013 Page 27