Winter's Bone (11 page)

Ree nudged Harold. “You can chase after that one. They got claws’n teeth, you know, so wear gloves to grab ’em.”

“He’s still alive!”

“Notch his head ’tween two fingers’n pull—like with a chicken.”

“He’s callin’ for his momma!”

Sonny stood and shook feeling into his legs, then slipped on his yellow leather gloves and walked toward the maimed squirrel thrashing about in snow spotting with blood.

“I’ll do it—he’s mine, anyhow.”

The squirrel huffed after breath and squeaked things defiant or pitiful or both. Sonny hunkered and dropped a hand over the squirrel’s little head and jerked it beyond connection with the body though the skull remained inside the fur. He watched the chest sink a last time, then gathered the others and carried them all by their tails.

Ree said, “There’s a way to make a stringer for these things if you get a big bunch. These bones here, behind this thing like an ankle? You can poke a hole there between the bones and run a stringer through like with fish, but we don’t need a stringer today. Not for this amount.”

Harold said, “Let me carry one.”

The sun was taller though light had not yet broken through to the ground. The path was narrow and iced on the north slope. These rough acres were Bromont acres and they’d never been razed for timber, so the biggest old trees in the area stood on this ground. Magically fat and towering oak trees with limbs grown into pleasingly akimbo swirls were common. Hickory, sycamore, and all the rest prospered as well. The last stretch of native pine in the county grew up the way, and all the old-growth timber was much coveted by sneaking men with saws. If sold, the timber could fetch a fair pile of dollars, probably, but it was understood by the first Bromont and passed down to the rest that the true price of such a sale would be the ruination of home, and despite lean years of hardship no generation yet wanted to be the one who wrought that upon the family land. Grandad Bromont had famously chased timber-snakers away at gunpoint many, many times, and though Dad had never been eager to wave his gun about in defense of trees, he’d loaded up and done it whenever required.

Sonny said, “Look—I can stick my little finger down inside the hole. It sticks down purty deep, too.”

“Don’t you go lickin’ that finger, now.”

“I think I feel the bullet.”

They crested the slope, breakfast held swinging by the tail, and started toward the house below. Smoke drifted from the stack. Across the creek a cussing Milton was trying to start a cold balky truck while another Milton banged on the motor with a wrench. Ree kept her eyes on her side of the creek and led the boys down the curving damp trail to the rear of the house.

Harold said, “Ree, are these for fryin’ or for stewin’?”

“Which way do you like best?”

Both boys said, “Fried!”

“Okey-doke. Fried, then. With biscuits, maybe, if we got the makin’s, and spang dripped on top, too. But, first thing is, we got to clean ’em. Sonny, you fetch the skinnin’ board. I think it’s still leanin’ on the side of the shed back there. Harold, you go for the knife—you know which one I want.”

“The one I ain’t s’posed to never touch.”

“Bring it to me.”

The skinning board was a weathered barn slat scored with a snarl of cuts and stained by various bloods. Sonny laid the board at Ree’s feet and she dropped one squirrel onto the wood and set the others to the side. When Harold returned with the knife, Gail came with him and stood on the porch, sipping coffee.

Ree said, “Hey, Sweet Pea, how’d you sleep?”

“Good as ever.”

Sonny nudged Ree with his elbow, said, “Show me how, huh?”

“I’ll show the both of you—Harold, you stay close.”

She stretched the squirrel lengthwise and drove the blade in at the neck.

“Now, these are harder’n rabbits but still not too hard, really. Think like you’re cuttin’ the squirrel a suit, only you’re cuttin’ the suit
off
of ’em, not for ’em to put on. Open ’em at the neck, here, cut the wrists free like so and slit the arms, cut the ankles free like so and slit the legs, then split ’em like this down the middle and bring all the cuts together. Their skin sticks to ’em more than rabbits, so you got to pull at it, and help it along by easin’ the blade between the fur and the meat. Harold, put your hand in there’n yank out them guts.”

“I ain’t touchin’ guts!”

