Authors: Daniel Woodrell
Ree and Mom both had shouted and shouted and shouted against Harold becoming a Milton, since Sonny was already a Jessup. They had shouted and won and Ree’d a thousand times wished she’d fought longer for Sonny, shouted him into an Adam or Leotis or Eugene, shouted until he was named to expect choices.
Her teeth chattered and she tried to put a tempo to the chattering, to control the shivers into a sort of chomping song. She parted her lips and snapped her teeth in step with that happy silly old song they sang in grade school about the submarine that was yellow and had everybody living in it. She snapped her teeth in time and wagged her head as though joyful even inside a shrouding of ice. The hood creaked when she moved her head, and cracked when she stood.
The woman was again in the yard. She carried a wide cup of something steaming, handed it to Ree. She said, “Soup, you crazy girl. I brung you some soup. Drink it down and be on your way.”
Ree raised the cup and drank long, chewed, drank on to empty.
“Thanks.”
Weather burst on the woman’s hat and shoulders, wet spray jumping. She touched Ree’s hood, rapped knuckles against the ice to break it fine, and swiped the pieces away.
“He knows you were in the valley, child. With Megan. And at Little Arthur’s. He knows what you want to ask and he don’t want to hear it.”
“You mean he ain’t goin’ to come out’n say one word to me? Nothin’?”
The woman took the empty cup.
“If you’re listenin’, child, you got your answer. Now, go, get on away from here . . . and don’t come back’n try’n ask him twice. Just don’t.”
The woman turned her back on Ree, stepped slowly toward the house. Ree watched her broad black back going away and said, “So, come the nut-cuttin’, blood don’t truly mean shit to him. Am I understandin’ right? Blood don’t truly count for diddly to
the
big man?
Well, you can tell
the big man
for me I hope he has him a long, long life full of nothin’ but
hiccups’n the runs
, hear? You tell him
Ree Dolly
said that.”
The woman spun, glowering beneath the hat brim, and hurled the soup cup at Ree’s head but missed close and the cup skipped across the glazed snow, banged into the coop. She pointed a finger and repeated, “Just don’t.”
S
HE BECAME
ice as she walked. White wads broke on her head and dripped to her shoulders to freeze and thicken. The green hood had become an ice hat and her shoulders a cold hard yoke. The scraped road had been so well iced as to be impassable, no headlights at all in the distance or near, so she walked hunched through the winter fields toward the railroad tracks. Her boots crushed the ice topping and broke into the underlying snow for traction. As long as she stomped each step she could break her way, and when she came to the sheer slope above the tracks she sat on her ass and whooshed toward the rails.
On the tracks she could walk without looking. She kept her face turned to ground, avoiding the mist from drops breaking. Her long legs flew ahead and her boots landed heavily enough. The sleet made flourish upon flourish of small popping sounds. The sleet popped small and her boots crunched through and all else was quiet.
She’d passed the meadow of old fallen walls leaving Hawkfall, and as she considered those furiously tossed stones olden Dollys rushed to mind loud and fractious, bellowing and shaking fists. She knew few details of the old bitter reckoning that erupted inside those once holy walls, but suddenly understood to her marrow how such angers between blood could come about and last forever. Like most fights that never finished it had to’ve started with a lie. A big man and a lie.
The big man and prophet who’d found messages from the Fist of Gods written on the entrails of a sparkling golden fish lured with prayer from a black river way east near the sea was Haslam, Fruit of Belief. The sparkling fish had revealed signs unto him and him alone, and he’d followed the map etched tiny on the golden guts and led them all across thousands of testing miles until he hailed these lonely rugged hollows of tired rocky soil as a perfect garden spot, paradise as ordained by the map of guts sent to his eyes from the Fist of Gods.
Ree left the tracks and crossed a level field to reach the slope of caves. Weeds and grasses were made stiff by a bark of ice, shimmering and fragile, and shattered underfoot. The shimmering grasses tinkled to nothing as she kicked her feet. The caves were easy to see from below but difficult to reach. Ree snatched onto saplings to pull herself through the beating weather and up the steepness toward the slant gaping cave she knew best, the cave with a wall of stones standing in the mouth.
