Full dark,no stars (9 page)

Youd go to jail for assault! He was wearing a celluloid collar that day, and it had come all askew. It was almost possible to feel sorry for him as he stood there with that collar poking into the underside of his chin and sweat cutting lines through the dust on his chubby face, his lips twitching and his eyes bulging.

No such thing. I have warned you off my property, as is my right, and I intend to send a registered letter to your firm stating that very thing. Come back again and thats trespassing and I will beat you. Take warning, sir. Lars Olsen, who had brought Lester out again in his Red Baby, had all but cupped his hands around his ears to hear better.

When Lester reached the doorless passenger side of the truck, he whirled with an arm outstretched and a finger pointing, like a courtroom lawyer with a bent for the theatrical. I think you killed her! And sooner or later, murder will out!

Henry-or Hank, as he now preferred to be called-came out of the barn. He had been pitching hay and he held the pitchfork across his chest like a rifle at port arms. What I think is you better get out of here before you start bleeding, he said. The kind and rather timid boy I had known until the summer of 22 would never have said such a thing, but this one did, and Lester saw that he meant it. He got in. With no door to slam, he settled for crossing his arms over his chest.

Come back anytime, Lars, I said pleasantly, but dont bring him, no matter how much he offers you to cart his useless ass.

No, sir, Mr. James, Lars said, and off they went.

I turned to Henry. Would you have stuck him with that pitchfork?

Yessir. Made him squeal. Then, unsmiling, he went back into the barn.

But he wasnt always unsmiling that summer, and Shannon Cotterie was the reason why. He saw a lot of her (more of her than was good for either of them; that I found out in the fall). She began coming to the house on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, long-skirted and neatly bonneted, toting a side-sack loaded with good things to eat. She said she knew what men cook-as though she were 30 instead of just 15-and said she intended to see we had at least two decent suppers a week. And although I had only one of her mothers casseroles for comparison, Id have to say that even at 15 she was the superior cook. Henry and I just threw steaks in a skillet on the stove; she had a way of seasoning that made plain old chew-meat delicious. She brought fresh vegetables in her side-sack-not just carrots and peas but exotic (to us) things like asparagus and fat green beans she cooked with pearl onions and bacon. There was even dessert. I can close my eyes in this shabby hotel room and smell her pastry. I can see her standing at the kitchen counter with her bottom swaying as she beat eggs or whipped cream.

Generous was the word for Shannon: of hip, of bust, of heart. She was gentle with Henry, and she cared for him. That made me care for her only thats too thin, Reader. I loved her, and we both loved Henry. After those Tuesday and Thursday dinners, Id insist on doing the washing-up and send them out on the porch. Sometimes I heard them murmuring to each other, and would peek out to see them sitting side by side in the wicker chairs, looking out at West Field and holding hands like an old married couple. Other times I spied them kissing, and there was nothing of the old married couple about that at all. There was a sweet urgency to those kisses that belongs only to the very young, and I stole away with my heart aching.

One hot Tuesday afternoon she came early. Her father was out in our North Field on his harvester, Henry riding with him, a little crew of Indians from the Shoshone reservation in Lyme Biska walking along behind and behind them, Old Pie driving the gather-truck. Shannon asked for a dipper of cold water, which I was glad to provide. She stood there on the shady side of the house, looking impossibly cool in a voluminous dress that covered her from throat to shin and shoulder to wrist-a Quaker dress, almost. Her manner was grave, perhaps even scared, and for a moment I was scared myself. Hes told her, I thought. That turned out not to be true. Except, in a way, it was.

Mr. James, is Henry sick?

Sick? Why, no. Healthy as a horse, Id say. And eats like one, too. Youve seen that for yourself. Although I think even a man who was sick would have trouble saying no to your cooking, Shannon.

That earned me a smile, but it was of the distracted variety. Hes different this summer. I always used to know what he was thinking, but now I dont. He broods.

Does he? I asked (too heartily).

You havent seen it?

No, maam. (I had.) He seems like his old self to me. But he cares for you an awful lot, Shan. Maybe what looks like brooding to you feels like the lovesicks to him.

