A Portion for Foxes

by Daniel Mitchell

  He handed me a clean rag and said, “Put some pressure on that while I get the needle.”

  “Can’t we just wrap it up or go to the doctor or something?” I asked through grinding teeth.

  Tears were streaking my face despite my best efforts to hold them back. The alcohol was still burning.

  “This ain’t my first go-around,” he said. “Stitched myself up a time or two. Bone ain’t showing or nothing. Few stitches and some antibiotics, and you’ll be fine.”

  "Where are you going to get the antibiotics?" I asked.

  "Same place I got the needles. Vet supply store in Ardmore. Amoxicillin is amoxicillin, whether you give it to people or horses. The liquid keeps just fine in the fridge. Doctors are just a rip-off. I have a buddy who goes to Mexico twice a year and brings me back big bottles of antibiotic or whatever I want. Same thing they charge ridiculous prices for here with a prescription you can buy off the shelf over the border for the price of a six-pack."

  We went to the kitchen table, and I sat, trying to get a hold of myself while he brought a lamp, aimed it at my hand, and threaded a strange curved needle with some thread he took from a packet in the first aid kit.

  “This stuff's been sterilized. Should be fine,” he said.

  "Should I even ask why you need such an elaborate first aid kit?"

  "Got in the habit back when the quarry was still open. Too far to town, and the insurance sucked anyway. Easier and cheaper just to do little things myself. Don't take a genius or a medical degree to sew a hole."

  I guessed that was supposed to make me feel better.

  When he was ready, he handed me a short dowel he pulled from the kit. It had teeth marks on it. I stared at those, faintly sick, while he got a glass of water and a white pill from the cabinet.

  “Got nothing to use for a local,” he said. “This hydrocodone should help when it starts throbbing later. Going to have to tough it out till then. Bite down on that dowel and try to think about something else.”

  The first time he got the needle close to me, I jumped. I couldn’t help it. He reached out and gently turned my head away. The first prick of the needle wasn’t too bad. It felt kind of the same as getting one shot then another. But when he started pulling the thread tight, I groaned around the dowel, and the tears started pouring.

  He did that four more times. I was covered in sweat and had splinters in my teeth when he finally declared he was done. I looked at my thumb and had to admit he knew what he was doing. The stitches were tight and even. It wasn’t pretty, but the meat was back in, and the skin was stuck back together. He wiped the blood off with a cotton ball, smeared the stitches with a healthy glob of bacitracin from a tube in the kit, and wrapped the whole thing in gauze and tape.

  “Any idea when your last tetanus shot was?”

  “Year before last,” I said. “I stepped on a nail barefoot.”

  “Should be fine, then. We got it plenty clean, and that blade was new last week. If it starts looking weird or gets red streaks coming off it, you tell me right quick, and we'll take you to a real doctor.” He sprayed some Lysol disinfectant on the table and wiped it down. “Guess you’ll pay more attention next time. Let’s go clean up your mess in the shop.”

  He spent thirty minutes cleaning the blood and sawdust off the floor and the band saw. The pain pill started kicking in, and I was nodding off on the stool.

  “Why don’t you go rest up,” he said. “I’ll finish in here. Later, we can see about that phone and maybe a burger someplace.”

  I went back to the house and passed out on the couch. Pain meds always hit me that way. When I woke up, it was morning. He’d propped me up on some pillows and covered me with an old afghan. My thumb was throbbing like a hippo's heart.

  As usual, he was already in the shop, hard at work on some new table legs on the lathe. I watched him carve off tiny slivers, shaving the leg into exactly the same shape as the three already on the floor beside him.

  “About time you woke up. Clean this mess up and meet me at the truck. We got a phone call to make.”

  #########

  I knew Joseph was right, and calling my folks from any number that might show up on a caller ID was a bad idea. He was all for just using a pay phone in Davis or Sulphur, but I knew even that could be easily traced back to a location. Even if it wasn’t his house or number, the Stanglers would still have a fair idea where to start looking. I wasn't sure I was quite ready to be found. I convinced him I had a better idea. We hit a Dollar Store on the edge of Davis and bought a prepaid phone. It was a longer drive but safer in case anyone tracked the phone back to a store location. The Dollar Store was less likely to catch us on a security camera than Walmart, and even if they did, we’d be at least an hour away down dirt roads from there when they started looking. Joseph stayed in the truck while I went in—no sense in both of us being on camera.

