Maud's Line by Margaret Verble Page A

with a good bit of regret, Maud agreed to bury it in that cloth. Lovely shoved the carcass into the hole with his boot. It raised a little dust when it hit the bottom. He said, “Should we say something over it?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œDon’t know. It might’ve been somebody’s pet.”
    Maud looked around. Sunflower stalks were growing at the north end of the garden. They weren’t yet blooming, but they had the makings of buds. She walked over to them and broke a stalk off. She walked back to the hole, knelt, and laid the stalk on the tablecloth.
    By the time Mustard got home, Maud had Lovely’s overalls soaking in cold water in the kettle in the yard and the kitchen looked as usual except for the bare wood of the table. Mustard came in weary but carrying news of various conversations about the fire. He reported on arguments about its origin and was halfway through his meal before he rubbed his thumb along the grain of the wood, and said, “Cloth on the line?”
    Maud was at the stove picking a biscuit out of the oven. Lovely was at the table with his father. He cleared his throat. Maud straightened up, dipped some beans onto her plate, and said, “We’ve got a little problem, Daddy.”
    Mustard grunted.
    Maud sat her plate down and slid into her chair. “Do you want a cigarette?”
    â€œNot through eating. What’s the problem?”
    â€œWell, I went visiting Aunt Nan, and when I got back, the cattle guards were down.”
    Mustard had hominy on his knife. He threw his head back and dropped several kernels into his mouth. Then he waved the knife in front of Maud’s face. “That reminds me.” He pointed the knife at Lovely. “You kids lied to me about Betty. Her back was axed. If you wasn’t so big, I’d whip the tar out of you both. As it is, as soon as I finish this meal, I’m gonna kick yer butts.”
    Maud and Lovely glanced at each other in a communication they’d used since before their mother’s death. It was barely noticeable to anyone else, but it said between them,
Don’t run. He’s just bellowing
.
    â€œWe’re sorry about that. We didn’t know how to break it to you, and she had to be put down, no matter.” Maud rubbed her thumb over the headdress of the Indian on the Calumet baking-powder tin they used as a pencil holder. She was glad the tin had been on the floor and unsplattered with blood after the dog had been left on the table.
    Mustard pinched the end of his nose. “I can’t for the life of me figure out why anybody would want to protect the Mounts.”
    â€œWe were protecting you, Dad.” Lovely spoke. “If you stormed off and shot one of ’em, then where would you be? In jail, we reckoned.”
    â€œSomebody would have to catch me first. Haven’t you got any faith in me?”
    â€œWe do, Daddy. But you’ve been known to fly off the handle,” Maud said.
    â€œSomebody bring me an ashtray.”
    Lovely got up, went to the front room, came back, and settled a clear glass ashtray on the table. Mustard took his Banjo, a pouch of tobacco, and papers from his shirt pocket. After he’d rolled his cigarette and taken a couple of puffs, he said, “Ryde figured three hogs to a cow. But then I told him she was carrying, so we upped it to four.”
    â€œWhen did you do it?”
    â€œWhile everybody was watching the fire. Any attention grabber can be an opportunity. Remember that.”
    Maud and Lovely were used to Mustard’s parental advice. It included “Cut up, not crossways,” “Hit ’em before they know yer mad,” and “Stomp ’em if you can; yer a lot less likely to break a hand.” They saw his recommendations as signs of affection but tried not to dwell on them. Maud was imagining the dead hogs when Mustard added, “Shot ’em in the head and then cut their throats for good measure.