“One of Ira’s top milkers. Kicks a pail of milk over onto Cornish and he runs and gets a pitchfork and jabs it straight through the cow’s heart.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah. Ira sent him the hell back the county after that.”
John spits out the grass.
“He was one the hundreds the police talked to after Old Ira and Molly got sliced up. Has himself little Daggard Pitt for a lawyer, same as me.” Simon pulls off his boots, then lies back on the bank and wriggles out of his jeans. Beefier and taller than John, he’s got a long scar on his leg that he brought back from Vietnam and never talks about. As much as John’s father, he’d taught John how to hunt. “Rule numero uno, Johnno,” he used to say. “Don’t shoot at rustlin’ branches, footsteps, farts, or hallucinations.” A few years back, after a downstate hunter had shot and killed his companion for a deer, Simon claimed the guy must’ve done it on purpose. Nobody, he’d said, could make a mistake that bad. And John had agreed with him. “Where’s that three-colored mutt a’ yourn?”
John whips his head around. He stares wordlessly down at Simon.
“He’s usually slobbering all over me, I show up.”
“I don’t remember you ever giving a rat’s ass.”
“Still don’t.” Pantless, Simon stands up. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Just wonderin’ where it’s at, that’s all.” When he came back from the war, he’d gone to work for John’s father, milking cows. He had a temper back then—once he’d gotten mad, punched a breed bull in the snout, and nearly killed it, and later spent time in jail for having similar run-ins with people. For weeks at a time he would disappear, then show up looking for his job back, and John’s father would give it to him because finding good help was nearly impossible and Simon Breedlove, John’s father used to say, could work the tits off a mule. He hadn’t stayed long, maybe a year or two, but by then he’d become like an older brother to John, sometimes like a father, even though John didn’t have any idea, and still doesn’t, what Simon did on his long absences.
“Was shot,” says John.
“Dead?”
“Yeah.” John gazes down at the pond, where the smaller woman, her naked backside to the bank, has climbed on the shoulders of Colette, standing waist-high in the water. “Don’t know by who.”
“When?”
“Earlier this evening.”
“What for?”
John’s seeing tracers in front of his eyes. “How would I know?”
“I mean, might somebody had a reason?”
“I’d guess not.”
“Well, shit.”
“I buried him up by the garden.”
“Musta been a reason.”
Now John’s ears are ringing. He doesn’t answer.
“Nothing you can think of?”
“I loved that dog, Simon.”
“Yeah, well, I know, John, but the thing to remember is—he was just a dog—not a human being—ya know?”
“We’re getting awful lonely down here, boys!” The small woman, gyrating her backside, stands on Colette’s shoulders. Simon shakes his head admiringly.
“Ain’t that Colette a strong one, John?”
John doesn’t say.
“With that equipment she must’ve fucked little-bitty Ralph Gans right down to a carrot stub. ’Member how godawful small he was? Like a mouse. Had that half ear?”
“Can’t place him,” says John.
“Me, I never forget a face,” says Simon. “You want to go swimming?”
John slowly gets to his feet. His head spins.
“Way you stink, she ain’t gon’ get near you less’n you do.” Simon nods at the pond just as the small woman dives head-first into the water, yelling, “Banzai!”
“Did you see the mountain lion, John?”
John unbuckles his pants.
“Later she’ll make it roar for ya.”
“Me?”
“She’s too young and skinny for me. I’m gon’ tangle with big Colette see if we can’t liven up the valley with tit-farts.” Simon turns and sprints for the water.
On a blanket in the high grass above the pond, the girl moistens an index finger and presses it to her upraised nipples, one, then the other, as if she’s playing pinball. Her taut, water-slick body reminds John of a coiled spring ready to pop. She tells him her younger sisters nicknamed her Mincy because when she used to get mad at them she would threaten to make them into mincemeat. She makes him feel her arm muscles, gnarly knots about the size of handballs, and says in her senior year of high school she wrestled with the boys’ varsity and didn’t lose a match. In the moonlight, her swollen areolae look to John like plump red tomatoes. He tells her he’s married and wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t drunk. She laughs and says that’s most men’s story, then helps him to remove his underpants. Naked, on their backs, they count shooting stars to the groveling, baying, flesh-quacking sounds of Simon and Colette on the opposite shore.
Rolling a leg onto John, Mincy tells him he’s got a nice muscular little body, then reaches down and, while in his ear wetly whispering that the fucking across the water is making her as horny as she’s ever been, plays like a kitten with his genitals. John says he’s never cheated on his wife and Mincy places her pinky finger at the base of his balls, stretches her thumb as far up his penis as she can, which is nowhere near the tip, and coquettishly asks if maybe he’s exaggerating a few inches. Then she’s sitting up on John’s knees, sliding his penis slowly back and forth between her squeezed-together breasts and saying that in her wallet is a condom she ought to slip on him, and John says okay, but instead of making a move to get it, she groans, “Oh, Christ,” rolls off him onto her stomach, hoists her bottom with its snarling green-and-purple mountain lion an inch or two off the blanket, and with a self- conscious little smile says, “Like this, ’kay, little John? Hard as ya can, and deep.”
Then John is inside of her and she’s bucking backward into him and screaming for him to do it harder, and John, violently striking out with his groin, as lost in that world as he had been earlier in his wood-chopping, fixates on the back of her flying hair, which in front of his amazed eyes suddenly turns from an auburn pageboy to a dirty- blond clump.
He lets out a terrified scream.
Mincy, thinking he’s about ready to come, barks over her shoulder for him to pull out, so John pitches back and she deftly rolls onto her back beneath him, then takes his penis deep into her throat, where John explodes, and in his mind sees a 12-gauge slug tearing into the chest of the dead girl.
He lies there, loudly gasping, too petrified to look, inhaling mud-stink, mountain lilacs, blood, and sexual juices, and hearing what sounds like a light wind rustling a bluestone-based field of nettles and brush. A voice moans, “You ’bout halved me!”
He opens his eyes and sees her, a dead weight on his groin, blankly staring, and imagines a gaping red wound between her breasts.
He tries to scream, but something blocks his throat. He gets up and in the gray, starlit field blindly stumbles toward the pond, retching out the impediment that is everything he’s eaten and drunk since the morning before. He flops belly-down in the mud, lapping at the water, knowing that in this world once familiar to him he is now an alien.
