Mendocino and Other Stories (19 page)

“She didn't get in it,” Casey said. “They climbed up the stairs and looked in, they didn't
get
in. You think they'd let kids in one of those?”

“You're wrong, Casey. She told me herself. She sat in the driver's seat.”

Casey turned to Tillman and tapped the side of his head. “In her dreams.”

“Your own daughter told me.”

Tillman touched my leg under the table and cleared his throat. “How's Tina doing?” he said. “Is she coming down for Thanksgiving?”

Casey shook his head. “Her mother says after Christmas.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “She's getting married.”

“Really?” Tillman said. “Teri?”

“She's just dumb enough to try it twice.”

“Casey, you don't mean that,” Patsy said. “What kind of thing is that to say in front of your own girlfriend? Honestly.” She smiled and shook her head. “Sometimes I can't believe you.” She took the shake out of his hand and sipped from the straw.

“We're going to take Amy hunting,” Tillman said to Patsy. “What time do you get off? Want to come?”

Patsy shook her head emphatically. “This girl doesn't hunt. Casey got me out there one day last year? I just about froze my butt off.”

“Perry was limping so I took her to scare the birds out of the cover,” Casey said.

“But I scared them away,” Patsy said with a laugh. “You have to be quiet,” she warned me.

“What makes you think Amy's never hunted before?” Tillman said. He hit me under the table. “She happens to be a really good shot.”

Patsy blushed. “Are you? I'm sorry. I guess they must have good hunting out in California.”

“He's kidding,” I said. “I've never even held a gun.” I could feel Casey look at me and I turned to Tillman. “Maybe I should hang out with Patsy while you two go.”

“I'm going over to my mom's,” Patsy said. “Soon as I get off work. You could watch the shows with us.”

Tillman put his hand around the back of my neck. “Don't tell me you came all the way to Nebraska to chicken out,” he said. “Don't break my heart.”

THE SNOW HAD
started up again, and we slid a little as we left the parking lot. The guns were on a rack inside the back window of the cab, and I began to feel nervous knowing they were there, just inches from my head.

When we were nearly out of town Tillman said, “Go by the house,” and Casey turned onto a side street. He slowed down in front of a two-story white aluminum-sided house with a big screened-in front porch. A driveway led back to an open garage in which I could just make out a motorcycle.

“Well,” Tillman said. “Here's where we grew up.”

I nodded.

He pointed at the upstairs. “That was my room. That was Casey's. Our parents' was in back. We used to climb out our windows onto the roof of the porch and then jump down from there. Two or three in the morning, we'd walk into town and meet our girlfriends behind the high school.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” I said. “Is this the truth, Casey? Were you guys juvenile delinquents?”

He smiled. “I wasn't—I went along to make sure Tillman didn't get into trouble.”

“Oh, right,” Tillman said, laughing. “Who went to third with Mary Beth Rivers in Hurleys' basement?”

Casey blushed crimson. He hit the accelerator and we spun down the block. We came to a stop sign and he braked and said to Tillman, “Should I tell her about you and that Lori girl?”

“Be my guest,” Tillman said. “That Lori girl—oh, you mean Lorraine Miggle?” He turned to me. “Miggle. Can you imagine?” He looked at Casey. “What happened with her? I can't quite remember.”

Casey shook his head. “Forget it.”

“Oh, come on, Casey,” I said. “Tell me. I'm all ears.”

“He's too embarrassed,” Tillman said. “You're a girl.”

We started off again and a few minutes later we were out of town. We drove for miles, past snow-dusted fields and small, nearly collapsed farmhouses. The only sounds were the hum of the engine and the flapflap of Casey's windshield wipers brushing aside the wet snowflakes.

Tillman nudged me. “See there?” He pointed out the window at a little blue house. “Casey's ex-wife's folks'.”

I turned to Casey. “How long have you and Teri been apart?”

He ran his hand through his hair. “Two and a half, three years.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Well,” he said. “Her dad still lets me hunt his land.”

“What a consolation,” Tillman said, and they both laughed.

I began to feel concerned about the cold. I had gloves in my pocket but they were purple leather, not quite hunting gloves if such things existed. And then there was hunting—hunting! What kind of love-trance had brought me here? I tossed around in my mind the idea of waiting in the truck, but it wasn't really a possibility.