Haslam had been born from a god’s water spit on knacker seed, shaped for manhood by a fugitive faith and sent among the Walking People to rally them and all like tinker flesh and to make a new people he’d guide to that garden place chosen by the Fist, mapped inside the sparkling fish, where they could rest their feet after six thousand years of roaming and become settled people.
The wall of stones stood across half the cave mouth and made a stout shield against the wind. Burnt remnants from many fires were strewn about the dusty cave floor. Ree bent and quickly drew together a mess of fire leavings. Log ends not consumed, charred stubs. Well back inside the cave she found a short stacking of small logs. The logs had been there a long dry while and came apart like hair clumps in her hands. Still, the logs would catch flame, and she collected the shreds.
There had been a map to this paradise, but something happened to Walking People settled with settled gods, and after but thirty years the roof of the new ways fell, walls tumbled and flew, old ways returned ravenous after the decades of slighting, and the Fist of Gods took seats in the clouds to sulk and reconsider. Ree did not know much about the religion or the ruining. The prophecies of Haslam, Fruit of Belief, reached her down the generations as hoarse godly mutterings of a big man spinning a braggish lie that made little sense and had no conclusion. The cause of the old bitter reckoning was not clear, either, and there might’ve been living Dollys who knew the truth but nobody ever said it where she could hear. All they ever said was there’d been a woman.
Ree shed her coat, the hooded sweatshirt, the wet skirt. They landed heavily, lumps of fabric clotted with ice. She had a fair pile of punk wood laid in the corner by the stone wall but no kindling, and once in from the weather she was loath to go back into it.
It was those brute ancient ways that broke fresh over her world at every
dawn and sent Dollys to let the blood drain from Dad’s heart and dump his flesh somewhere hidden from path and cloud
. Her boots felt stiff as iron but she kept them on. She slid her panties down, stepped out of them, then raised her undershirt overhead and off. Bare skin but for boots she crouched to the woodpile and stuck the dry garments beneath the likeliest charred stubs and hairy clumps. She had one book of matches and half a doobie in the coat. She held her breath while striking a match, carefully touched the flame to an edge of her panties and mercifully they browned fast, then puffed into flame.
The fire seemed to have been waiting to be born for it scooted quickly from flickers to a roaring flame. The flames pulsed and brightened the cave mouth. The light met Ree and glowed on her skin and cast her shadow up. She stamped her feet and stared out from the cave onto a forest vista sunk beneath ice. Some trees sagged near to snapping, some snapped.
She peed near the entrance to let animals know she was visiting.
After the bitter reckoning many Dollys fled from Hawkfall to caves, and this slope was where they congregated to live through that first winter of exile. Her Dollys were among those Dollys. Her people had lived hunkered in these caves for a mean winter and late spring, kids breathing rattly, grannies spoiling in the dank, the men with each breath refreshing that great snarling tribal anger that Haslam had tried to preach away from their hearts and habits.
She mended the fire when it faltered with clumps and stubs and grew the flames higher than her knees. As she warmed she moved, shuffle-stepped with arms raised and tossed her hands to jab, jab, hook, overhand right, broad shadows punching against the cave wall.
Flick them left jabs to open ’em up, girl, then bang the right to put ’em down.
The cave was long and had two more rooms, at least, deeper down and chill, but the space behind the wall warmed quickly. Ree shook her clothes, batted the ice away, and spread them near the fire. She lit the half doobie. Hunters and lovers had used the cave in recent years and had left their withered litter and bent empties, but there was some ancestral trash made visible by the lifting flames. Parts of several fragile white plates and cup handles, a tarnished long fork with two tines, cracked blue potion bottles and tin cans thinned by time to where a finger could poke through.
They likely buried him somewhere near.
If they buried him.
Or dropped him into a bottomless black hole.
The sleet stopped after night fell. The sky spread low and milky over all that ice. Time and again Ree slipped into Mamaw’s coat and hunted wood on the slope. The milk sky and ice let her see dead wood and she dragged the wood to the fire, made the flames healthy, and hung the coat to dry. The corner by the wall became very warm and Ree sat there bare-butted and oddly comforted, knowing that so many relatives with names she never knew had hunched here in this very spot to renew themselves after a sad spinning time had dropped over their lives and whirled them raw.