“Don’t be scared—the thing’s dead. Nothin’ to be scared of.”

Harold backed slowly toward Gail and onto the porch.

“I ain’t
scared
to do it, I just don’t
want
to do it.”

Sonny crouched to the skinning board and shoved his fist inside the squirrel and pulled the guts onto the wood. He scrunched his face and shook his head. The guts made a somber pile of deep reds and pale reds, browns, and blacks. He looked at the guts, then at Harold. He said, “It ain’t no worse’n cleanin’ up puke or somethin’. You should do the next one.”

“But cleanin’ up puke always makes
me
puke.”

Ree was watchful over Sonny as he split the next squirrel open. She said, “You got you a whole bunch of stuff you’re goin’ to have to get over bein’ scared of, boy.”

Gail said, “Harold, you got the sand for this, ain’t you?” She stroked his dark hair and when his eyes met hers she bent to kiss his cheek. He blushed, leaned his head into her middle, and threw an arm around her waist. “I’ve always known you to be such a brave little rascal.”

“You can’t always leave all the ugly stuff to Sonny, you know. That ain’t right.”

“I don’t mind—he’s my only brother.”

“I mind. Harold, get your butt down here. You don’t wanna make me run after you. You truly don’t. Get down here now’n squat beside me. Close your eyes if you want, but get your goddam fingers in there’n yank out them guts.”

Harold did not move and Ree stood to grab him by a wrist. She pulled him down the porch steps to the skinning board. He crouched on his knees with his eyes held shut and she guided his hand inside the squirrel. He made the sort of face that generally breaks into tears, but squeezed with his hand and pulled and pulled until the guts lay on the board. He stood then, calmly looked at his hand, then at the guts. He said, “That really
ain’t
no biggie, is it? His insides sure was good’n warm on my fingers.”

Gail said, “Look at Harold! Look who’s still the brave, brave little rascal I always thought he was.”

Harold seemed embarrassed but pleased and stood over the gut piles staring down. “We don’t never eat those parts, anyhow, do we?”

“Nope.”

Sonny and Harold rushed together beaming then and slapped their bloody hands at each other. They stood still giggling for a moment and carefully rolled red fingers across each other’s cheeks to make spotty war paint stripes. They laughed and hopped about the snow-caked yard, swatting away with bloody hands while Ree tossed the remaining squirrel onto the skinning board and bent to cut the suit.

F
ULL STOMACHS
brought about a spell of peace and Ree languished on the couch. She stretched on her back with her long legs propped atop the armrest and put a dish towel over her eyes so the pictures playing inside her head would flicker brightly against a darkened space. A tiny purple circle puffed into a large blue circle, an expanding bucket mouth, maybe, and inside the bucket it was like ten gazillion fireflies popped into sparks but their sparking light was of all the colors known to the mind and constantly popping from one color into another. A red cloud of mist grew from the bucket and shrunk into a regular little crooked tree on a hilltop with an old wrinkled sky above. When the wrinkles parted the sky was a blue eye that winked until she was in the tree with her feet hanging from a branch, dangling above a sudden roiling ocean that opened below. The ocean had waves that leapt like dancers. A smattering of cows grazed between dancers in the ocean but many others puffed with bloat and floated foundering horribly on their sides just beyond reach of the waves until pitchfork tines swooping down from somewhere pierced their bloated bellies all at once and the released fart-wind from so many bloated cows knocked her flying from the tree into a fragile green jungle. The jungle shattered into smoke behind her as she ran and held people she knew, sort of, at least she sensed that she did, but they wouldn’t face her or say hello or stop to help with directions. All her feelings were of being lost and her frantic words were shouted in a language nobody else seemed to hear. She ducked under a yellow leaf big as tomorrow and fell against giant time-spanning lips that could smooch her spirit entire from days of girlhood to now with but one knowing pucker. The lips kept smooching on her sweetly like she was yet and forever a child, though, which felt wrong, stunting and stale, then in the measure of a single heartbeat her dress fell open like shutters and she stood revealed, a woman, and . . .

