“You sure?”
Bread nodded. Fish did know how to sharpen a knife well. He’d been a quick study. His grandpa had taught him how to tell if a blade was dull by looking at its edge in the sunlight. If the cutting edge reflected light, it wasn’t thin enough and needed touching up. Fish learned how to slice the blade across the stone until he raised a burr on one side of the edge. Once that burr was raised, he’d flip it and slice the other way. It took a while before he got the feel of when a blade became sharp against the stone. The sensation was a lack of friction, but then again, there seemed something spiritual to it as well, like divining water with a stick or sensing when a person was about to cry. It wasn’t science, it was knowledge. Fish’s grandpa had given him knowledge.
Fish picked up the barlow knife, opened it, studied its edge in the sunlight, and folded it closed. The knife felt reassuring in his hand. The blade was a clip-point style, which meant it was good for dressing game. It had jigged bone handles riveted in place. The nickel bolster that held the blade’s hinge was engraved with the letters TBB. Teddy Branson’s Barlow. Fish felt a pang of guilt for taking it without asking. But he was sure his grandpa would want him to have such a knife in the bush. It was one of the essentials. His grandpa told him that. A man can make it in the bush until he loses his knife, his grandpa said. The knife and the flint. Don’t ever lose those.
“You should carry the flint,” said Fish. “I’ll carry the blade to strike it. Together we’ll equal a campfire.”
Bread smiled at this wisdom and pressed the gray flint into the coin pocket of his jeans.
“This really is a good time,” he said again, and then his smile straightened. “What do we do with the revolver?” he asked.
To be honest, Fish didn’t want to see it, let alone carry it. When he took the thing out of its sack and placed it on the tarp, the weight of it in his hands went straight to his heart. He set it down quickly and didn’t want to pick it up again. His grandpa’s knife felt good. The dead man’s revolver did not. It gleamed in the sun, the satin-finished steel soaking up the same placid warmth as the boys, but there was dread in that beautiful Smith & Wesson, a kind of darkness in all that daylight.
Fish shook his head. “You carry it,” he said.
Bread picked it up and turned it over in his hands, and Fish could only imagine what he was thinking. The gun looked so massive in his hands, so out of place. Fish was surprised when a sort of brightness grew across Bread’s face, as if he’d just had a pleasant thought. Bread used his thumb to push forward the cylinder catch on the revolver’s side. He used his other hand to poke open the cylinder, and smacked his palm down on the ejector rod a few times. Fish knew the words for all the parts of guns from a book he got at the school library. He studied the history of firearms, the types of barrels, the locks and stocks. They seemed so wonderful then, the way it seemed wonderful the first time his dad went to war.
Bread shook the gun and six brass cartridges fell onto the tarp, one of them spent. He gathered up the five good ones and held them out to Fish with his palm facing downward. Fish tentatively held out his hand.
“Like the knife and the flint,” said Bread.
Bread closed the revolver’s cylinder and struggled to stuff the muzzle into his belt. Then he and Fish both looked down at the spent shell casing. Bread picked it up, held it in his palm. The casing was blackened where the bullet had been. Its primer was dented where the firing pin had struck it. It was no larger than a caterpillar. How could a thing so small send them out into the wild like this, into such exile? That’s the word Fish’s mom would use—exile—boys banished into the wild, to become wild themselves perhaps, like Ishmael, cut off from his father. Fish knew his mother would have insisted, of course, that Ishmael, despite his exile, wasn’t truly fatherless, would have reminded him of the “Father of All,” the miraculous springs of water in the desert. Fish wasn’t so sure. There had been no miraculous spring after his dad died, only a folded flag delivered by a man in uniform he’d never met before. Fish hated him. He hated that folded flag. And right now Fish found himself hating that small piece of spent brass Bread held in his palm. It made the river ugly. Fish shifted on his wet knees. Doubt poured through his body.
Fish surprised himself and yelled at his friend, “Would you quit sitting there like a fool and get rid of it already?”
Bread’s fist tightened on the spent shell casing.
“Why?” he said, menace creasing his forehead.
“Give it here, then, I’ll throw it in the river.”
Bread drew his fist away.
