Bittersweet Creek (10 page)

Julian

I
dropped Romy off and went to find Curtis. Forlorn, he sat on the back porch looking at the place under the old elm tree where his dogs should've been. I got out of the truck and studied the chains that had held the dogs, surprised by what I found.

“These aren't broken. Or loose. Or anything.”

Curtis cleared his throat. “I guess I couldn't see the clasp on the chain and thought I had them tied up but didn't.”

I pulled up to my full height. “You mean to tell me they got loose because you won't admit you can't
see?
”

“It's not my fault my damn eyes don't work,” he roared. “And I can still see the big stuff!”

I glared at him—not that he could see it. “Now the dogs could be anywhere.”

He waved some kind of dog whistle. “ 'Bout an hour ago I called them back with this, but they ran off when they saw I didn't have any kind of treat.”

That sounded about right.

Curtis sighed heavily. “Goat Cheese called to tell me they're over in the church cemetery by The Fountain.” He paused. “Could you go get them for me?”

It sounded as though Curtis had finally tried a slice of humble pie.

“I'm going to go get them, all right.”

I turned for the house.

“Don't you kill my dogs!” Curtis hollered. “They cost me a lot of money.”

His words bounced off my back. Once inside, I took my best rifle from the case, my hands shaking. I didn't want to kill those dogs. Romy was right. It wasn't their fault they were mean.

But they weren't going to chew up anything or anyone else. I grabbed the gun and some shells then almost ran into Curtis on my way out the door.

“Don't shoot my dogs, Julian.” The quaver in his voice made me sick. He'd summoned more emotion for those two dogs than he'd ever managed for me, for Mama, or even for Mamaw.

“Out of the way, Curtis.” I brushed past him.

With the gun in its rack and shells on the seat, I grimly drove toward the cemetery. I hadn't planned on having an
Old Yeller
moment, but that didn't mean I wouldn't.

Romy

J
ulian had been in such a hurry he didn't even walk me to the door. He practically had the truck in reverse before I hit the second step. I would've tried to talk him out of whatever he was headed to do, but it wouldn't have done any good. Something had hurt me, and he was going to take care of that something.

My gut churned for the dogs, but I couldn't seem to summon up too much pity considering my arm was on fire. If past experience were any indicator, the worst was yet to come. Uncle Liston had been bitten by a Doberman and ended up in the hospital when the wound became infected.

But no need to think about that now because nothing could be done to help it. I trudged up the stairs, noting the still empty driveway. Richard hadn't made it home. He hadn't returned any of my calls, either.

No, I didn't blame him. I banged on the door, but no one came to get me so I walked around back again. Sure enough, the back door was open. As many meth heads were running around, Daddy and I were going to have to talk about leaving doors open.

Once I'd taken my meds, I noticed the house was still eerily silent. The only sign of life, Mercutio, sat precariously on the breakfast room windowsill. His tail switched seemingly in time with the world's loudest wall clock.

I scratched between the cat's ears, and he purred. “Where's Daddy, Merc?”

He raised his head into my palm for a little love, but he didn't have the answers any more than I did. At that moment I looked out the window and saw Daddy in his wheelchair, poised outside Maggie's pen. He was so still, I bolted from the house, worried he'd wheeled himself out there only to have a heart attack from the exertion.

“Daddy? You okay?” I called as I trotted across the yard.

He didn't say anything until I stood right beside him. “It's the damnedest thing.”

At first I thought he was talking about how Maggie had the calf while I was at the doctor. Nothing short of a miracle could explain how she managed to calve before we could call Dr. Winterbourne to take out the stitches. Then I followed Daddy's eyes. A spindly-legged calf trotted for Maggie, but she turned her back on the calf, moving away any time the calf tried to nurse. Only then did I realize why Hank was staring.

The calf was mostly black, but she had a white face and white stocking feet, just like a Hereford.

We didn't have Herefords.

But the McElroys did.

“Well, shit fire and save the matches,” I muttered.

For once, Hank didn't admonish me for having things in my mouth that he wouldn't hold in his hand. Instead, he added, “You got that right.”

I watched cow and calf dance, and I could see how I missed the markings at first. The cow hadn't licked her calf down. As the calf wobbled behind her mother, dread formed a pretzel in my stomach. “Something's not right.”

Hank grimaced. “She ain't taking to it like she ought.”

“Do I need to get in there and try to help?”

