sometimes caused tensions between the quicker and slower families, a little squabbling, which Morrow usually went out to settle. Come winter he’d fix this problem by blasting every table in the campground, and the various signs nailed to trees, too, but for this season he’d walk among the tents of many sizes and listen, bob his head as he absorbed more or less the same old story, then offer the children of the losing family cold drinks and bags of chips to distract them from whining about bullet holes. Sometimes he watched the children frolic—with skin browning and bug bites lumped on their necks, so many years spread unopened before them—and have a strong sense that he knew the true reason he’d returned here without allowing himself to investigate his memories and make it plain. That changed one day when Sky had traffic court at the county seat, and Morrow was left to drive the bus and canoe racks to retrieve floaters downstream at Spawt Mill. It was a festive spot in a deep gorge, hillsides heavy with forest, the green broken in spots by bare rocks that lunged into view. A pale dam backed the river into a giant pool, a huge and perfect swimming hole, the dam low enough to sit on with feet swishing in the water. A narrow opening in the dam at the near bank let water push into the old mill trace, but the wheel didn’t turn anymore. Morrow watched kids swing on a rope and flop into the river. Girls roamed on top of the dam, and young men followed at a slight distance, drinking beer, shoving one another around. Hawks dragged their shadows across the pool, fish jumped, and he was on this very spot at age fifteen, uncertain in all directions, gawking at a girl whose beauty stunned and terrorized him. She posed on the dam and didn’t wear a swimsuit, but an ankle-length hippie shift of some sort, thin cloth rich with Eastern patterns, mystic cubes and squiggles, and nothing underneath. Light passed through the V of her legs so clearly he didn’t have to guess. Maybe she hadn’t intended to get wet, but walked the dam barefoot with the other girls until carried away by the view, the smell of river, the roiling of fresh water down the sluice to the mill, the roaring and the laughter. Morrow was as though paralyzed by her from first sight, and she noticed, smiled his way, and stopped in the overflow on the dam, doing dance steps that splashed, then dropped her shoulder and looked rearward again, a gesture he never got over. Her skin immediately sang to him of summer fun, perhaps endless summer fun, and her eyes were brown places to romp, revel, rejoice—hair to her waist and deep dimples that opened when she smiled. She waved to him and he turned away, anguished by his attraction to her and her nearness, all words flown from his head. When he turned back, she was in the river, swimming toward him in that hippie shift, hair spread on the water, trailing behind, her girlfriends watching with interest. She stepped out of the river, standing tall, boldly revealed by the soaked cloth, walking straight to him. He spun on the gravel and took off before she spoke, but heard her say, “Are you kidding?” as he hustled with his head down to the store in the old mill and found his parents. He spotted her when they left, lost his nerve again as she watched him from the pooled water, but that day released her into his emotions to stay—he’d carried her with him as a feeling more than a picture, a sunken feeling linked to all things lost or untried, but now he had her face again, blooming young and clear, that smile, the wonderful skin of July. He knew she would have been the beginner’s romance teens should have, need to have, deserve, a magical summer of smitten days with moments of exploratory bliss that he could’ve savored all these years since, instead of feeling wrecked by the pitiless regret that he’d been such a no-balls virgin coward when confronted with what he most desired.
He drank whisky that night, the first time since leaving Nebraska. So many of the campers had long tanned legs and bare bellies, cute flaking noses, carefree laughter, husbands fishing somewhere until dark. At the supper hour he’d wandered between tents holding a paper cup of scotch on the rocks, sipping, eyes reddening, speech beginning to limp, enjoying the casual company of women who glowed and dressed for the heat. The sun was snaking brightly along the ridgeline; kids were diving from the bridge.
He returned to the store, called his oldest daughter at school in Palo Alto, but went to voice mail and left a message, “Don’t be stingy to yourself, babe. Overall, I mean, don’t be…I’m fine.” When he dropped the phone, Royce took the cup from his hand and set it beneath the counter. He said, “No misery gets sweeter dipped in devil juice, Mr. Morrow. Looks like you got customers.”
