Call the Devil by His Oldest Name by Sallie Bissell

Ruth’s blind faith that nature and fate would sort things out? She would be vigilant, he decided. Like him. Life had taught both of them both a lot about taking precautions.
    He rolled out from under the blanket. Grab­bing his jeans and a T-shirt, he tiptoed to the bathroom and closed the door, wanting to dress without waking anyone up. When he cracked the door back open, neither his wife nor daughter had moved.
    He crept over to check on Lily. She slept on her stomach, her head turned toward her mother. Soft, dark hair curled around her shell-like ears, and she was making a sucking motion with her jaws, as if even in sleep she dreamed of eating. He stopped and kissed the soft spot on the top of her head, feeling her pulse throb against his lips. How amazing Lily was! She’d be­ come a fundamental part of him the instant she’d entered the world—no less essential than his heart or his brain. Ruth could leave him, Little Jump Off could fall down around his ears—as long as Lily was safe, everything would be okay.
    Smiling, he turned and padded downstairs. The cot in front of the fireplace lay empty, and the scent of brewing coffee wafted through the store. Damn , he thought wearily as he walked toward the coffeepot. Clarinda must be up.
    â€œHi, Jonathan.” Ruth’s cousin appeared at his elbow so suddenly, he jumped. “How’d you sleep?”
    â€œFine,” he replied tersely. She must have been in the bathroom, behind the bait cooler. A pretty enough girl with firm breasts and a tight rear end, he’d known a number of Clarindas when he was in the Army. All were like those multi-colored drinks you got in fancy bars. You had a hell of a good time while you were drinking them, but the next morning you were hanging your head over the toilet, wishing someone would just come along and put you out of your misery.
    Clarinda pressed her hand against the small of his back. “You and Ruth make everything better after you went to bed last night?”
    Pouring his coffee, he considered his response.
    He could lie and say Yes, we went to bed and fucked like monkeys and now everything’s just fine; or he could tell the truth and say No, the coldest spot in the nation today continues to be the bedroom of Jonathan and Ruth Walking­stick, of Little Jump Off, North Carolina. That was what irritated him about Clarinda—every question she asked worked on about three different levels, each deeper and more dangerous than the last.
    â€œWe slept alright,” he finally answered, deciding that he was too tired to play her games. “How about you?”
    â€œOkay.” She sighed, massaging a little circle on his back. “But it got pretty cold down here in the middle of the night.”
    â€œSorry,” he said, moving away from her hand. “You should have asked for an extra blanket.” He took his coffee over to the front window and stared out into the parking lot. Yesterday a man named Duncan had called, wanting to hire him for the weekend as a boar guide. Jonathan had never taken this Duncan out before, but the man spoke as if he knew the area well, and he was willing to pay top dollar. Though he told Ruth it would mean five hundred extra dollars, she would not hear of him going. You said you’d go with us to Tennessee, she cried last night. You promised.
    Suddenly he heard a piercing wail from upstairs. Miss Lily Bird Walkingstick was greeting the day.
    Clarinda heard her, too. “Why don’t you take Ruth some coffee?” she suggested, pouring milk and sugar into a cup and topping it off with coffee. “Here. She used to drink it like this in Oklahoma.”
    He took the cup Clarinda offered and walked upstairs. Ruth was sitting up in bed, Lily plugged into one breast.
    â€œCaf é Tahlequah.” Jonathan handed her the mug. “Compliments of your cousin.”
    â€œThanks,” she said, her voice cold.
    â€œLily okay?”