Saving Shiloh (2 page)

About two o'clock Dad says, “Well, I better drive over there and pick up Judd. Marty, why don't you come along?”

There's no reason I can think of why I should, but when Dad says that, it's 'cause he's got something to say to me. So I get my jacket.

I climb in the back of the Jeep. Judd, with his left leg in a cast, is going to need room up front to stretch himself out. As soon as we start down the lane, Dad says, “Now Marty,
you being the oldest, Dara Lynn and Becky are going to take their cue from you. You treat Judd with respect, your sisters will learn a little something.”

What's he think? I'm gonna start some kind of argument right there at the table? I don't respect Judd, but I can be polite.

“What I mean is,” Dad goes on, “if he says something about Shiloh, don't go getting hot under the collar. Let's see if we can't get through this meal at least being good neighbors.”

I want just as bad as anyone else to make peace with Judd, but there's one condition: “Long as you don't let him borrow Shiloh to go hunting,” I say.

“Judd won't be doing any hunting this season, you can bet,” says Dad. “He's got even more injuries besides that leg to heal up.”

We reach the road, turn right a few yards, go around the big pothole that sent Judd's pickup truck rolling down the bank last month, then cross the bridge by the old mill. We turn right again and keep going till we get to the brown-and-white trailer where Judd lives.

He's already out in the yard, hobbling about on his cast and crutches. He's got brown hair, eyes that look smaller than they are on account of being so close together, and a mouth that don't seem to open as wide as it should, the words sliding out the corners when he speaks. Judd comes down the board walkway holding a gunnysack in one hand.

“Brought the missus a little somethin',” he says, sliding in after Dad leans over and opens the passenger door. He eases himself onto the seat—I'm wondering should I get out and help him—then pulls his crutches in after him, and rests the bag on his lap. Black walnuts, I figure.

“You seem to be getting around a little better,” says Dad, making a U-turn and heading back toward the bridge.

“Doin' okay, but I'm still mighty sore,” says Judd.

“How long you got to wear that cast?” I ask.

“Another month, I'm lucky. Longer, if I'm not.”

I sure am glad to hear that—that he'll have that cast on all through deer season. There's only 'bout a week and a half of it left.

Middle Island Creek is on the other side of us now. Dad and Judd are talking about Judd's work at Whelan's Garage where he's a mechanic, and how wasn't it a good thing Whelan kept his job open for Judd while his bones heal—kept his job open and fixed up his truck, both. Then we're heading up the lane toward our house, and there's Shiloh standing out by the porch, tail going back and forth, his rear end doing this little welcoming dance.

But suddenly his dancing stops, tail goes between his legs, and he's up on the porch, whining to get in. Don't take no genius to know he's got a whiff or a look or both of Judd Travers, and is scared the man's come to take him back. I wouldn't let that dog go to save my life.

Ma opens the door for Shiloh, then comes out herself. “Happy Thanksgiving, Judd,” she says, and when she smiles, she's got this dimple in one cheek. “I got dinner on the table. Hope you're hungry.”

Judd thunks up the steps and hands Ma the gunnysack. “Brought you somethin',” he says.

Becky and Dara Lynn are hangin' back by the door, but they get wind there's a present, they're right out there, tryin' to see in the bag.

“Why, thank you, Judd,” says Ma. She opens the sack and starts to put one hand in, then draws it out real quick.

“Eeeuuu!” cries Dara Lynn, getting herself a look. “What
is
it?”

“Squirrel,” says Judd, mighty proud of himself. “They're already bled. Woulda skinned 'em, too, if I'd had the time, but I shot 'em not long before Ray come over.”

I see now where the blood's stained one side of the gunnysack.

“Those'll make a fine-tasting stew,” says Dad, and he takes the bag himself and sets it on the porch. “I'll skin these after dinner.” And then, “Didn't know you could hunt with that leg like it is.”

Judd laughs. “Not much hunting to it. I just picked those squirrels off while I was sittin' on my front steps.” And he follows my folks inside.

I'm feeling sick at my stomach. I'm remembering how David Howard and me were over at Judd's once, before the accident, and saw him shoot a squirrel just for the pure mean joy of it. Didn't even cook it, just threw it to his dogs.

