by Chris Offutt
“I don’t want nobody else to get killed,” he said. “I had enough of it overseas. If I can stop it, I will.”
As well as she knew her brother, Linda had no idea what he’d gone through in the desert. Like the other men in their family, he never discussed his experiences at war.
Mick stood and offered her a hand. She ignored it and they walked back to the cabin. Virginia creeper covered the western wall, the vines thick as a gun barrel.
“That can’t be good for the wood,” she said.
“It’s worse around back.”
“Do me a favor,” she said. “Keep your cell phone on you for once. I called you four times.”
He nodded. She watched him climb the rough-hewn steps to the porch, suppressing the urge to ask about his marriage. No sense aggravating him after he’d agreed to help.
Chapter Three
Mick ate four Advils, drank a quart of water, and went back outside, pushing the warped screen door to make sure it latched. Years of repairs gave it the appearance of an old quilt, patched by twine, spare wire, and a denim pants pocket. Mick’s great-grandfather had built the four-room cabin by hand, solid construction with corners that still held true, the walls plumb, a floor as level as water. He’d picked this place due solely to the rough terrain. The hills were too steep and the hollers too narrow to log the woods. When Mick was nine his father died and Mick moved into the cabin with his grandfather, who was caring for his own elderly father. Linda stayed in town with their mother. The two old men taught Mick all they knew about the woods, wisdom that ran back to the Great Depression.
He found his cell phone in the truck. Four messages from his sister. No calls from his wife. Three missed calls from a number he recognized as an army base in Germany. His headache had subsided to a dull throb and he wanted to go to bed. Instead he headed toward Choctaw Ridge in his grandfather’s old pickup, a 1963 stepside Chevrolet. If he felt good enough later, he’d go visit his wife.
Mick drove to the nearest gas station, a family business twelve miles away. Mick had known the Haneys all his life. A grandson ran it now, or maybe a great-grandson—each generation looked the same: stout through the torso with a set of shoulders like a fireplace mantle, powerful arms, and sturdy legs. Their heads were more rounded than elongated. All had ruddy expressions and the same thatch of unruly hair that started out red, faded early to gray and finally white. As a child Mick knew the patriarch, a man with snow-colored hair who went by Red. He parked in a concrete lot below the hand-painted sign that said HANEY’S BIBLE AND TIRE.
The youngest version approached the vehicle.
“I know that truck,” he said. “Hardin, ain’t it?”
“Yep, I’m Mick. Which one are you?”
“Joe.”
“Big Joe or Little Joe?”
“Neither one. They’re my cousins. They call me Little Big Joe. You wanting tires, gas, or a Bible? They’ll everyone get you where you need to be.”
“Top it off with regular. I got to go up a muddy hill. Got any junk laying around I can weigh the back end down with?”
“Got a Ford engine block weighs five hundred pounds.”
“How much you take for it?”
“What’ll you give?”
Little Big Joe let a sly grin wander his lips as he unscrewed the gas cap and inserted the nozzle. Mick nodded. He’d missed the swapping culture of the hills. Prolonged negotiations provided men an opportunity to display their knowledge without being show-offs. His grandfather could take a cheap pocketknife to a swap-meet and come home with livestock.
“I’ll give you thirty dollars,” Mick said.
Little Big Joe squinted as if in pain, letting the silence build until Mick offered more. Instead Mick cleared dead leaves and twigs from the tiny trough that held the windshield wipers, then polished the side mirror with his shirttail.
“Engine block is heavy enough,” Little Big Joe said. “Won’t shift around in the bed.”
“Ort to work.”
“Run you a hundred and twenty-five for it.”
“Can’t do it,” Mick said.
“For fifty, I got axles and a busted woodstove. It’s iron. But you’ll have to get them on the truck.”
“How about seventy-five and you help me load the engine block.”
Little Big Joe finished filling the gas tank.
“Hundred,” he said.