Hank stared through my bandaged arm as though he could count my stitches. “I reckon not. Why don't you—”

“I'm not calling Julian.”

We watched Maggie give her baby the cold shoulder, which, in cow terms, also included the occasional butt or kick. “I can't stand this. I'll be careful.”

I climbed in and shooed the calf toward her mama with my right hand as I cradled my left arm to my chest. I even tried to distract Maggie long enough to let the calf nurse. More than once I tried to pick up the calf or to push her toward her mama, but Maggie wasn't having it.

“If you pick up that calf one more time I'm going to wear you out—I don't care how old you are!” Hank hollered. Startled, I stepped back from the calf and noticed blood oozing up through the bandage on my arm.

He was still going. “I knew we should have called—”

“Don't say it! I can't let this baby starve!”

He sighed deeply. He couldn't bear to see the calf suffer, either. “Shoo ol' Maggie into that little pen under the barn, and I'll call Dr. Winterbourne to patch her up. You go on down to Goat Cheese's house. He keeps colostrum in the freezer for times like these. We'll get something in the baby's stomach, then I'll send you to the Co-op for some of what they have.”

With a grunt, he heaved his wheelchair out of the ruts on the other side of the gate and headed for the house. I opened the back gate, the one that led to a tiny area just in front of the chute we used to get the cows in the trailer, and shooed Maggie inside. Sentiment or no, Hank didn't take kindly to bad mothers. She, like Beauregard, was destined to wear USDA sooner rather than later.

And we would have to bottle-feed another calf whether I wanted to or not.

The calf, meanwhile, had lain down, drawing its skinny legs close. I crouched down to scratch her head, but her eyes were glazed over with hunger and what looked like dejection, although I might have been projecting that part on the poor girl. “I know, baby,” I said as I scratched her forehead. “Every living thing deserves a mama.”

How much time had we lost while I was at the doctor? I stood quickly. “You hang in there,” I told the calf before I climbed over the fence and went in search of Goat Cheese.

Julian

W
hen I pulled into the County Line Methodist parking lot, I didn't see the dogs right away. Finally, I saw them nosing around the back of the cemetery.

I loaded the rifle and closed the truck door.

Dammit,
Old Yeller
makes me mist up every damn time and I'm the one who has to do this?

I picked my way around the gravestones to where the two dogs sniffed at a rabbit that was half eaten by fire ants. The dogs pawed and whined, but they were too late to snatch the rabbit from the ants. The yellow dog had the audacity to growl at me when I was two rows away. I raised the rifle, and looked through the scope to a spot between his eyes.

“Stop!”

I turned around to see Pete Gates running across the road from The Fountain. Knowing Pete, he wanted to shoot the dog himself.

I brought the rifle down and waited for him to reach me. When he did, he was out of breath. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of these dogs,” I said.

We looked over at the two, and the brindled one chose that moment to wag its tail.

“I'll take care of them,” Pete said. “Curtis called me. Said I could have 'em if I could catch 'em.”

Curtis really did love the dogs more than anything or anyone else.

Either that or he thought he could win them back playing poker.

“I
am
the closest thing to Animal Control around here,” Pete added.

And so he was. Sorta. The official Animal Control had to serve three counties, so most people called Pete to help them with unwanted critters. He worked cheap and usually got there pretty quick. Still . . .

“Pete, Curtis has made them so mean they were after one of Hank Satterfield's cows. That one”—I pointed to the yellow one—“bit Romy so badly I had to take her to the doctor.”

“Ah, I see,” Pete said with a lopsided grin that made his nose seem even more crooked. I'd broken his nose the night he was spewing such hateful things about Romy. “They hurt your girl, and you can't let that stand.”

“Pretty much.”

“How long has ol' Curtis had them?” Pete stroked his stubbled chin while he studied the dogs in question.

“About six months, I think.”

“Let me show you something.” Pete approached the two dogs, slowly murmuring to them the entire time. When he was about four feet away, he held out his hand. First, the yellow one came up and smelled Pete's hand before backing away. Then the brindled one walked up, growling all the while. After smelling Pete's grease-stained hand he sat down and let Pete scratch the top of his wide head.

Pete looked at me over his shoulder. “Ain't none of us too far gone.”

“I know we ain't really pals, but why don't you let me do this for you, and you can forget I insulted your girl.”

“And if you can't make them right you'll shoot them?”

He winced. “I'll take them to the pound. How about that?”