“Well,” says Ma. “Guess we can all sit down at the table, if you're ready.”

Becky takes the long way around the kitchen so she don't have to get within four feet of Judd. Shiloh's nowhere to be found; usually he'd have his nose right at the edge of the table, waiting for a piece of that turkey to stand up and walk his way.

It sure ain't—isn't—what you'd call a comfortable Thanksgiving. About the way the Pilgrims must have felt with Indians there. Or maybe the way Samoset and Squanto felt with the Pilgrims—everybody a little too polite.

Ma usually has us do somethin' special on Thanksgiving. Like last year, we each had to think up three things we were thankful for, and the year before that, we had to say something
nice about the person on our right, except that Becky couldn't talk yet, and the person on
my
right was Dara Lynn. Only nice thing I could think to say about her was that she didn't look too bad with three teeth missin'.

This year, though, with Judd there, Dad offers the prayer he usually prays on Sundays. He thanks God for the food before us and says, “Bless it to nourish our good. Amen.” Dara Lynn don't even bow her head, she's so afraid somebody's going to get the drumstick she's set her eye on.

Everyone smiles when the prayin's over, and Ma says, “Now Judd, you just help yourself to whatever you see before you, and we'll start the platters around. I've sliced some white meat and dark meat both.” And the eatin' begins.

With all that food coming at me, I almost forget for a time that we got Judd to look at across the table, but once we get a little in our bellies, I can see the conversation isn't going very far.

First off, Judd's embarrassed. I think he likes the food, all right, but he don't especially like being at our table. It's like he owes us somethin' for finding him after his accident, and Judd don't like to owe nobody nothing. Guess he figured if he was to refuse our invitation, though, it'd be like a slap in the face. And bad as he is, even he's got a limit to rudeness. I look across at him, shoveling that food in like the sooner he gets it down the sooner he can leave, and I'm tryin' to think of a question to ask that'll give everybody a chance to say somethin'.

But right that minute Becky says, “What was the turkey's name?”

We all look at her.

“Only pet turkeys have names, Becky,” Dad says. “We bought this turkey at the store.”

That gives Judd something to talk about. “I got me a fine wild turkey last year. Bought one of those turkey callers, and after I got the hang of it, I bagged a thirteen-pounder.”

Dara Lynn's thinkin' that over. “You make a call like a turkey, and when a real one shows up, you blow its head off?”

“That's about it,” says Judd.

Ma never looks up—just goes on cutting her meat, her cheeks pink—but Becky stops chewing her turkey wing and she is glaring at Judd something awful. Boy, you get a three-year-old girl lookin' at you that way, she's got a scowl would stop a clock.

I'm just about to ask Ma to pass the sweet potatoes when I hear Becky say, “We'll blow
your
head off!” and suddenly there is quiet around that table you wouldn't believe.

W
ell, Thanksgiving sure went downhill after that. You wouldn't think a three-year-old could say anything that would cause much trouble, but it just seemed to put into words the feeling we had about Judd Travers.

Judd looks over at Becky and says, a little sharp-like, “Hey, little gal, you ain't havin' much trouble eatin' that turkey, I see. Somebody had to kill that.”

Becky looks at the turkey wing and slowly lowers it onto her plate, then turns her scowl toward Judd again, her bottom lip stickin' out so far you could hang a bucket on it.

Everybody starts talkin' at once. Ma asks wouldn't Judd like some more gravy, and Dad wants to know if he's going to watch the football game that afternoon, but their voices seem too loud and high. By the time Ma cuts the pie, we don't have much taste for it. I don't, anyway. Judd eats one piece of pumpkin, and Ma says she'll send a piece of the walnut
home with him. Then her cheeks turn pink again, 'cause it sounds like maybe she can't wait for him to go, and she says, “But of course you're staying to watch the game, aren't you?”

Judd don't say yes or no, but when Dad turns on the TV, the picture's fuzzy on account of we don't have us a satellite dish. Judd's got one in his yard that's bigger'n his trailer, almost. And that gives him a real fine excuse to say no, he thinks he'll go on home, prop up his leg, and watch the game there.

Now that he's leavin', we're all smiles and politeness, standing around waiting for Judd to get his jacket on.

