Swear to Howdy (5 page)

“
Isn't
it,” Mama corrected, then gave her a wicked grin. “And I ain't tellin'.”

“Mama!”

Mama laughed. “Jenna Mae, I can't tell you that. It'd be totally against the rules, not to mention my morals.”

“Just
tellin
me's against your
morals
?”

Mama nodded. “'Cause the next thing you're gonna want to know is if there's questions on what month the South seceded, and who the provisional president of the Confederacy was, and what date Sherman stormed Fort McAllister, and …”

“We gotta know all
that
?”

“I'm not sayin' you do, and I'm not sayin' you don't. But I can tell you this—it's a twenty-two-page test, and you better start studying a lot harder than you been.”

“Twenty-two pages!”

“I'm sure Mr. Hickle's told you that.”

“Just that it's multiple choice. Not that it's twenty-two pages!”

“He's told you to study, though, right?”

“Well, sure, but the test ain't for another few weeks!”

Mama shot her a look over a fork loaded with peas. “
Isn't
for another few weeks, but I'm telling you—you better start studying
now
.”

Everyone was quiet a minute, then Dad said, “I think
you should thank your mama for the warnin', Jenna Mae.”

“Thank you for the warnin', Mama,” Jenna Mae said dutifully, but she was scowling, boy Scowling but good.

“So,” Dad said, turning to me. “How about you, son?”

“How about me?”

“Anything new to report?”

“Nah,” I told him, but after a minute I felt a confession was in order. “Uh, the truth is, there is something.”

He buttered a biscuit. “And what's that?”

“Joey taught me how to shoot his twenty-two rifle today.”

Dad's butter knife came slidin' to a halt.

“It was like a lesson, Dad. Very professional.”

“Joey? Professional?” he asked, his face all contorted.

“Yes, sir. He taught me the parts of the gun, taught me about safety, and he taught me about how to actually
hit
something. I'm good, Dad! I'm real good. And it was fun!”

Mama's jaw was danglin'. Sissy looked like she'd bit her own tail, and Dad seemed frozen in place.

Mama choked out, “They've got
guns
over there?”

“I don't know about
guns
, Mama. Joey's got a twenty-two, is all. Got it when he turned twelve. It's just a tool, same as a shovel or a car—you just don't want to turn it in the wrong direction.”

“Is that so?” Dad asked me.

“Yes, sir! And at first I was gonna race right home like you told me I should if someone was messin' with a gun,
but Joey wasn't messin . He was sharpshootin'. And it was safe! I swear to howdy, it was totally safe!”

Sissy made the sourest face ever and said, “I hope you ground him good, Daddy”

Dad cocked his head at her. “For tellin' us the truth, Jenna Mae?”

“For playin' with a gun!”

“Hmmm,” he said, then pushed back from the table.

“Where you going, Jimmy?” Mama called after him.

Dad came back with a gun in his hands.

“
What?
” Sissy gasped. “We got one of them in
our
house?”

“Oh, Jimmy,” Mama said. “You think this is a good idea?”

“I want to see the boy's safety tips.”

“Here?” Mama asked. “At the supper table?”

He nodded and handed the gun over.

So I gave him a tour of what I'd learned, and repeated all the rules Joey'd taught me. And when I was all done, Dad nodded a little and said, “Well. It seems Joey's done a fine job teachin' you, son. There's only one thing I might add.”

“What's that, sir?”

He looked me right in the eye. “Guns are not toys. Don't point them at something you're not willing to destroy, and always,
always
treat them like they're loaded whether you think they are or not.”

I nodded.

“Repeat after me, Russell: All guns are always loaded.”

“All guns are always loaded.”

“Are we clear on that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right then. Tomorrow I want to see where you and Joey have been plinkin'. I want to see your safety rules in action, and then if it all checks out, you have my permission.”

“To go plinkin'?”

He nodded. “You're old enough, son. As long as you're safe, and as long as you tell me about it if you ever see Joey
not
being safe.”

“Yes, sir!”

“All right then.”

Mama whispered, “Are you sure about this, Jimmy?” but Dad just nodded.

“I don't
believe
this,” Sissy whined. “He went and shot a gun and you ain't gonna ground him?”

“Eat your supper,” Dad told her, then heaped some more butter on his biscuit.

