Kin

“We need a place to hole up for a while,” Papa said, and regained his seat, figuring that if he appeared relaxed, Krall might do the same.

He didn’t.

“This is my place,” he said coldly. “You got your own damn house. Go stay there.”

Papa knew Krall was not a stupid man, and that he was only being obtuse simply to make what Papa had to say all the more difficult.

“We can’t,” Papa told him. “There’s been some trouble.”

“Kinda trouble?”

“We caught some kids in our woods. Wanted to teach ’em a lesson. They kilt my boy Matt.”

It was hard to see if the news affected Krall any, given that only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible beneath his unkempt hair and above the undergrowth of his beard, but Papa doubted it.

“Which one’s he?” Krall asked, sounding disinterested.

It was not a question that required an answer, rather Krall’s way of ensuring Papa knew he was not welcome, no matter who he had lost.

“You still goin’ on with all that God work?” he asked then. “Preachin’ and huntin’ up people you think’s sinners?”

“I still believe, yes,” Papa answered, but felt the color rise slightly as he recalled what he had been thinking only a few moments before. “Our work is needed now more than ev—”

Krall raised a massive hand. “Don’t you go preachin’ to me now. God ain’t here or anywheres around me, and I ain’t one for any of that bible-thumpin’ bullshit.”

“It’s not—”

“Why’d you come here?”

Papa felt flustered. He had rehearsed what he was going to say and how he intended to deliver it, but realized he should have known from the few conversations he’d had with Krall in the past, that the exchange would go entirely Krall’s way. He would hear what he wanted to hear, and that was all there was to it, and if he decided Papa and the boys needed to go, then they’d go. No one ever argued with Krall and came out the better of it.

“I told you,” he said. “We had some trouble.”

“I got plenty trouble of my own without you bringin’ more.”

“They won’t come lookin’ for us here.”

“Who’s they?”

“Coyotes. They killed my boy, and turned another one against me.”

Teeth appeared in the dark tangle of beard as Krall smiled. “Weren’t them turned your boy against you, I reckon.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you a goddamn hypocrite, and a loon. And that ain’t the first time I’ve told you that neither, so quit lookin’ surprised. You was standin’ in my woodshed the day I told my sister the same thing. Told her she were makin’ a mistake runnin’ off with the likes of you. Saw it on your face every time you turned up, knew you’d be nothin’ but trouble, and here you are tellin’ me you lost your boys on account’ve someone else.” He shook his head. “You ain’t no man,” he said. “You ain’t nothin’. Way I see it, no God in his right mind’d have anythin’ to do with you.”

The frustration was gone in an instant. Papa grit his teeth. In a fight, he’d die at this man’s hands, but at that moment he felt his temper flaring, heating his skin from the inside out until he was sure it made the air shimmer between them. He wasn’t accustomed to being insulted, but then, there were a lot of things happening lately he wasn’t accustomed to, none of them good. Mama-In-Bed had whispered that it meant the end was coming, the end of times, if only theirs, but to Papa that meant the same thing. He lived for his kin, except when they got themselves poisoned and turned against him. Then the coyotes could tear them asunder for all he cared. Otherwise, he was prepared to kill, and die for them until God reached down and plucked them up to face His judgment, and when that happened, Papa knew they’d be celebrated as angels for the work they’d done on a world gone to hell.

In years past he might have attempted to convert Krall to his way of thinking, to guide him in painstakingly slow steps into the light. But there was no salvation for a man so full of hate and loathing. Krall was ignorant, stuck in exile but closer than most to the eyes of God and yet he forever stood with his back to Him. Such disdain spoke volumes, and Papa decided the only thing left to do was tell the man the other reason he’d come, and see what happened next.

He watched as Krall scooped up the burlap sack and jerked open the tie.

“The tarp you seen before you came in,” Papa said.

Krall did not look up as he spoke. Instead he frowned and yanked a skinned fox out of the bag by its hind legs. Drops of blood speckled the floor. “What is it if ain’t a present?”

Papa exhaled slowly, his body tense. “Your sister,” he said.

-22-

He didn’t know how long he’d been listening to the men in the street. Occasionally he was able to make out their words, but not enough for him to be able to figure out what could be so important that they would need to gather down there in the cold at this time of night. But although the subject remained a mystery to him, the tone did not. Someone among them was angry, and when Pete finally tired of listening and returned to his mattress of cushions on the floor, that anger culminated in a gunshot that rattled the windows and startled a cry out of him.

Immediately he was on his feet and back at the window but his frightened breath occluded his view. Nevertheless he got the impression of scattering bodies as the car once more rumbled to life. The echo of the shot had not yet faded before he heard the bedroom door open behind him.

“Wayne, that you?”

Pete turned and saw Louise standing in the doorway of her room, the light from the streetlamps showing the concern etched on her face.

“No,” he told her. “It’s me.”

“Pete. Did you hear that shot? Where’s Wayne?”

He nodded. “He told me to tell you he went for cigarettes.”

She brushed past him and hurried to the window. Despite his curiosity, he stayed where he was, watching as she blocked out the light and rubbed the ghosts of his breath from the glass.

“There’s someone down there,” she said, a note of panic making her voice high and tremulous. “I think someone’s been shot.”

Pete stood dumb, waiting for whatever was to happen next. Louise turned and looked at him, wringing her hands together. In her haste she hadn’t tied the robe properly, and now it slid open. Though she was now backlit by the window and therefore all but cloaked in shadow, Pete averted his eyes anyway.

“When did he leave?”

“I dunno,” he told her. “Maybe an hour ago. Your robe’s come opened.”

She seemed to take a minute to register this, then cursed and when next he looked, she’d cinched it tight around herself and was rushing toward him. “I want you to call 911. There’s a phone in the bedroom. Can you do that for me?”

He nodded, because he was knew he was supposed to, but he had never had to call 911 before and wasn’t entirely sure what it might entail beyond dialing the numbers.

“Tell them someone’s been shot at 663 Harrison Avenue. Can you remember that?”

He watched her dig her feet into slippers. “Yes.”

“Good. Give me your coat.”

“My coat?”

“Yes, I need it. Quickly.”

“You ain’t goin’ down there, are you?”