  Joseph thought I was being paranoid. Maybe he was right. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to go home. But I could still see that knife, the fountains of blood, and Mike's face in the firelight. And Eades’s body in the dirt. I wasn't in the mood to take chances.

  I had him pull into a scenic overlook in the Arbuckles off I-35. I could see all the way to Ardmore from there. I pictured the twenty miles of road between town and my folks’ house. The fading paint on the porch. The little puffs of dust around my feet when I walked across the yard in summer. Mom and Dad’s faces. Then I dialed the number.

  It rang eight times, and I was about to give up. Dad wasn’t a fan of answering machines, much less cell phones. On ring nine, Mom answered.

  “Hello?” she said, a bit breathlessly, as if she’d run to the phone.

  All the words I’d so carefully rehearsed that morning were gone. My tongue actually stuck to my lips and the back of my teeth. It made a sucking noise when I pulled it free.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” she asked again. “If you can hear me, I can’t hear you. Must be a bad connection. Maybe you should just call back.” She didn’t hang up, though.

  Neither did I. I realized I’d stopped breathing and took a ragged gasp. Then another.

  “I can hear you breathing,” she said. “This isn’t funny. I have more than enough to do without wasting time on pervy phone calls, y—” Then she went quiet.

  Oh crap, she knows. I wanted to hang up. I wanted to cry. I wanted to beg her to forgive me. I wanted to go home.

  “Sam? Is that you? If it’s you, please say something. Come home, Sam. I’ve missed you so much. I—”

  I punched the stop button in a panic. My heart was beating so hard my throat hurt. I wondered how she could have known. I spent several minutes getting control of myself, waiting for my eyes to unblur and for my breathing to slow before I walked back to the truck.

  Joseph started the truck and pulled out onto the interstate. Then he exited onto State Highway 142, heading south toward Springer. “I take it that didn’t go well.”

  “I froze up. Couldn’t say anything. And she knew it was me. I didn’t say a word. But she knew.”

  “Yeah. Women can be spooky that way. ’Specially mommas,” he said. “Want to drive by and scope it out? Ain’t like they know my truck.”

  I nodded and gave him directions. Thirty minutes later, we cruised slowly down the fresh pavement in front of the house. When I’d left, it was still dirt. The change was a little one, just some oil and gravel, but it made me feel as if I’d been gone a hundred years. When we rounded that last curve, I slouched down in the seat until I could barely see out the window. With sunglasses firmly in place and one of Joseph’s spare CAT ball caps tugged low, I figured I was safe.

  The fence I’d built swept past in shining lines of barbed wire and cedar posts. The oak tree in the yard with the rotting remains of my tree house high in its branches called to me. My mangy border collie, Useless, lay asleep in the sun. An old yellow curtain seemed to twitch in the window, and I slid farther down in the seat.

  Dad’s truck was gone. M
om’s little Chevy SUV was there, though, dusty silver in the sun. I imagined her sitting inside by the phone, hoping and praying I’d call back, wondering if that had really been me. Maybe bawling. I waved Joseph to keep going and turned toward the window so he wouldn’t see my tears. He would’ve had to be deaf to miss my sniffles, though. He chose that moment to turn on a classic country radio station. Patsy Cline was wailing about something or other. I knew just how she felt.

  #########

  I didn't sleep much that night. When Joseph walked out onto the porch at sunup, he found me already dressed and slumped in one of the rockers.

  "How about we jump in the Jeep and go check on the quarry? They do pay me to keep an eye on things, and I've been letting it slide lately. Besides, I've got a surprise for you."

  I was too distracted by thoughts of home to pay much attention as we drove along the cliff and took a rough road down into the quarry itself. Old buildings and abandoned machinery rusted between boulders and mounds of gravel. Joseph drove down the roads I knew from our noodling trips and a couple I’d never taken. Finally, he pulled up to an old metal building with two huge garage doors and cut the engine.