Joey's dad did have a soft spot. It was for their mouser Smoky. “This cat works harder than the whole brood combined,” he'd announce anytime Smoky'd lay a mouse at his feet.

Mrs. Banks would watch him toss the mouse in the kitchen trash and say, “You expectin' Rhonda to sweep the drive and trim the thickets back?”

“No,” he'd grumble, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “But it'd be nice if
some
one around here would.” Then he'd flop in his easy chair, put Smoky up on his lap, and watch TV.

“Amen to that,” Joey's mama would mutter, then get back to cleaning floors.

Now, there ain't no way Amanda Jane was gonna sweep the drive or trim back blackberries. She was like Sissy—fearful that muscles might start bulging out should she lift a finger. So that left Joey for the yard chores and the shuttlin' of trash and such.

Then one Saturday shortly after Joey and me'd given Dad a righteous demonstration of gun safety and marksmanship,
I went over to the Bankses' and found Joey sweating it out on his driveway, sweeping off dirt.

“Hey, Rusty,” he said. “Come to help?”

I'd just skinned by having to yank weeds from Mama's flower beds, so sweepin' the Bankses' drive wasn't exactly what I had in mind. “Think maybe we can do some plinkin' later on?”

“Maybe after I finish the drive.” He pushed his broom along real slow, grating sand across asphalt.

“How long do you suppose that'll be?”

He stopped and hung on the handle, then looked at the sun creepin' its way to high noon. “Hotter it gets, the slower I move.” He shoved the broom forward a few strokes. “Same as most creatures on this miserable earth.”

“Miserable earth? Geez, Joey. What's eatin' you?”

“What's eatin' me?”
Swish … swish
. “I'll tell you what's eatin' me. Right now the TV's on inside. It's still cool in there, and Dad's sittin' back with his feet propped high. Mama's workin', but Amanda Jane's fixin' her face, and Rhonda is probably makin' a mess some where that'll get me whupped.” He pushed sand off the edge of the drive. “And with the way these godforsaken ground squirrels keep kickin' up dirt, this here's like rakin' rain.”

It was true. There were holes and mounds all along the Bankses' drive. “Have you tried drownin' them out?” I asked him. “I heard squirrels hate water.”

“Don't work.”

“How about Coke? I heard they can't take the bubbles. That they explode or somethin'.”

“Don't work. Goes flat before they drink it.”

“Bubble gum?”

“No, Rusty-boy That don't work either.” Then he noticed something. He moved closer to his dad's truck, saying, “Well, will you look at that …”

“What?” I looked under the fender, too.

“There! The wheel's sunk right in.”

Now the Bankses' drive wasn't in the greatest shape to begin with. The oil coat was mostly gone, and little rocks were showing through everywhere—which did make sweeping it a great big job.

But there weren't any
holes
in it. At least none before that one.

“They're diggin'
under
the drive, those varmints!”

“Think so?”

“What
else
could be causin' that? I'll bet if I …” He jammed his foot alongside the truck, near where the tire was sunk in, and made a deep dent. “Look at that!”

Just then Joey's dad came out the front door, calling, “What y'all think you're doin' by my truck?”

“Come look at this!” Joey called back.

“What?” he said, stepping off the porch.

“Them stupid squirrels is burrowin' under the drive! Your tire's sunk clear in!”

I don't think Joey's dad believed him at first, but when he saw the hole he let out some mighty hot language.

And when he was all done blowin' his top over that, he turned to Joey and said, “I'm tired of messin' around with them things. I'll give you a buck a tail for 'em.”

“A buck a tail? You mean shoot 'em with my twenty-two?”

“Yeah. Enough plinkin'. Time you did something real with that gun.”

“But a buck a tail?” Joey was grinning from ear to ear.

“Listen, boy. I ain't givin' you no buck for
sayin
' you got one. I want you to do like Smoky and bring it to me. No body, no buck.”

“Yes, sir!” Joey said, all excited.

Joey's dad turned his back on us and headed for the house. And when he got on the porch he yelled, “Don't just stand there, boy! Get your gun!”

We set up in the shade of the eaves with the .22, a box of shells, and two tall glasses of sweet tea.

Beat sweeping the drive, that's for sure.

But after we'd sat there maybe half an hour with no action, I whispered, “Maybe we need some bait? Like peanuts or somethin'?”

“Great idea, Rusty-boy!” Joey said, springing to his feet. “I'll be back in a flash.”