We turned onto an unpaved road, and Casey stopped in front of a wide gate. Tillman climbed out of the truck and held the gate open while Casey drove through, then refastened it and got back in. We drove another mile or so and Casey slowed down. He looked out at the field to our left, a city block of drooping mud-colored cornstalks. “Lot of pheasant here last week,” he said.

“Looks good,” said Tillman.

Casey cut the engine and Tillman put his hand on my leg. “Ready?” he said.

He got out and helped me down; almost immediately my hair was covered with snow. I brushed it off, then wiped my wet hand on my jeans.

“Don't you have a hat?” he said.

He had somehow managed to produce a coffee-colored cap, and he put it on. I turned and saw that Casey wore a nearly identical one.

“She doesn't have a hat,” Tillman said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Here, you'd better wear mine.”

He took it off and held it out for me to take, but there was something about it: it was one of those Sherlock Holmes hats—with earflaps that met and buttoned at the crown, and a stiff little bill—but made of flannel-lined canvas, a hat for a Sherlock Holmes who'd wandered far from Baker Street.

“I'll be OK,” I said.

“Amy, come on,” he said. “It's my fault, I should have told you to bring a hat.”

I was wearing a scarf around my neck and I took it off and put it over my head, tying it under my chin. “OK?” I said. “My babushka look.”

“Very fetching.”

Casey went around to the back of the truck and lowered the gate, and Perry bounded onto the ground and started jumping around, nudging at Tillman and Casey as they reached into the cab for their guns.

“He's so eager,” I said.

Tillman looked over at me and leaned his gun against the truck. “Unlike you?”

“It just sort of hit me what we're going to do.”

“What?” he said. “We're going to have fun. Come on—a nice, bracing walk? You'll like it.”

“Hey,” Casey said.

We looked up as three or four birds rose from the cornfield and soared away.

“See there, Amy?” Tillman turned back to the truck. He took a couple of the shells—their cheerful, bright yellow casings suddenly seeming to me a lie against their function—and clicked them into his gun.

“Were those pheasants?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“How could you tell?”

“Didn't you see the tags hanging off their feet?”

“Tail feathers,” Casey said. I looked up and he seemed to be watching me—benignly, almost sadly. “Pheasants have long tail feathers. You can tell by the shape, too, and if you're close enough, the coloring. You never seen one before?”

I shook my head.

“They're real pretty. Colorful.” He glanced at Tillman. “You'll see.”

“If I get that close,” I said.

Again Casey looked at Tillman but this time Tillman didn't meet his eye, and Casey pressed his lips together and shook his head. He leaned his gun against the truck and bent to tighten his boot laces.

“Here's what let's do,” Tillman said. “I'll go across here, then Amy about twenty feet beyond me, then you.”

Casey straightened up and adjusted his cap.

“OK?” Tillman said.

Casey picked up his gun. He walked away from us, down the road, Perry trotting alongside.

“Is he mad?” I said.

Tillman rolled his eyes. “He's not mad, he's crazy.” He picked up his gun. “He's fucked.”

“Tillman.”

“Do you want to do this or not? My brother is my brother—there's no telling what his problem is.”

I tightened the scarf, tucking the ends into my jacket. “Just tell me what to do. Just point me in the right direction.”

“Hey.” He put his gun down and pressed his lips to my forehead, then to my mouth. “This is supposed to be fun, too,” he said. “Right?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to do it?”

I nodded again.

He took up his gun, and with his free hand under my elbow he walked me a few paces down the road. “We'll check out this field first,” he said. “When we get over there if you're ready you can give it a try.” He stopped. “OK?”

“OK.”

“See where Casey's standing? I'm going to stop here, and you're going to stand halfway between us. We'll keep pace with each other as we walk. Just go in a straight line, between the rows of corn.”

I looked at the field. Now that we were closer I could see how high the weathered stalks of corn actually were. Tillman and Casey would both clear them by several inches, but they'd come up nearly to the top of my head. “The pheasants are in there?” I said.

“Here's hoping.”