“Ninety.”
“All right, but don’t go around telling folks you skinned me out of it.”
“I won’t.”
Little Big Joe’s quick agreement on price meant he’d gotten the better of the deal, a fact confirmed by his request that Mick keep it to himself. He was protecting Mick from public indignity after taking advantage of him. It was the hill way. People looked out for each other even during conflict.
Thirty minutes later Mick left, the leaf shocks nearly flat from the weight. He’d sweated through his clothes while loading the engine and felt a little better. Acceleration was slow but he was confident the truck would make it up the muddy fire road. To get to Choctaw, he drove nearly to town before looping back along Lick Fork Creek. As he drove he thought about his sister. She was a Hardin, stubborn and tough, and Mick knew that the oblique request for help cost her some pride. He’d do what he could. Linda had begun her career in law enforcement as dispatcher for the town of Rocksalt’s police force. Five years later the deputy sheriff was accused of sexually harrassing citizens. He resigned and Linda was offered the job because it would make the politicians look good. Four months ago the sheriff died of a massive stroke while fishing the Licking River and Linda was promoted.
Mick left the blacktop for a single-lane dirt road that rose and dipped with the land. Glade fern swayed near mudholes in the low parts while the higher sections held chickweed and groundcherry. The fire road was easy to miss and he slowed his pace, looking for the brief absence of trees, not the beginning of a road—one of his grandfather’s lessons. Searching interfered with the ability to find. Don’t hunt for mushrooms, look for where they grow. At night don’t look for an animal trail, just walk where the trees aren’t. See shapes and colors, not the thing itself.
This method of thinking served Mick well in CID. He investigated the same way his grandfather worked the woods—open to all of it, seeing what was there, and using the information to further his comprehension. The nuts of hardwood trees drew squirrels that were vulnerable to snakes coiled amid the undergrowth. Before gathering walnuts, his grandfather raked through the brush with a long stick to frighten away the snakes. Most bites were on the hand or foot. It was the same with people, Papaw had said. Mick didn’t understand this until clearing rooms in Iraq and three comrades were shot in the hand by the enemy.
At the bottom of the fire road he inspected the deep ruts streaming with clay mud. If he was careful he could straddle the furrows and ascend the steep slope. The steering was imprecise from sliding tires but the weight of the Ford engine in the bed provided sufficient traction. At the top he stopped well back from the mess of tire tracks turned into mudholes from rain.
Mud sucked at his boots with each step as he walked to the edge of the drop-off and descended the hill to a narrow ridgeline. From his pocket he withdrew the crime scene photos and positioned himself to match their point of view. The body had lain at a thirty degree angle to the hill, against a towering elm, one of the few in the hills that had survived. The fallen leaves were dark-side up, having been kicked by EMTs and law enforcement.
Mick squatted and studied the earth, occasionally using a stick to brush aside undergrowth. He found two turkey feathers and a cache of hickory nuts forgotten by a squirrel. He returned to the place where the body was found and looked up the hillside. Visible was a honey locust beside a dogwood. He memorized their position, then climbed the slope to the two trees. If she was tossed over the hill from the top, she died close to where he stood. The leaves of a sugar maple were tinged yellow facing north, orange to the west. The land’s beau
ty was undisturbed by death. Nature was used to it.
He drove toward town and stopped at a convenience store where he bought light bread, a tin of deviled ham, and a few cans of soup. A miniature hardware section offered plastic cases of nails that bent from the first blow of a hammer, an assortment of bolts and nuts that snapped under pressure from a wrench, and coils of wire so thin you could bite it in half. The prices were high and Mick wondered if the convenient factor applied to rich people who didn’t know how to perform basic repairs. Thinking this way, he realized, meant he was feeling a little better. His headache was gone. He returned to the cabin for a nap.