  "Come on, Sam. Pretty sure this is going to boost your spirits."

  I rolled my eyes a little but followed him into the dim interior. Just inside, I stopped and listened to his footsteps crossing the room. After a click and hum, the place was flooded with light. On one side was a small front-end loader with several attachments I didn't recognize. On the other was a bulky something covered with a tarp. Joseph walked toward me, grinning.

  I couldn't see anything to get excited about until he whipped the tarp aside with a flourish. Underneath was my Dodge, and it was spotless. In fact, I'd never seen it shine so much, even fresh from a car wash.

  "Son of a—" I looked at him quickly. "Sorry. When did you do this?"

  "I found it about a week after I found you. Battery was dead, so I charged it up and pulled it up here for safekeeping. Even gave it a tune-up. Timing was a little off, and the plugs were dirty, but it sounded pretty good last time I started it. I imagine you'll want to see for yourself," he said. "Keys are in it."

  Grinning, I opened the door and jumped inside. I carefully set the manual choke and turned the key. It started on the first crank. Once she warmed up, I shut her down to check the oil. It looked brand new.

  "Did you change the filter too or just the oil?"

  "Not much point in putting clean oil in a dirty filter. Air filter and plugs and wires are new too. You have to take good care of these old-timers."

  "Want to go for a ride?" I asked.

  #########

  I spent another week working in the shop each day. Some nights, we fished. Most nights, we just drank beer on the porch. June ran out, and so did the first few days of July. I thought about our annual Gunther family cookout, with various aunts, uncles, and crazy cousins, the cheap fireworks in the yard, and the booming of the Choctaw’s fireworks show over Lake Murray as we sprawled on a blanket in a nearby field. Eventually, just remembering it wasn't enough anymore.

  I didn’t really have to pack or anything. I took the cash Joseph had given me for the tables and boxes, a change of clothes, and one small wooden box with several drawers I’d decided to keep. It was finished with leftovers from several different inlays, carefully arranged to show their colors and grains. It was by far the nicest thing I'd ever made.

  Joseph was waiting by the truck. He slid the seat forward and showed me my freshly cleaned and polished shotgun and my old Mauser and bow tucked behind it. He shook my hand and smiled, but a hint of something serious shone in his eyes.

  “They’re loaded," he said. "I wish you well, but remember, this is home when you need it,” he said. Not if but when. “I reckon your daddy has had some time to cool off, but if not, you’re always welcome here.”

  Then he cupped the back of my head in one callused hand and pulled me close. It wasn’t one of those guy hugs, either, but the real thing. I’d always been surprised by the power in that average-looking man—I felt as though I was getting hugged by a tree. Eventually, he stepped back, looked me in the eye, and nodded once before walking into the woods.

  I was scared for what might be coming, of course, but mostly, I just didn’t want to leave that crazy old hermit behind. I kept looking in the rearview mirror, convinced each time the cabin wouldn't be there anymore, that the road was disappearing behind me. It was stupid, but something in me needed that place as much as I needed home.

  The sun was glaring off the once again mirror-bright black paint on the hood as I locked the gate. I spun gravel in a high arc and headed for home. 92.7 FM, out of Dickson, blared the drum intro to “Run to the Hills,” and I sang along with the old Iron Maiden tune in a deeper voice than I remembered having. I couldn't hit the high notes at all anymore. I wondered how many other things had changed in the eight months I'd been gone.

  I took my time on the drive home. My old Dodge had no air-conditioning, so I rolled down the windows and tried to enjoy the hot air blasting through the cab. One classic metal song after another roared from the speakers, and I was soon hoarse from trying to sing along. I’d really missed my music during the months of nothing but classic country and an occasional hour of NPR in Joseph’s shop.

  As I got closer to home, I took every side road I could. I practiced the conversation over and over in my head. “Hey, Mom. What’s for supper? Sorry I've been gone so long. Seen any deranged killers around lately?” probably wasn’t going to cut it. Every opener I thought of just sounded stupid. I had no idea what to say to Dad or if he'd even let me stay. Five miles from the gate, I glanced at the speedometer and realized I’d been slowing down for some time. I was creeping along the last stretch of dirt at twenty miles an hour.