Now, while he was gone, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. Something across the drive. It was just a little flash of gray, but when I focused in on it, I thought it might be a ground squirrel, peeking up from its hole.

I picked up the gun and waited.

Yup, that's what it was, inching forward, twitching its way out of the hole.

Very slowly, I lifted the gun to my shoulder.

Lined up the sights.

And when the squirrel was full-on out of its hole, standing on its hind legs, twitching its nose at the air, I squeezed the trigger.

It screeched, then flopped over three times and just lay there.

Right after, my
stomach
screeched, then flopped over three times and about came up my throat.

“Rusty, you got one! You got one!” Joey cried, jumping off the porch. He charged across the driveway, found the squirrel, then picked it up by the tail, cryin', “Way to go!”

Maybe it's me that's dumber than a mud fence, but when I'd picked up the gun, I hadn't actually pictured
killing
something. Right then, that squirrel was just a moving target. One step up from plinkin' at cans.

But when it screeched … boy, that was like a slug in the gut. Cans don't screech. They just fall over. But the squirrel … I'd
hurt
the squirrel. Shoot, I'd
killed
the squirrel.

It took that screech to teach me—squirrels ain't stew cans.

“Rusty! You done good!” Joey cried, and hauled the squirrel over to me. “Look at this thing! Deader than a doornail!”

I lay the gun down and looked away.

“Rust? Boy, you look kinda green.”

“I killed it, Joey,” I choked out.

“Amen to that!” he said, then sat down beside me. “Look. You don't feel bad for squishin' bugs, right? Ants, spiders, flies, mosquitoes … none of them makes you squeamy, right?”

I shrugged. “Those're bugs.”

He held the squirrel up. “This here's just an oversized bug, only he's too big to squish with your shoe.” He pointed across the drive. “They're just oversized termites, borin' holes everywhere. First the hillside, then the drive … pretty soon the whole
house
is gonna collapse, all 'cause these critters can't keep to themselves.”

“I don't know, Joey …”

“Look,” he said, tossing the squirrel aside. “It just takes some gettin' used to, is all.”

“How come you're used to it already?”

He shrugged and picked up the gun. “I hate them things.” He scowled. “If you'd been sweepin' my drive for years, you'd hate 'em, too.”

I wanted to get up and go, but I was still workin' back my stomach. Last thing I wanted was to puke in front of Joey.

It'd be so wuss-like.

So I waited for my stomach to settle a bit, but then I went and riled it up all over again by glancing at that fuzzy gray carcass. Its eyes were wide open. Its paws were hanging. Like any minute it might spring up and run off. I couldn't even see any blood.

Joey squatted back against the house with the gun
propped on his knee. “Dad says I don't need no peanuts. Says whistlin' brings 'em up.”

“Whistlin' does?”

“Uh-huh. Said to do it like this,” and he gave a little whistle. One note, kinda low and sharp.

We waited, and finally I whispered, “I don't see nothin'.”

He whistled again.

Nothing.

“Maybe they're scared off from the one I got.”

“They's dumb, Rusty. Dumber'n anything.” He whistled again.

My stomach was settled enough for me to get up and go, which is what I was fixin' to do, only just then Joey whispered, “There!”

Another gray face was twitching out of its hole.

Rusty whistled again.

The squirrel came up further, twitching its nose from side to side.

Joey raised the gun and pinched an eye closed. “C'mon, ya varmint!” He whistled again, and the minute the squirrel came out of the hole,
pop
! The gun fired.

I had pinched
both
my eyes closed, but they shot open when I heard Joey cuss. “What happened?” I asked him.

“Didn't you see that? He somersaulted and ran off. How could he run off? Shoot! I ain't never gonna find him in them blackberry bushes!”

“You sure you hit him?”

“Yeah! Smack in the shoulder. He's probably gone off to die back there. Dang!”

I stood up and said, “Well, I'd best be goin'.”

“See ya,” he said, then shook his head. “Dang! How could he run off?”

I went home and lay on my bed for a bit, feeling bad about the squirrel. It didn't help any, so I went outside and started yanking weeds from Mama's flower beds. I kept an ear perked for the pop of the .22, wondering how many dollars Joey was up to. And I tried to tell myself that Joey was right—that ground squirrels were nothin' but vermin—but my stomach was having trouble believing it.