“I said give it here!” Fish was crying, and he hardly knew why. He lunged for Bread’s hand, but Bread pulled it back even farther. Then Bread pushed him backward into the grass. Fish felt stupid for falling so easily, and then he just felt angry. As he rose to his hands and knees he heard Bread say, “It’s mine, and I’ll do what I want with it.”
And then a thought came to Fish that felt cruel and logical. He stood up, brushed off his knees, and spoke it. He pointed a finger at Bread’s face.
“You’re right. It is your shell. And it’s your fault. All of this is.”
“What’s my fault?” Bread’s eyes widened and then narrowed into slits.
Fish’s finger stayed pointed. Accusing his friend in this way felt like honing a knife too steeply. Knowing another stroke would ruin the edge, he finished the stroke anyway.
“It’s because of you and your rotten old man that I’m even out here.” The edge bit. Fish was ashamed the moment he said it. The men in his life, his grandpa, his dad, would never say such a thing and would be embarrassed of anyone who did.
It was too late. Bread lowered his head and charged. Fish took the hit in the stomach, and the breath was knocked from his lungs as they thumped to the ground. Bread kept his head down in Fish’s chest and swung his fists into his rib cage. Fish retaliated, breathless, by driving the heel of his shoe into Bread’s side. Neither boy was a very good fighter. The blows didn’t do much damage. It was the shock of the thing that hurt. They’d never fought before. Not like this. Not with blows. Bread landed a good one into Fish’s side. It hurt enough for Fish to grab his friend in a headlock, to try to stop the punches. He didn’t know how to do anything but squeeze Bread’s head. So he squeezed it as hard as he could. Bread kept swinging. Both boys were crying. Fish got his breath back.
“Get off me, Breadwin!”
Bread landed another hook into his side. “Take it back!” came his muffled cry.
Fish drove his heel into Bread’s ribs, and Bread took another three or four swings. In the midst of it, Fish became aware of something. It was a sound. It sounded like a bird, a jingling of sorts. He remembered the finch, its watchful eye. But this was not a bird.
“Bread, stop hittin’ me—Bread!”
Bread squirmed with all his might to get his head free. “Take it back!” he hissed.
“Bread, stop—I hear something.” And he did hear something. He wasn’t imagining it. It sent a bolt of fear through his body. Reflexively, he let go of Bread’s head and tried to sit up.
“Bread, I hear—”
Free of Fish’s grasp, Bread reared back and cocked Fish a roundhouse punch straight across the jaw. Fish saw stars in his eyes as his head landed back in the grass.
Bread cocked his arm for another swing, but suddenly froze and stared at the wood line behind him. “You hear that?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Fish, get up, it sounds like—”
Fish lifted his head and worked his jaw open. It hurt. “Horses” was all he could manage to say. He closed his mouth and swallowed. He tasted blood in his spit. And then he heard it again. It was the whinny of a horse, the jangling tack, up in the tree line. Then he heard the muffled sounds of men’s voices.
Bread grabbed him and stood him on his feet. “It’s the search party,” he whispered. “Come on!”
Fish staggered after him, his hand on his jaw, and when he wasn’t moving fast enoug
h Bread grabbed him and pulled him along. Bread stooped to pick up the tarp as the two boys ran for the cleft of Lantern Rock. Fish dragged the backpacks and fish poles. The sun was higher in the sky now, but the cleft was still dark. They dove for it and lay down on their stomachs on the bed of brown cedar needles. Ferns blocked the entrance. The cedar blocked the sun. Bread balled up the tarp under himself and lay on it. His wide eyes looked out at the bright riverbank. His nostrils flared. Fish tried to meter his own breathing. It sounded very loud now that they were trying to hide. For a few breaths, he rested his forehead against the needles. They stuck to his lips as he panted. His jaw ached, and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He was the reason they were out here, not Bread. He was the killer, not Bread. Fish had a fleeting thought about how maybe he should walk out into the sunlight and turn himself in, hands in the air, confession on his bloody lips.