I started down the road toward Casey, but turned back. “Shouldn't I be wearing something brighter? My jacket's almost the same color as the corn.”

Tillman gave me a big grin. “We're not going to shoot you,” he said. “I promise.”

“I'm sure you wouldn't
mean
to.”

“How could we shoot you if we weren't aiming at you? Can you fly?”

I smiled at him. “Silly me.”

I headed down the road again, stopping when I got halfway to Casey; he was standing there watching me, his gun held loosely at his side.

We started walking. The terrain between the rows of corn was rougher than I'd imagined, and the light snow on the ground made me cautious about falling. I sensed the two men at my sides, but the corn was too high and too thick for me to see them. I walked with my hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, my head bent against the snow, my shoulders hunched up—making myself as small as possible.

It was very quiet. I stopped walking for a moment and all I could hear was a soft rustling—the wind in the corn, maybe, or the sound of their pantlegs brushing together as they walked. I moved forward quickly to stay even with them. I stopped again and tried to listen more carefully. Were they ahead of me or behind me? What if I had somehow crossed into the wrong row and was off track? I felt moisture seeping through my shoes, and I started to walk again.

There was a sudden flapping, and to my right a shot blasted through the air. I froze as a second shot sounded from behind me. I clapped my hands over my face and stood still, my heart beating wildly. There wasn't a sound. I could feel my pulse everywhere—in my fingers, my toes, my neck. After a moment I carefully widened the spaces between my fingers, the way I did at scary movies when I wanted to see if the awful part was over, and saw again the dark stalks in front of me. I heard Perry bark once, and
then there was a frantic rustling and Casey burst through the corn. He came to a standstill when he saw me.

I dropped my hands to my sides. He held the gun clamped under his elbow, the barrel resting easily in his outstretched hand.

“Was that you?” I said.

“The first one.” He had a slightly stunned look on his face—as if the shot had surprised him, too. “You OK?”

“I think so. The noise just got me—somehow I didn't expect it to be so loud.”

He dug into his pants pocket, pulled out a bandanna, and offered it to me.

I touched my nose. “Am I dripping?”

“You're, um—” He licked his lips. “You're crying.” He ducked his head, looked up and studied me for a moment, then headed away from me, down the corn row. I touched my face: he was right.

I heard him whistle sharply and call Perry's name, then I heard Tillman's voice, although I couldn't hear what he was saying. I wiped my face on the bandanna and blew my nose. I stood there for a few minutes, waiting for Tillman to come for me; but he didn't, so I started toward the end of the field.

The two of them were standing on a narrow dirt road that separated our field from another one. “You're a good luck charm,” Tillman exclaimed when he saw me. “Look—we're two for two.”

He held out, by its feet, a big brown-and-black bird. There was a streak of blood on his pants, at the knee, and I took a step backward. Perry growled at me, and I turned and saw the other bird, lying at Casey's feet, its head twisted backward. They
were
color-ful—marked with blue, green, white, even red. But I couldn't look. I turned back to the field and craned my neck, trying to spot the truck.

“Over there,” Casey said. He pointed at a ninety-degree angle to where I'd been looking. I located the truck and stared at it.

From behind me Tillman put his hand on my shoulder. “Lose your bearings a little?”

I nodded but didn't look at him.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”

“It's just that I don't want to look at the birds,” I said carefully. “I'd turn around but I don't want to see them.”

“No problem,” he said. “Turn, look.”

I turned and he was holding up his arms—look Ma, no hands. But the pheasant's feet protruded from a big pocket on the front of his jacket, and there was a new smear of blood on his pants.

“Give it to me,” Casey said.

“What?”

Casey yanked the bird out of Tillman's pocket and stooped to pick up the other one. He held them together by their feet, their heads dangling near the ground. “Walk around by the road,” he said, and he stepped back into the cornfield.

Tillman's hand flew to his mouth. “I'm sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm sorry. I'm so stupid. I didn't think it would bother you.” His face had gone slack: he looked defeated.

“I'm fine,” I said. “No harm done. I just may not eat poultry for a while.”

He took off his cap and looked at it. “I didn't
think
,” he said quietly. He whipped the cap against his leg a few times and I reached out a hand to stop him. He put the cap back on and started down the road.