  I reached up to angle the rearview mirror at my face, wondering what my family would see when they looked at me. I never had gotten around to that haircut and was wearing a stranger’s clothes. At least I'd shaved that week. My face was dark with a farmer’s tan and looked older, more serious than when I left. My eyes had lost those bags and dark circles but had new lines at the corners. I had been eating too well at Joseph’s, but I was still thin. I thought I looked tougher and more grown up, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

  At the last turn, I chickened out and kept going, finally turning down Greasy Bend Road for a look at Mike’s house. A For Sale sign sat on the mailbox, and the gate was locked. No cars were parked out front, and the tractor was gone. I jumped the fence and walked up the driveway, wondering what I would say if anyone was home. Before I even got to the porch, I could see the house was empty. The curtains were missing, and the living room stood bare when I peeked inside.

  I walked around the house, where I’d spent much of my childhood. I tried to picture the faces of Mike’s family but found them foggy and blurred. Walking out to the rotting barn, I could almost hear the crack of our BB guns as we ambushed rats in the feed room and the whoops as we jumped from the loft into the hay bales stacked below. I finally recalled Mike’s face clearly when I thought of the time he’d fallen in fresh green cow crap and chased me with a warm handful for laughing.

  I walked down the creek bed where we’d made ourselves sick smoking grapevine more than once. I stared at the old pile of rocks where we’d buried his basset hound, Sarge. Remembering how we’d both cried, I wondered why I couldn’t cry for Mike now. With my dry eyes and empty soul, I felt like a traitor. The sudden clenching of my stomach took me by surprise, and I threw up in an old pile of cow patties. I thought, Well, that’s a pretty fair metaphor for my life. Vomit on cow shit. The breeze died in the afternoon heat, and when I was pretty sure my dry heaves were over, I walked back to the truck and turned toward home.

  Instead of stopping in my usual spot under the catalpa tree, I pulled around behind the barn and walked slowly toward the house. My show pigs were gone. So was the calf. They were probably already slaughtered and packaged in the freezer. Mom was
banging around in the kitchen, plates rattling and glasses clinking as she set the table. Standing in the shade of the old oak, I watched as she moved back and forth from the cabinets to the table, placing everything just so.

  Something must have given me away because she stopped suddenly and stared out the window at my tired face looking back. She disappeared from view and came running out the back, the screen door slamming open and closed on its spring.

  I opened my mouth to say one of my carefully rehearsed lines, but all I ended up saying was, "Mom..."

  Then I was in her arms, and she clung to me as I squeezed her back, feeling her bones through her shirt. She must have lost forty pounds since I’d seen her last, and the guilt at knowing why flooded me.

  She was whispering feverishly, and I finally made out “Oh, my sweet Sam” and “Thank you, Jesus,” chanted over and over with barely a pause for breath.

  That grown-up stranger I’d seen in the truck mirror was long gone, and I wept her a river.

  For the next two hours, Mom divided her time between fussing over dinner and fussing over me. I was so tall. I was so skinny. My hair was so long. I finally escaped the kitchen, claiming I needed a bathroom break. By the time I came out, she was calling for my help setting the table I knew was already immaculate.

  She kept looking at me to make sure I was really there. She flitted around the kitchen like a hummingbird, alighting here and there, making me taste the potatoes and Salisbury steak.

  “Is there enough salt? More pepper?”

  I couldn’t stop staring at her.

  I was overwhelmed, first to finally be back in the kitchen I thought I’d never see again, but even more by the changes in Mom. Forty pounds might have been a guess on the low side. Her cheekbones and jaw stood out sharply. Her eyes were sunken and fever bright. Her clothes seemed to hang on her, and I could see the play of bone and sinew under the skin of her once-plump arms and shoulders. Her hair was as thick as ever, but in it was silver I’d never noticed before, and it was rough and dry looking. Her eyes were constantly in motion, but she didn’t focus on anything for long. I wondered if she was back on the meds again.