He nearly stood up when he felt Bread’s hand press down against his back. “Shhh,” whispered Bread, almost imperceptibly. When Fish raised his head, ever so slowly, the view of the riverbank was taken up almost entirely by a horse and half a rider standing not five paces from the entrance. Fish froze. He saw a brown boot in a silver stirrup. Jeans and horsehide. The cedar branches blocked the man’s torso and face. Holstered to the horse’s flank in a saddle scabbard sat a lever-action rifle. Fish swallowed blood again, and cursed himself for being so loud.
The horse stirred.
“They were here,” said a man’s voice, which Fish recognized as his grandfather’s. “Horses smell ’em. Grass is flattened.”
Indescribable hunger washed over Fish upon hearing his grandfather’s voice. That voice promised competence, safety, rest. It seemed to remove all pain, even the pain in his jaw. Here was a man who could wash the world with his hands, wave them in the air and make it all ordered again. The urge to burst out of that cleft was overwhelming, and Fish nearly made up his mind to do so when he felt Bread’s hand on his back.
“Wait.” His friend mouthed the word.
Fish shook his head. “I want to go,” he mouthed back.
Bread tightened his lips and shook his head. He pointed out farther into the sunlight.
Another horse and rider came into view, this one far enough off that Fish could make out the whole body. It was the sheriff. The man walked his horse up to where the tarp had flattened the grass. He studied the ground, looked out across the river, and back at the forest behind him. He had a shiny pistol on his belt. Unlike Fish’s grandpa’s rifle, with its hand-worn bluing and walnut stock, the sheriff’s pistol shone in the sunlight like that revolver had only moments ago, majestic and terrible. Fish felt himself swallow again. He remembered the spotlight last night in the field, the sound of the bullets zipping overhead. Surely it hadn’t been the sheriff who had fired on them. But then again, maybe it was. The sheriff had always been a bit of a mystery to the boys. He’d wave if he passed by in his truck, but there never seemed to be friendliness in it. He was a powerful man, Fish knew. But still, Fish’s grandpa was here. What harm could come if his grandpa was here?
“You figure they crossed?” asked the sheriff. His voice sounded impatient, pained in some way. He adjusted himself in his saddle. Fish’s grandpa pressed his heel gently into his horse’s side. The stallion stepped away into the light. Fish felt the weight of Bread’s hand again.
“Fish,” whispered Bread.
Fish waited. His grandpa had pulled his horse alongside the sheriff’s, looked down at the grass, and then across the river. The two men conferred in hushed tones. Fish couldn’t make out the words.
“If you go out there,” said Bread, “that sheriff is gonna take you away and put you straight in jail, or worse.”
Fish’s body tensed. He wanted so badly for his grandfather to take him up on that horse and ride him back home. He could imagine the warmth of the leather, the squeak of the tack, the smell of his grandpa’s flannel jacket.
“Fish.”
Fish looked at Bread. Bread’s cheeks were red and mottled. He was clearly in distress, but he wasn’t shaking. A sort of confidence shone through.
“I ain’t gonna let my only friend go to jail. I ain’t even gonna let you do it to yourself.”
Fish didn’t quite know how to respond to that, so he stayed silent for a time. They were boys. They didn’t have horses or rifles. They couldn’t face the forest as well as men, but something in Bread’s eyes let him know they had to, that it was all or nothing, that a final decision had to be made right now.
Fish heard water splash and turned to see the two men lead their horses into the shallow rock beds upstream of the rapids, headed for the other shore. Soon they would be gone, as would Fish’s chance to make up his mind. It was confess now or go deep into that forest, come what may. Fish lowered his face down to the cedar needles, let the earth into his lungs. He inhaled and exhaled. He felt as disoriented as he did when he tried to pray the way his mom had taught him. There was too much unknown, and he didn’t know what he was allowed to ask for. He’d been told God was powerful, that he raised people from the dead, which only made Fish wonder why God couldn’t raise his father from the dead, or worse, why he wouldn’t. Fish’s mom said he could ask God for anything, tell him anything, that he could just talk with him. She talked to God in silence, and in song, and in tongues, that quiet and lilting rhythm filling the hallways of his home at night. And when she prayed, God did seem to be there. Fish would feel calmed, protected, known. On the worst sort of nights, the approach of that comfort angered Fish. If God wanted to comfort him, he could give his dad back, a father Fish could touch, and see, and smell. But God didn’t give his dad back, and Fish never asked the adults why not. It was too awful when they pretended to know the answers to such questions.
