mine, and I told them nothing about him, nothing at all.
By the time I got home it was four o’clock. There was still an hour or more before my father came in. I found my mother on the living room couch, her sewing baskets filling the cushions on both sides of her. I sat down, resting my back against the foot of the couch and her soft leg. “How was school?” she asked. “Fine,” I said. “Everyone was talking about Martin.” “Word travels fast.” She chuckled a bit, and I heard the nearly silent rasp of thread being pulled through fabric. “What did you do today?” I asked her. “Well, I’ll tell you,” my mother said, and her finger tapped me on the head once. “I was going out by the old barn to see how much firewood we have, and I nearly stepped on a rattlesnake.” “No!” “Really, John, I’m serious.” “But I didn’t think there were any around here. I thought the woods were too cold for them.” “They don’t come from the woods, they come from the fields. An old barn is a great place for them to catch rats and mice, not to mention poach eggs.” She worked another length of thread through whatever it was she was sewing. “So what did you do?” I asked. “You mean after I pulled my heart out of my mouth? Well, I went straight for your
.22.
And then I thought, The dogs, and I called them in. You can just imagine. Squire was flipping cartwheels at being let in the house, and Major just limped straight to your father’s chair and went to sleep.” I laughed with her, looking at my father’s big brown chair, and imagined Major curled in its sunken seat. “Well, Martin practically jumped out of bed when I barged into your room. And he nearly had a heart attack when I grabbed your gun fromthe closet. Snake, I said, though I doubt that made him feel any better, but I was gone before he could say anything.” She laughed. “I think I interrupted him, you know?” Quickly I said, “You shot it.” “One shot, through the head. Surprising even myself, I might add.” I turned and looked up at her. “You’re not putting me on, are you?” She dropped her needle and thread noisily and raised her arms in an open gesture. “Have I ever put you on before?” “No,” I had to admit, and turned around again. A moment later, I heard a thread snap. “So what did Martin do today?” “Stayed in bed. I think his eye is bothering him more than he lets on.” She seemed about to go on, but just then the dogs barked and pebbles crunched in the driveway. “Is that your father already?” my mother asked, and her sewing supplies rattled as she stuffed them in a basket. “Well, isn’t he early today?” I followed her to the kitchen, surprised when, moments later, Martin joined me at the table. He wore the jeans I’d found him in and one of my shirts. “Well, look who’s up,” my mother said, stopping what she was doing to wash her hands and pour Martin a glass of milk. “How’s your eye feeling?” “Fine,” he said, lightly touching the bandage. “Thanks for the milk.” “Oh, nothing at all,” my mother said, and stopped for a moment to look at Martin. “Nothing at all.” Martin looked into his glass of milk, but he didn’t drink it.
My father opened the door. He stood in it long enough to pat a couple of panting brown snouts and then he entered the house, the door slamming on the heels of his boots. “We’rehaving pork chops,” my mother announced. “Hi, son,” my father said, but he wasn’t looking at me. Martin looked up from his milk. “You’re Henry, right?” “I’m Henry,” my father said. “John tell you that?” “No, Bea did.” From the counter my mother said, “Mr. and Mrs. seemed so stuffy—” “You,” my father interrupted her, turning to me. “What is your rifle doing by the old barn?” Wide-eyed, I looked from my father to my mother. The last hour vanished from my brain. I extended my hand, pointing at my mother. “It was her,” I said, “she
By the time I got home it was four o’clock. There was still an hour or more before my father came in. I found my mother on the living room couch, her sewing baskets filling the cushions on both sides of her. I sat down, resting my back against the foot of the couch and her soft leg. “How was school?” she asked. “Fine,” I said. “Everyone was talking about Martin.” “Word travels fast.” She chuckled a bit, and I heard the nearly silent rasp of thread being pulled through fabric. “What did you do today?” I asked her. “Well, I’ll tell you,” my mother said, and her finger tapped me on the head once. “I was going out by the old barn to see how much firewood we have, and I nearly stepped on a rattlesnake.” “No!” “Really, John, I’m serious.” “But I didn’t think there were any around here. I thought the woods were too cold for them.” “They don’t come from the woods, they come from the fields. An old barn is a great place for them to catch rats and mice, not to mention poach eggs.” She worked another length of thread through whatever it was she was sewing. “So what did you do?” I asked. “You mean after I pulled my heart out of my mouth? Well, I went straight for your
.22.
And then I thought, The dogs, and I called them in. You can just imagine. Squire was flipping cartwheels at being let in the house, and Major just limped straight to your father’s chair and went to sleep.” I laughed with her, looking at my father’s big brown chair, and imagined Major curled in its sunken seat. “Well, Martin practically jumped out of bed when I barged into your room. And he nearly had a heart attack when I grabbed your gun fromthe closet. Snake, I said, though I doubt that made him feel any better, but I was gone before he could say anything.” She laughed. “I think I interrupted him, you know?” Quickly I said, “You shot it.” “One shot, through the head. Surprising even myself, I might add.” I turned and looked up at her. “You’re not putting me on, are you?” She dropped her needle and thread noisily and raised her arms in an open gesture. “Have I ever put you on before?” “No,” I had to admit, and turned around again. A moment later, I heard a thread snap. “So what did Martin do today?” “Stayed in bed. I think his eye is bothering him more than he lets on.” She seemed about to go on, but just then the dogs barked and pebbles crunched in the driveway. “Is that your father already?” my mother asked, and her sewing supplies rattled as she stuffed them in a basket. “Well, isn’t he early today?” I followed her to the kitchen, surprised when, moments later, Martin joined me at the table. He wore the jeans I’d found him in and one of my shirts. “Well, look who’s up,” my mother said, stopping what she was doing to wash her hands and pour Martin a glass of milk. “How’s your eye feeling?” “Fine,” he said, lightly touching the bandage. “Thanks for the milk.” “Oh, nothing at all,” my mother said, and stopped for a moment to look at Martin. “Nothing at all.” Martin looked into his glass of milk, but he didn’t drink it.
My father opened the door. He stood in it long enough to pat a couple of panting brown snouts and then he entered the house, the door slamming on the heels of his boots. “We’rehaving pork chops,” my mother announced. “Hi, son,” my father said, but he wasn’t looking at me. Martin looked up from his milk. “You’re Henry, right?” “I’m Henry,” my father said. “John tell you that?” “No, Bea did.” From the counter my mother said, “Mr. and Mrs. seemed so stuffy—” “You,” my father interrupted her, turning to me. “What is your rifle doing by the old barn?” Wide-eyed, I looked from my father to my mother. The last hour vanished from my brain. I extended my hand, pointing at my mother. “It was her,” I said, “she
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