Not good enough.
I raised my rifle, but the brindled one sat down and started hassling and wagging his tail like any other dog. I lowered my rifle. “So help me if either one of those dogs hurts another living thing, I won't hesitate to shoot them.”

Pete scratched the crown of his head, and I noticed he had a tiny balding spot. “I don't know shit about people, but I can handle these dogs.”

I nodded and walked back to the truck.

Ain't none of us too far gone, he'd said.

I looked over my shoulder to see Pete coaxing the dogs to follow him across the street to where his truck was parked outside The Fountain.

He even let the bastards get up in the cab with him before driving off to work his animal magic out at the Gates place.

When I walked in, The Fountain was almost empty. Bill sat on a stool behind the old store counter, and Goat Cheese sat on a similar stool on the other side. A guy I didn't recognize sat at a table in the shadows. Goat Cheese hunched over the counter smoking a Camel. Only God knew how old he was for sure, but he was at least as old as Bill. They'd played football together at Yessum—I'd seen pictures at the Fieldhouse. Goat Cheese looked about thirty years older—probably thanks to all the Camels.

“Ho there, Julian,” Bill said. “Come on over and pull up a seat. It'd be good to hear something other than this old windbag.”

Goat Cheese sucked on his cigarette, making his wrinkled face look even more like a prune under his Yessum County Co-op cap. “How's your dad?”

“Same as always.” I pulled up a stool, and Bill put a Budweiser in front of me.

“So, his eyesight isn't getting any better?” Goat Cheese asked. He was fishing for information again. Since I didn't need anything from him, I wasn't in the mood for some sort of
Silence of the Lambs
–style quid pro quo.

“He'll be as blind as a bat by Christmas.” I had no idea if that was true, but it'd give Goat Cheese something to spread around.

“Find those dogs?”

I took a gulp of beer. “Pete's got 'em. I was about to shoot them when he showed up. Put them in the cab of his truck and drove off.”

Bill tugged on his suspenders, his belly straining against his shirt. “Well, maybe he'll make it home in one piece.”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry about ol' Pete.” Goat Cheese took a long drag on his cigarette, knowing full well both Bill and I wanted to know why we shouldn't worry.

“Why's that?” I finally said.

“He's a damned animal whisperer. Got a pet raccoon up in his trailer
and
a de-scented skunk. Took a mean ol' dog off Bill Bob's hands and has the thing eating out of the palm of his hand. Literally.”

Better him than me.
“You let me know if you see those dogs again,” I said. “I'll shoot 'em before I let them bite someone else.”

“Hey, McElroy,” said Goat Cheese as I pushed my stool away from the counter, “Tell me, how many stitches did the Satterfield girl have to get?”

“Doc didn't advise stitches,” I said. “He's more worried about infection setting in.”

“Infection?” The man in the corner stood. Richard Damn Paris. Of course.

“Rosemary had to see a doctor? What did you do to her?”

Goat Cheese leaned back from the counter so he could see what was going to happen. He'd asked that question on purpose because he'd known who was in the corner.

“I didn't do anything to Romy. She got bit by a dog, and I took her to the doctor.”

“She didn't call
me?
” His eyes fell.

I felt sorry for him in the split second before he punched me in the jaw.

I hit the floor, but I bounced up. Curtis had taught me it was easier to kick a man when he was down. As if by reflex, my fist flew toward Richard but stopped short. My reward for such restraint was to be knocked down again. The next thing I remembered was my fist connecting with his nose. He went down hard, and Bill stepped between us, his massive belly an effective barrier.

“That's enough, boys! I'm not going to have any of this mess in here. That's all I need is for Len to come in here and shut me down.”

Richard stared me down, both hands over his nose with blood running between his fingers. “I don't know for the life of me what she ever saw in a redneck hick like you.”

“Well, you're the reason we're still married.”

The words came out of my mouth before I thought. Goat Cheese almost swallowed his cigarette, and Richard made a lunge for me. Bill easily stopped him since he still had both hands over his nose.

“Julian,” Bill said gently. “This is strike two. Third one and you're out of here. For good.”

I nodded and walked out the door, waiting until I was outside to work my jaw back into place. Sure enough, there was the silver Porsche parked underneath the tree beside the empty parsonage. If it'd been a snake it would've bitten me.

When I climbed into the truck, I slammed my hands against the wheel. News of Romy's and my secret marriage would canvas the whole town before nightfall.

So much for keeping that little secret from Hank.