“Bread?” said Fish.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry for what I said. It’s not true. All of this is my fault.”
There was a pause.
“I’m sorry I cocked you. And no, it ain’t your fault either.”
Fish opened his sore jaw, lifted his head, and looked at the river. The men were out of sight. All Fish could hear was a bird in a tree, the sway of river grass in the breeze. Fish had decided. Bread had too. They were outcasts.
TIFFANY NEARLY BOUNDED WITH JACKS TOWARD THE SUNRISE CAFÉ. They walked on the sunny side of the street, and Tiffany inhaled deeply and looked up at the sky. The morning felt fresh, the air seemed excited. She already called in to work, took four days off. Jacks had a brand-new baby-blue leash from Briar’s Feed and Tack, and Tiffany carried under her free arm a ten-pound sack of the most expensive dog food she could afford, a food and water bowl set, and a chew toy. The chew toy was a zebra-striped cat with crossed eyes and a bright pink tongue. Jacks seemed uninterested when she first waved it under his nose, but Tiffany knew he was just pretending. Jacks tried to seem standoffish—he even tried to bolt from her car, which was narrowly avoided by a lunging grab, which hurt Tiffany’s knee and made her stifle a cuss—but he’d warmed up quickly enough, and Tiffany felt they were going to get along swimmingly.
Tiffany pushed her purple hair behind her ears and skipped up the curb with Jacks in tow. Claypot didn’t have much of a downtown, but it did have one. There was the barbershop with a skull and crossbones in the window—which a few of the Baptists frowned upon—the public works department and firehall, which served as a bingo hall on Saturday nights, and the basement library, where Tiffany often scandalized Ms. Gart with her constant requests for poetry collections through interlibrary loan from the big city.
“These poems have cusses and sex in them,” said Ms. Gart.
“So do you and I,” said Tiffany, and Ms. Gart would go back to furiously stamping her due date cards.
The general disrepair of the brick buildings downtown suggested Claypot had known better times, but for Tiffany the town had remained unchanged since her childhood. It was home, equally dear and disappointing.
“Come on, Jackie boy,” she
said.
Jacks grumbled and walked at the far end of his outstretched leash.
There was a park bench outside the Sunrise Café. Tiffany’s stomach growled. She usually spent her mornings off in the coffee shop, eating a piece of egg pie with a dill pickle, reading the paper, and pretending she lived somewhere else. Sometimes Burt Akinson would stop by on a feed run and the two would heckle each other, but otherwise Tiffany just stared out the window over a cup of coffee and hoped for something interesting to pass on the road. She once saw a pig trailer overturn on the corner of Walnut and Main—the pigs got free and stood in the road and destroyed some flowerpots—but that was a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. She often dreamed of the kind of café one would find near a college campus, with undergrads reading novellas and talking about big ideas, taking off mittens in winter, having friends. Tiffany already knew at twenty-five that she’d never leave. Lives like that were for other people, lucky people, worthy people. Sometimes she was sad about it. Sometimes she was not. Today was hopeful. She had Sheriff Cal’s dog. She felt hungry. She’d grab a cup of coffee and a bagel to go.
She set the food and bowls on the sidewalk bench and stooped to tie Jacks’ leash to it with three tight knots. She tested the leash with a tug. Jacks grumbled and diverted his blue and brown eyes. Tiffany set the chew toy at his feet and made him look at her.
“Don’t mess this up for me, okay? I’ll be gone just a sec.” She smiled at him, at the sunshine surrounding her body. “I’m in love with your papa.”
Jacks sighed and lay down with his chin on his toy cat.
Tiffany smiled and turned to go inside. “When I come back we’ll go home and watch movies. I’ll scratch your belly.”
Tiffany was inside for less than five minutes. When she came out, her coffee hit the pavement and her eyes searched the streets. Tied securely to the bench was exactly half of a leash, chewed clean through in the middle. The food and bowls remained. The chew toy was gone.
Tiffany wrung her fists. “And he took his cat,” she hissed.
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