Out the window he saw a cloud of dust rise from the parking lot and watched as it grew wider and higher and spread over the nearest tents. People trying to eat or rest started hacking in the cloud, spitting, shielding their eyes as the dust swooped over them. The car was a sedan, a dented beater, branch scrapes in the paint, mud blown to the door handles, and music blasted from inside. The driver cut figure eights, gunning the engine then slamming the brakes to slide and swerve until the dust cloud enveloped the store and all of the tents. People began to stand and shout before the car stopped. The cloud continued to rotate and obscure while the music played.
Morrow went down the steps, waving dust away, and approached the car. He could see four heads inside. “What the hell you think you’re doing?”
The music was silenced. The engine ticked. The front doors squeaked when slowly opened. The driver said, “You cussin’ at me?” Both men were tattooed in script and held machetes with arms that were stark and taut—long hair, narrow faces. The groans of women carried from the backseat. “I’ma cut you up’n down for cussin’ me in front of bitches.”
The other raised his machete, said, “We’ll both of us cut on him.”
The campers had quieted but stood watching, unmoving witnesses powdered by dust, and Morrow backed toward the front steps of the store. He said, “Just drive away. Get in and drive away.”
“Not ’til I hack me a piece of you to take along.”
“I’ve asked you to leave.”
“That might mean shit to somebody, but…”
On the top step Morrow paused. His legs felt softened at the joints and waggled a little, and something inside had plunged. When he raised his hand toward the advancing men his fingers shook. “Just get,” he said, but they kept coming, though not quickly, unsteady in their own legs, too. Royce eased up from behind and handed Morrow his bird gun, a twenty-gauge pump meant for quail and dove. He said, “Them boys are Langans— they ain’t playactin’—you might need to shoot the two of ’em.”
The women climbed from the beater and stood beside it, the elder subdued and expectant of the worst, the younger dark and expressionless, staring at Morrow. He looked back and could not believe how pretty her eyes were—what color is that?—then couldn’t believe he’d noticed. He abruptly fired into the air while yet lost in her eyes and presence, and said, “One more step.”
The men halted at the sound, looked at each other, laughed ’til they bent in the middle and had to lean together. The machetes fell to ground. The driver turned to the staring girl. “Toss me keys to the trunk.”
Royce said, “Don’t let them open that trunk. You won’t want that.”
“You open that trunk and I’ll kill you.” Morrow didn’t know where these words were coming from, but he let them come, hoped for them to continue, wondered where they’d been all his life. He could feel her watching. “I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The girl bent into the car and took the keys with her as she walked toward the bridge in plastic sandals and a dress that didn’t fit her body or the season. She did not speak, but looked back at Morrow twice, glancing over her shoulder. She had muddy hands and unbridled hair, and her face suggested she’d yet to be pleasantly surprised by life.
The men stood beside the car, and the driver said, “Man, I’m diggin’ your hole already in my head.”
“Just don’t move.”
“I hope it’s dug to fit you, ’cause you’re goin’ to be dead in it a long time.”
“Lower your voice; you’re scaring the children.”
When the sheriff appeared at the top of the hill the driver fled into the woods. The other man sat on the dust and held his hands behind his back. The sheriff took charge, called the man by name as he hooked him into cuffs. The women gave short statements of no value, and the sheriff removed three long guns and a dynamite stick from the trunk before he let them drive away. He sidled near, hat in hand, and warned Morrow in whispers. As the sheriff and his prisoner departed, the crowd of campers burst into applause for Morrow, sincere clapping and broad smiles, before returning to their tents while telling slightly or largely different versions of what they’d all just seen.
The woods had grown dark and Morrow went inside, rested the shotgun against a handy wall. He began to shake in every limb and had to sit down. Kids stood in the doorway staring at him. He kneeled behind the counter and puked below the cash register.
Royce went to the utility closet and selected a mop. He stood in the shadow cast by the buffalo head on the wall, then shoved the mop into the mess and began to swab. He said, “Langan’ll probably scramble over to his grandma’s house. That’s where he usually goes to hide. He may well have forgot about you by the time he gets