I thought that would get me a real smile, but no. She touched my wrist. Her hand was cool from the dipper handle. Ive thought of that, but The rest she blurted out. Mr. James, if he was sweet on someone else-one of the girls from school-youd tell me, wouldnt you? You wouldnt try to to spare my feelings?

I laughed at that, and I could see her pretty face lighten with relief. Shan, listen to me. Because I am your friend. Summers always a hardworking time, and with Arlette gone, Hank and I have been busier than one-armed paperhangers. When we come in at night, we eat a meal-a fine one, if you happen to show up-and then read for an hour. Sometimes he talks about how he misses his mama. After that we go to bed, and the next day we get up and do it all again. He barely has time to spark you, let alone another girl.

Hes sparked me, all right, she said, and looked off to where her fathers harvester was chugging along the skyline.

Well thats good, isnt it?

I just thought hes so quiet now so moody sometimes he looks off into the distance and I have to say his name twice or three times before he hears me and answers. She blushed fiercely. Even his kisses seem different. I dont know how to explain it, but they do. And if you ever tell him I said that, Ill die. I will just die.

I never would, I said. Friends dont peach on friends.

I guess Im being a silly-billy. And of course he misses his mama, I know he does. But so many of the girls at school are prettier than me prettier than me

I tilted her chin up so she was looking at me. Shannon Cotterie, when my boy looks at you, he sees the prettiest girl in the world. And hes right. Why, if I was his age, Id spark you myself.

Thank you, she said. Tears like tiny diamonds stood in the corners of her eyes.

The only thing you need to worry about is putting him back in his place if he gets out of it. Boys can get pretty steamed up, you know. And if Im out of line, you just go on and tell me so. Thats another thing thats all right, if its between friends.

She hugged me then, and I hugged her back. A good strong hug, but perhaps better for Shannon than me. Because Arlette was between us. She was between me and everyone else in the summer of 1922, and it was the same for Henry. Shannon had just told me so.

One night in August, with the good picking done and Old Pies crew paid up and back on the rez, I woke to the sound of a cow lowing. I overslept milking time, I thought, but when I fumbled my fathers pocket watch off the table beside my bed and peered at it, I saw it was quarter past three in the morning. I put the watch to my ear to see if it was still ticking, but a look out the window into the moonless dark would have served the same purpose. Those werent the mildly uncomfortable calls of a cow needing to be rid of her milk, either. It was the sound of an animal in pain. Cows sometimes sound that way when theyre calving, but our goddesses were long past that stage of their lives.

I got up, started out the door, then went back to the closet for my.22. I heard Henry sawing wood behind the closed door of his room as I hurried past with the rifle in one hand and my boots in the other. I hoped he wouldnt wake up and want to join me on what could be a dangerous errand. There were only a few wolves left on the plains by then, but Old Pie had told me there was summer-sick in some of the foxes along the Platte and Medicine Creek. It was what the Shoshone called rabies, and a rabid critter in the barn was the most likely cause of those cries.

Once I was outside the house, the agonized lowing was very loud, and hollow, somehow. Echoing. Like a cow in a well, I thought. That thought chilled the flesh on my arms and made me grip the.22 tighter.

By the time I reached the barn doors and shouldered the right one open, I could hear the rest of the cows starting to moo in sympathy, but those cries were calm inquiries compared to the agonized bawling that had awakened me and would awaken Henry, too, if I didnt put an end to what was causing it. There was a carbon arc-lamp hanging on a hook to the right of the door-we didnt use an open flame in the barn unless we absolutely had to, especially in the summertime, when the loft was loaded with hay and every corncrib crammed full to the top.

I felt for the spark-button and pushed it. A brilliant circle of blue-white radiance leaped out. At first my eyes were too dazzled to make out anything; I could only hear those painful cries and the hoof-thuds as one of our goddesses tried to escape from whatever was hurting her. It was Achelois. When my eyes adjusted a bit, I saw her tossing her head from side to side, backing up until her hindquarters hit the door of her stall-third on the right, as you walked up the aisle-and then lurching forward again. The other cows were working themselves into a full-bore panic.