Chapter Four
After dark Mick drove to town, followed Second Street west, and turned onto Bays Avenue. An older part of Rocksalt, the neighborhood was mostly residential with a few student rentals. The occasional porch light glowed. Visible through some windows was the blue flicker of televisions. Small bicycles lay in the front yards.
He parked beneath the swaying strands of a weeping willow, his wife’s favorite tree and a significant factor for the purchase of their house. From inside he and Peggy could see the fronds moving with the slightest breeze. Now, tucked within the undulating tent of willow limbs, he watched the house, two windows lit from within, an occasional shadow indicating someone there—his wife.
In the early years of his service they’d explored Europe together, traveling by rail to small coastal towns, eating local fare and drinking wine in cafes. She was nineteen and he was twenty. Their life together had a sense of adventure but the constant transience of army life made it difficult for Peggy to find meaningful work. Due to small-town shyness, she was unable to develop swift friendships with other spouses, a bonding that was vital for military families. Mick requested a permanent post and was transferred to Garrison Baumholder in Germany. Wait time for housing was three weeks. Until then they stayed at the Lagerhof Inn, a military hotel. After a five-day argument, they decided to buy a house in Kentucky for her to live in year-round.
She was happier in Rocksalt and Mick was glad of it. He missed her on base but their time together stateside was cheerful and relaxed. His leaves in Kentucky had a romantic flair similar to when they first met. They organized elaborate dates in Lexington or set aside time to drive around with sandwiches, a sixpack, and folding chairs. They watched sunsets at Cave Run Lake.
Their new life worked well with texts and phone calls. They tried video chat but neither of them liked it. Due to the nine-hour time difference, one was always tired and talking in the dark. Last winter she took a job at a Lowe’s home improvement store in Mount Sterling, a forty-minute drive one way. On their phone calls she had a fresh self-confidence and a willingness to laugh, both of which delighted Mick.
For eight months without a break he investigated a murder in Syria, a rape-murder at a garrison in Grafenwoehr, Germany, and two homicides at a Forward Operating Base in Afghanistan. Communication with Peggy began to dwindle—shorter emails, longer intervals between texts, and fewer calls. Mick blamed his twelve-hour days and a lack of consistent cellular reception. He solved the cases and returned to base in Germany. By then he’d had no contact with his wife for six weeks.
In the time-honored fashion of sisters everywhere, Linda texted Mick to call Peggy. He did and she didn’t answer or respond to his texts. He called Linda who gave him the news—Peggy was pregnant, due to give birth very soon. Mick stood in the barren apartment he’d been temporarily assigned and performed a quick mental calculation. The math was right, coinciding with his last visit home in Kentucky.
“Mick,” his sister had said. “Hello. You still there?”
“Yeah. How’s it feel to be an almost aunt?”
“You need to talk to her.”
“She’s not taking my calls. No texts, nothing.”
“I think she’s scared. Doesn’t want to bother you unless it’s important.”
Mick ended the phone call and requested emergency family leave from his commanding officer. The next day he booked a flight to Bluegrass Field in Lexington. A car service dropped him at his house and he stood in the driveway with his suitcase, grateful to be home. The house looked good but the gutters needed cleaning. Peggy stepped onto the porch wearing sweatpants and a large top that draped her swollen middle. She leaned against the door jamb as if exhausted. He’d never seen her hair so lustrous and thick. After a brief hug, awkward around her belly, Peggy retreated to the couch.
“You look good,” he said. “It suits you.”
“I can’t get comfortable. I have to pee a lot.”
“I wish I could do something to help you.”
“Nobody can.”
She adjusted her position as if in pain. He gentled his voice to assuage her misery.
“When are you due?” he said.
“Officially in two weeks. Could be three days or three weeks. The first one is sometimes late. I just want it out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She glanced at him briefly then stared at the rug that had belonged to her grandmother. It seemed like a river separating them. Her answer was too long in coming and his interrogation training kicked in. Something was wrong.
“Peggy,” he said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to fly home upset.”