“Where's that dog of yours?” Judd says to me, pulling his sleeve down over the cuff of his shirt. That's about the first time he ever admitted that Shiloh was really mine.

I decide Shiloh's gonna say good-bye if I have to drag him out, and I do. I go behind the couch where he's lyin', about as far back in the corner as he can get, and I have to take two of his paws and tug. He's shaking already, but I hold him tight so he'll know he belongs to me.

Judd looks him over. “Shyest dog I ever seen,” he says. But again, just like he did when we went to visit him after the accident, Judd puts out his hand and strokes Shiloh on the head. He's still awkward about it, but he's learnin'. It was Shiloh who barked when Judd's pickup rolled down the bank, really Shiloh who saved his life, and Judd knows that. And once more, Shiloh licks his hand. It's a feeble sort of lick, but Judd likes it, I can tell. I figure Judd's a person who don't get no kisses and hugs from anyone.

After Dad and Judd get in the Jeep, Ma moves about the kitchen, her lips pressed together like she's seen better Thanksgivings, so Becky and Dara Lynn make themselves
scarce. They go in the next room and gather up all the Thanksgiving cutouts Dara Lynn brought home from school. They make like they're paper dolls, the Pilgrims riding around on the big cardboard turkey, and the Indians sittin' on this pumpkin.

When Dad gets back, though, he takes out after me! I can't believe it!

“Marty, you didn't say more'n five words to Judd the whole time he was here.”

I bet I said fifty, maybe, but I'll admit, I didn't say a whole lot. “What're you yellin' at me for?” I ask. “It's Becky you should be scolding for sayin' too much.”

He knows it and I know it, but truth is, you can't hardly scold a three-year-old girl for anything, and Dad would rather cut off his thumb than make Becky cry.

Then Ma chimes in: “Marty's right, Ray. Don't take it out on him.”

Dad turns on her then: “Why do you always side with Marty? We have a guest for dinner, I expect everyone to pitch in and be sociable. Can't me be doing all the talking.”

I know he's not really mad at Ma, either. He just wishes the day had gone better—we was all so stiff.

But that's enough to set Ma off. “Well, if you want to stand out here in the kitchen and do all the cooking next time,
I'll
sit in the other room and talk. How about that?”

Oh boy, this is the worst Thanksgiving I can remember. Dad turns on the TV to watch the game, then turns it off again, picture's so bad. Becky's leaning over a sofa cushion, sucking her thumb and twisting a lock of hair—ready for a nap.

And then I realize that not a single word's been aimed at Dara Lynn. If
she
had opened her mouth, no telling
what
would've come out; she can sass the ears off a mule. How
come
she
got through Thanksgiving without even a look? I find myself gettin' all churned up inside, and when she comes out of the kitchen with the wishbone—the Thanksgiving turkey wishbone—and asks Becky to pull it with her, it's all I can do not to reach out and sock her arm.

“Make a wish, Becky, then pull,” she says.

This ain't no fair contest, 'cause Dara Lynn's holding that wishbone right close to the top, and Becky's little hand hardly has a grip on it. Guess who wins.

“I got the center, so now you got to tell your wish,” Dara Lynn crows.

Becky stands there looking at the broken wishbone in her hand and starts to cry.

“It's
supposed
to break, Becky!” Dara Lynn says, but Becky goes on bawling, and finally Dad snaps at Dara Lynn. Nicest thing that's happened all day.

I hate it when Ma and Dad aren't talking, though—feel all tight inside. Shiloh feels the same way, I can tell. Lies down on his belly with his head on his paws, his big brown eyes travelin' back and forth from Ma to Dad. Every so often, when their voices get extra sharp, his ears will twitch. But that evening, after we have us some turkey sandwiches, Dad says to Ma, “Why don't you go put your feet up, and Marty and I will make stew out of that squirrel meat.”

Last thing in this world I want to do, but I put on my jacket and go out on the porch with Dad. He shows me how you skin a squirrel by cutting a ring around the back legs at the feet, then around the top of the base of the tail. He lays the squirrel on its back, puts his foot on its tail, grabs its back legs and pulls, and the skin comes off like a jacket, right up to the neck. I think I am going to throw up.