The dish towel fell from her eyes and the flickering pictures sank beneath light with the lips sinking away last, even as she felt her fingers reach out to grab them for holding near. She opened her eyes to see Uncle Teardrop’s face poised inches above her own, and seen at this distance his melted side looked as big as a continent on a globe. He said, “You think I forgot about you?”

It was a continent with a volcanic history, vast sections of wasteland and rugged brown mountainous zones rained upon eternally by three blue drops. Her eyes took it all in as she rolled off the couch sideways beneath him onto her knees and hurried across the floor. As she crawled she said, “What do you mean, forgot about me? Huh?”

Uncle Teardrop wore a brown leather jacket that had been slashed open in a couple of places and home-stitched back together with fat leather strands, and a camouflage cap meant for green seasons. His dark graying hair was dull, lank. His black jeans had washed pale in patches and his boots were dun lace-ups. There’d be a weapon on him somewhere.

“Forgot about you and everything happenin’ over here.”

She stood near the far window and avoided his eyes.

“That’s your business—forget us if you want.”

He turned to look calmly her way while giving a slight shake of his head.

“Jessup never would smack you. I don’t know why, why he never would, but I always have said someday somebody’s goin’ to pay a price for him not whompin’ you good when you needed it.”

Gail was napping in Ree’s bed, the boys ran loudly about in the side yard, and Mom sat silently in her rocker. Ree edged along the wall so there’d be furniture blocking his way if he made a mean move toward her.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be a smart mouth, there, Teardrop. Uncle Teardrop.”

“It don’t seem like you’ve got to try none, girl, smarty-mouth shit just flies out your yap anytime your yap falls open.” He walked to the window that overlooked the side yard. Sonny and Harold chased each other around in circles, flinging snowballs while yelling fantastic threats back and forth. Teardrop stood with his arms crossed and studied their play like he was scouting the boys for the future. He was silent long enough for the quiet to become worrisome to Ree, then said, “He’s faster’n Blond Milton ever was. He hits stuff he throws at, too. Blond Milton, he always was strong as stink but he threw rocks’n balls’n shit about like an ol’ granny would without her glasses on, and he never could swim real swift or play horseshoes worth a damn or whatever. He wasn’t coordinated as Sonny is already at any of that. Course, the man has proved he’ll
shoot
anybody he wants, and not everybody will.” He leaned to the window as he watched the boys a moment longer, eyes following them as they moved, until he eventually grunted once, shrugged his shoulders. “Harold, though. Harold better like guns.” He pulled away from the window and turned about. “The law found Jessup’s car out at Gullett Lake this mornin’. Somebody set it on fire last night, burnt it down to nothin’ almost.”

“Was . . . ?”

“He wasn’t in it.”

Late-morning shadows worked patterns across the scarred wooden floor, patterns underfoot shifting angle and design at the pace of the sun crossing the sky. Mom’s eyes fell closed as though she’d heard and she began to hum a short snatch of flat music that nearly brought a song to mind. Teardrop’s green truck was down in the yard and the boys ran around it hurling dripping snowballs at each other. Ree felt a low vibration become electric in the jelly between her bones and heart, and said, “He’s gone, ain’t he?”

“This is for you-all.” Teardrop took a flat square of folded dollars from inside his jacket and tossed it to the couch. “His court day was this mornin’ and he didn’t show.” He flung his arm out, gesturing vaguely toward the land up the hill behind the house. “I’d sell off that Bromont timber now while you can.”

“No, huh-uh. I won’t be doin’ nothin’ like that.”

“That’s the very first thing they’ll do once they’ve took this place from under you-all, girl. Go up’n cut them woods down to nubs.” He stepped to stand before her and put a hand beneath her chin, raised her eyes to meet his. “Might as well have the dough to spend on your own.” He stood back, plucked a bag of crank from the smoke pocket on his shirt, scooped a load with a long fingernail and snorted, snorted again. He twisted his neck while rubbing his nose and the black dots in his eyes burst wider and darker. He held the bag to Ree. “You got the taste for it yet?”