Her words came fast and she still wouldn’t look at him.
“Anything else?” he said.
“Yes, Mick. I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.”
“People have kids all the time,” he said. “We can do it.”
“It might not be your baby.”
“What?” he said. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know if you’re the father, Mick.”
Mick felt as if he’d been doused with kerosene and set on fire. His insides were abruptly hollowed out. The situation was simple but he couldn’t quite comprehend that it was his situation, their situation. This kind of thing happened to other people. He wanted to get back on the plane to Germany. Instead he sat without moving, trying to relax.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
She gestured to her belly.
“This is everything,” she said.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“It won’t change nothing.”
She looked about the room as if seeking something specific, a spot to settle her vision, a way out of things. He waited, deliberately opening his posture on the chair. He sank as far as he could, trying to bring his head lower than hers, an old trick to grant social dominance. It didn’t work. She was sprawled on the couch which was already closer to the floor than his chair. He sat back up. At the Lexington airport he’d showered and changed into clothes he knew she liked, Lee jeans, not Levi’s, a light blue shirt with short sleeves. Now he felt foolish for taking her preferences into consideration. If his marriage was this bad, he wondered how many other things he was deluding himself about.
He walked to the bathroom, instinctively scanning the surfaces for evidence of a man—a recently used razor, deodorant, a toothbrush. There was nothing, but she could have tidied up. He splashed cold water on his face and went back to the living room. Peggy had shifted on the couch, seeking comfort with an extra pillow, her bare feet propped on a stool. Her ankles were swollen.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” he said.
He drove her car to a drugstore and bought a paternity kit. He scraped the inside of his mouth with a swab, then carefully inserted it into the plastic tube and returned to his house. Peggy had changed position again and was playing a game on her phone. He set the kit on the coffee table.
“Here,” he said. “My DNA’s in there already. Tell your doctor to draw blood, then you send it off.”
“What?”
“Find out if the baby’s mine. FedEx will pick the package up. Takes about a week.”
He turned to leave.
“Papaw’s cabin.”
He left, wanting to slam the door but easing it shut to prevent startling her. He walked to a liquor store housed in an old railroad freight station. He’d always preferred Best Chance, operated by family members of a former bootlegger, an enormous man named Beanpole. He bought a case of bourbon and called a cab. The driver attempted conversation until seeing Mick’s face in the rearview mirror, then gave up. At the far edge of the county he deposited Mick on a dirt road that was little more than a pair of ruts with weeds. Mick carried his load two miles and rested. He wished he had his rucksack. He wished he’d never come home. He climbed the hill to the cabin and drank a bottle of whiskey. For the next nine days he drank until his sister showed up asking for help.
Now he sat in the old truck behind the willow tree, wondering how to proceed. If he went to the door, should he knock? Should he call first? Did she want to see him? She was alone in a mess and needed a friend. His loyalty made him a good soldier, a good brother, and a good husband, but there was no clear path for moving forward. It was dangerous territory. Numerous times he’d entered unfamiliar buildings knowing that men inside wanted to kill him. He’d worn body armor and carried three weapons, spare ammo, a coms unit, and Israeli Battle Bandages. Now he was skulking around outside his own home, unprotected and afraid.
A car drove slowly past, turned at the corner in a broad fashion as if driven by an elderly person or a teen with a new license. A man walked a tiny dog on a leash. Mick recalled when they bought the house. They’d been happiest when painting the walls together, him on the roller and Peggy with a trim brush. They’d replumbed a bathroom which was simpler than he’d thought—not exactly easy, but the physics were straightforward—clean water in, dirty water out, gravity did most of the work.
He loved her. He would always love her. He’d never met another woman he liked as much, or seen one he thought was better looking. During sex, Peggy’s face seemed euphoric, her mouth tiny, eyes wide as if drugged. That’s what bothered him. Not the sex or the child growing in her womb, but the sheer injustice of another man seeing her face that way.