Coyotes sang to her and she slept, fed the fire, heard snowplows way in the distance.
Her belly rumbled and pinged and hunger drew her into an aching curl.
Water woke her. The blessing of daylight showed a warmer world and thin rivulets trickled down the slope. The air at dawn was warmer than any day had been for a week. The landscape was softening some but not to mush. A freight passed on the tracks beyond the field and whisked the path clear.
He’d fight if he knew they were comin’ and maybe somebody else’s hurt, too.
She stood in sunlight and stretched, a great long body pale and twisting at the brink of a cave. She walked to water dripping from the rock above the cave mouth, cupped her hands to the trickle and drank and drank deeply of the falling new water.
H
ILLSIDES KNIT
with ice came apart. Ice slipped from everything, limb, twig, stump, rock, and cascaded chinking to ground. Mist lifted from the bottoms to lie over the tracks but did not lift much above her head. Mist smeared like tears squashed on her cheeks. She could see the sky but her feet were cloudy. The stout ties, moistened, released their tar smell, and she kicked from one wet tie to the next, sniffing tar in the mist and listening to ice chime in the trees or slip loose to shatter. She wiped the mist that felt like tears on her cheeks and pulled her hood tight. Larger ice shapes fell thudding. Runnels of high melt cut wee downhill gutters in the snow. Ice sounds and trickle sounds and her boots thumping. At a bridge across a frozen creek she paused to stare down. She tried to see past the pocked skin of ice to the depths of flowing water. She was strangely still and staring, still and staring on the bridge until she understood that her eyes searched for a body beneath that ice, and she crouched to her knees and cried, cried until tears ran down her chest.
I
N THE
house she slept, and when she woke the sun was red falling west and everybody wanted food. She splashed her face at the kitchen sink, dried on a crusted towel. A pot full of odd-looking food she could not name sat on the stove, a creation of the boys from the supper before. It smelled like soup but looked like bloodied mashed potatoes. Mom was in her rocker clutching a wooden spoon and the boys sat wrapped in quilts watching television, a public TV gardening show offering tips on how best to grow row upon row of spiffy plants you never got to eat.
“Hey,” she said, “what is it in this pot on the stove?”
Harold came to her, quilt over his head, face peeking out. He looked into the pot, sniffed, puckered and frowned.
“That was supper,” he said. “Me’n Sonny made it when you never came home. Mom reckoned we cooked it too much.”
“What is it?”
“Basketti.”
“That’s what that is? How’d you make it?”
“Tomato soup and noodles.”
“Looks awful gluey. You boil them noodles separate, or in the soup?”
“In the soup. Why mess two pots?”
“That ain’t how you make basketti. You boil the noodles separate.”
“But that way you got two pots to wash.”
Ree pinched his cheek, opened the cupboard, shoved the few cans around, then said, “I don’t think I can save that glop with nothin’ we got. Toss it behind the shed.”
Ree set the big black skillet on the stove and sparked a flame. She pulled the bacon grease can from the bottom shelf of the fridge and scooped a cup or two into the skillet. She cleaned potatoes and onions, chopped them, and dropped them hissing into the fat. She salted and peppered and the smell ranged to the front room, called Sonny to the kitchen.
Sonny said, “I could eat that much myself.”
“Take this and flip ’em when —”
Quick steps on the porch and the door flew open and Blond Milton stood there pointing at her. He said, “You know, there’s people goin’ ’round sayin’ you best
shut up.
” Blond Milton was a grandfather in age but not in manner, square-shouldered and flat-bellied, fair-haired with ruddy skin, and generally wore fancy cowboy shirts over starched jeans ironed into a stiff crease. He was most always shaved clean, barbered, talced, smelling of bay rum and armed with two pistols. “People you oughta listen to, too.” He held the door open and waved for her to follow him outside. She grabbed her coat and met him on the porch and he flung her down the steps onto the scree of ice that had fallen from the eaves during the day. “Get up’n get your ass in the truck. Get your ass in there.”