I hauled on my muckies, then trotted to the stall with the.22 tucked under my left arm. I threw the door open, and stepped back. Achelois means she who drives away pain, but this Achelois was in agony. When she blundered into the aisle, I saw her back legs were smeared with blood. She reared up like a horse (something I never saw a cow do before), and when she did, I saw a huge Norway rat clinging to one of her teats. The weight had stretched the pink stub to a taut length of cartilage. Frozen in surprise (and horror), I thought of how, as a child, Henry would sometimes pull a string of pink bubble-gum out of his mouth. Dont do that, Arlette would scold him. No one wants to look at what youve been chewing.

I raised the gun, then lowered it. How could I shoot, with the rat swinging back and forth like a living weight at the end of a pendulum?

In the aisle now, Achelois lowed and shook her head from side to side, as if that might somehow help. Once all four of her feet were back on the floor, the rat was able to stand on the hay-littered barnboards. It was like some strange freak puppy with beads of bloodstained milk in its whiskers. I looked around for something to hit it with, but before I could grab the broom Henry had left leaning against Phemonoes stall, Achelois reared again and the rat thumped to the floor. At first I thought she had simply dislodged it, but then I saw the pink and wrinkled stub protruding from the rats mouth, like a flesh cigar. The damned thing had torn one of poor Acheloiss teats right off. She laid her head against one of the barn beams and mooed at me tiredly, as if to say: Ive given you milk all these years and offered no trouble, not like some I could mention, so why did you let this happen to me? Blood was pooling beneath her udder. Even in my shock and revulsion, I didnt think she would die of her wound, but the sight of her-and of the rat, with her blameless teat in its mouth-filled me with rage.

I still didnt shoot at it, partly because I was afraid of fire, but mostly because, with the carbon lamp in one hand, I was afraid Id miss. Instead, I brought the rifle-stock down, hoping to kill this intruder as Henry had killed the survivor from the well with his shovel. But Henry was a boy with quick reflexes, and I was a man of middle age who had been roused from a sound sleep. The rat avoided me with ease and went trotting up the center aisle. The severed teat bobbed up and down in its mouth, and I realized the rat was eating it-warm and no doubt still full of milk-even as it ran. I gave chase, smacked at it twice more, and missed both times. Then I saw where it was running: the pipe leading into the defunct livestock well. Of course! Rat Boulevard! With the well filled in, it was their only means of egress. Without it, theyd have been buried alive. Buried with her.

But surely, I thought, that thing is too big for the pipe. It must have come from outside-a nest in the manure pile, perhaps.

It leaped for the opening, and as it did so, it elongated its body in the most amazing fashion. I swung the stock of the varmint gun one last time and shattered it on the lip of the pipe. The rat I missed entirely. When I lowered the carbon lamp to the pipes mouth, I caught one blurred glimpse of its hairless tail slithering away into the darkness, and heard its little claws scraping on the galvanized metal. Then it was gone. My heart was pounding hard enough to put white dots in front of my eyes. I drew in a deep breath, but with it came a stench of putrefaction and decay so strong that I fell back with my hand over my nose. The need to scream was strangled by the need to retch. With that smell in my nostrils I could almost see Arlette at the other end of the pipe, her flesh now teeming with bugs and maggots, liquefying; her face beginning to drip off her skull, the grin of her lips giving way to the longer-lasting bone grin that lay beneath.

I crawled back from that awful pipe on all fours, spraying vomit first to my left and then to my right, and when my supper was all gone, I gagged up long strings of bile. Through watering eyes I saw that Achelois had gone back into her stall. That was good. At least I wasnt going to have to chase her through the corn and put a nose-halter on her to lead her back.

What I wanted to do first was plug the pipe-I wanted to do that before anything-but as my gorge quieted, clear thinking reasserted itself. Achelois was the priority. She was a good milker. More important, she was my responsibility. I kept a medicine chest in the little barn office where I did the books. In the chest I found a large can of Rawleigh Antiseptic Salve. There was a pile of clean rags in the corner. I took half of them and went back to Acheloiss stall. I closed the door of her stall to minimize the risk of being kicked, and sat on the milking stool. I think part of me felt I deserved to be kicked. But dear old Achelois stilled when I stroked her flank and whispered, Soo, Boss, soo, Bossy-boss, and although she shivered when I smeared the salve on her hurt part, she stood quiet.