Winter's Bone

a window. The truck was a big white Chevy with a red camper shell. There was a mattress in the shell. Blond Milton drove a truck with a mattress in the camper shell but he never went camping and his wife hated the very idea of the truck but never said so to him. He ran a crew of pot farmers and crank cooks that often included Jessup, always had cash, and folks said he was the Dolly who’d years before stepped forward and shot the two Gypsy Jokers who’d come south from Kansas City figuring their loud scary biker reputations would let them muscle in on the yokels and take control.

“Where’re we goin’?”

“Down the road.”

“Down the road to where?”

“To somewhere you need to see.”

They drove past deep woodlands and ranges of snow. The sun was behind the hills, the last western light made a sky of four blues, and the gaunt trees on the high ridges were stark in relief. Crows sat on limbs and looked like black buttons on twilight.

Just beyond the one-lane bridge across Egypt Creek, Blond Milton gunned the truck up a washboard rise and along a crooked lane. He drove until he reached the drive to a house in the near distance, then parked. The house had burned. Three walls and part of the roof still stood, but the walls were blackened and the roof was blown open in the center with sections slanted away in every direction.

Ree said, “What’re you parkin’ here for? Man, I ain’t gettin’ back there in that camper!”

“You think I’m wantin’ to fuck you?”

“If you are, you’ll be fuckin’ me dead! That’s the only way.”

“Jesus, but you’re sure ’nough twelve to the dozen, know it? Just quit kickin’ a minute and listen.” Blond Milton turned to face her. “Why I parked here is to show you that house.” Dark was near full but the snowscape had caught and held light, so the house remained visible. “That right there’s the last place me or anybody seen Jessup. The other fellas went off doin’ things’n when they got back that’s what they got back to, only it still had fire goin’.”

Ree looked at the ruined house, the splintered roof, charred wood, walls licked black by flame.

“He never blew no lab before.”

“I know it. But somethin’ musta jumped wrong this time.”

“He’s known for never fuckin’ up labs nor cookin’ bad batches. He’s known for knowin’ what he’s doin’.”

“You cook long enough, this’s bound to happen.”

Ree opened the door, lowered one foot, said, “You sayin’ Dad’s in there burnt to a crisp?”

“I’m sayin’ that’s the last place me or anybody else seen him. That’s what I’m tellin’ you.”

She stepped out, eyes on the house, boots in snow.

“I’m goin’ up for a look.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! No, you ain’t! Get back in here. That shit’s all poison, girl. Toxic. It’ll eat the skin clean off your bones and wilt the bones, too. It’ll turn your lungs to paper sacks and tear holes in ’em. Don’t you get nowheres near that fuckin’ house.”

“If Dad’s in there dead, I’m collectin’ him and carryin’ him home to bury.”

“Stay the hell away from that house!”

The snow on the drive to the house was unmarked by boot or hoof or claw. Ree hustled up the slight rise, glancing backwards at Blond Milton. He did not give chase and she slowed. She kept at a distance from the walls, began circling in the pure snow. One wall had flown into the yard. Windows had exploded and the frames dangled, blackened with glass fingers clinging. The charred wood smelled. There were other acrid smells. She circled through snowdrifts to the back. There was a trash pile topped with a cap of snow. Big brown glass jugs, cracked funnels, white plastic bottles, garden hose. She edged slowly between the trash pile and the house. She could see well enough. The kitchen sink had snagged on floorboards falling through to dirt and the curved faucet poked up amidst the blackened wood. Horseweed turned white stood chin-high in the floorboard holes. There were humps of ash where furniture had been. A round wall clock had cooked black and fallen in the heat to become puddled across the stovetop. The stove was wedged partway down a hole in the floor and… horseweed. Horseweed turned white stood chin-high in the floorboard holes.

Ree eased back from the house, whirled on her heels, and walked briskly to Blond Milton.

“We can get.”

“You did right to not go in there.”

“You showed me the place’n we can get now.”

“It’s always a bad deal when these things blow. Jessup’n me maybe had our tussles, but he was my first cousin still. I’ll see whatever I can do for you.”

She did not speak all the way home. She gouged herself to keep from speaking. She counted barns to keep from speaking, counted fence posts, counted vehicles that were not pickup trucks. She bit her lips and clamped with her teeth, counting for distraction while faintly tasting blood.

Blond Milton took the rut road that led to his side of the creek. He parked near the three houses. They got out and stood beside the truck. He said, “I know losin’ Jessup leaves you-all hurtin’ over there. I know it’s a lot to handle. Too much, probably.”

“We’ll make do.”

“Me’n Sonya talked about it’n we feel we could take Sonny off your hands. Not Harold, I don’t reckon, but we’d take Sonny. We could help you that much.”

“You what?”

“We could take Sonny for you and raise him up the rest of the way.”

“My ass, you will.”

“Watch your mouth with me, girl. We’d raise the boy way better’n you’n that momma of yours can, that’s for certain sure. Maybe on down the line we’d take Harold, too.”

Ree started walking fiercely toward the narrow footbridge. He snatched at her arm from behind but she spun away. On the flat bridge she paused and called, “You son of a bitch. You go straight to hell’n fry in your own lard. Sonny’n Harold’ll die livin’ in a fuckin’ cave with me’n Mom before they’ll ever spend a single fuckin’ night with you. Goddam you, Blond Milton, you must think I’m a stupid idiot or somethin’—there’s horseweed standin’ chin-high inside that place!”

15

REE SLAMMED the door behind herself and stomped past the boys, clomping loudly to the closet in her own room. She reached behind the rank of skirts and dresses hanging, into the far hidden corner, and retrieved two long guns. She dropped boxes of shells into a pocket of Mamaw’s coat. She cradled the guns in her arms, jerked her head at the watching boys, and led them to the side porch. She turned on the porch light and rested the weapons upright against the rail, then began to load them.

“I wasn’t sure just when you boys’d need to know about shootin’, but I think maybe now it’s time you do. Now’s when you boys start learnin’ how to shoot guns at what needs shootin’. Throw some cans’n stuff out on that slope there. Set ’em up standin’ so they’ll keel over when you hit ’em.”

Sonny and Harold bounced to it with glee. They rooted eagerly in the trash heap and started arranging targets on the slope of snow. The bright porch light laid long menacing shadows behind the targets.

She said, “No bottles. The glass’ll wash down to the yard in spring’n I’ll be doctorin’ your feet all goddam summer. Just cans or plastic, stuff like that.”

One gun was a double-barreled 20 gauge, a strikingly handsome heirloom shotgun with a creamy blond stock. The other was an old and abused .22 rifle with a busted stock put back together by brass screws, a semi-automatic that held sixteen shorts. Ree’d learned to shoot on these very weapons, trained in the fields by Dad, and had a deep fondness for them because of that. The shotgun was the prettiest thing she owned and she’d used it to take rabbits, dove, and quail. The .22 was for harvesting squirrels from trees or frogs from ponds and plunking armadillos