I felt so low I wanted to slide under the bleachers and crouch there with the dead cigarettes, melted snow- cone wrappers, balled-up diapers, and brown splats of spit snoose.
From now on we’re gonna keep the house better locked, Cappy said.
I’m going home tonight, said Randall. Sleeping on the couch with my shotgun until we fix the door.
Don’t shoot your nuts off, said Cappy.
Don’t worry, nutless. Fuckers show up to finish the job, they’ll be sorry.
You’re the man, said Cappy. He clapped his brother’s shoulder and we sauntered off. We walked around and around the arena. After a while he clapped my shoulder too.
You did it smooth.
I hate myself though.
Brother, you must get over that, said Cappy. He will never know, but if he did know, Doe would understand.
Okay, I said after a while, but when I do it, the rest of it, I do it alone.
Cappy sighed.
Listen, Cappy, I said, hoarse, nearly whispering. I’m going to call this like it is. Murder, for justice maybe. Murder just the same. I had to say this a thousand times in my head before I said it out loud. But there it is. And I can take him.
Cappy stopped. Okay, you said it. But that’s not the whole point. If you ever hit five, no, three cans in a row, just once, I’d say maybe. But Joe.
I’ll get close to him.
He’ll see you. Worse, you’ll see him. You’ve got one chance, Joe. I’ll just be there to steady your mind, your aim. I won’t get implicated, Joe.
Okay, I said out loud. No way, I thought. I had decided I would not tell Cappy what morning I was going to the overlook. I would just go there and do it.
The weather the first part of that week was forecast clear and hot. Linda had said her brother played early, before anybody else was out. So just after sunrise I rose and sneaked downstairs. I told my parents that I was getting in shape for fall cross-country—and I did run. I ran the woods trails where I would not be seen. I was getting good at skirting yards and using windbreaks for cover. I took a washed-out pickle jar of water in one hand and a candy bar in my shirt pocket. I made sure the stone Cappy gave me was in my jeans pocket. I wore a brown plaid shirt over a green T-shirt. The best I could do for camouflage. When I got to the overlook, I scraped the sticks and leaves away and set them aside. Then, I took the earth off the gun in the bags and set that aside too. I took the rifle out of the bags and loaded it. My fingers shook. I tried deep breaths. I wrung my hands and brought the rifle to the oak tree, sat down, and held it. I put the jar of water next to me. Then I waited. I would see any golfer on the fifth tee well before he came to the place where I planned to shoot. Then while Lark was starting down the fairway behind a screen of young pine trees, I would walk down the hill with the rifle and hide behind a riffle of chokecherry bush and box elder. From there, I’d aim and wait until he got close enough. How close he came would depend on where he hit the ball and which way it rolled, where he stood to putt, and other things. There were many variables. So many that I was still weighing possibilities when the sun got so high I knew I’d been sitting there for hours. Once the regular stream of golfers began, I got up and unloaded the rifle. I packed it in its bag, rolled the other bag around it, reburied it, and scattered the leaves and twigs over the ground. On the way home, I ate the candy bar and put the wrapper in my pocket. My stomach had stopped jumping. Done for the day, I felt almost euphoric. I drank the last of the water and carried the empty jar along and didn’t think. I looked at every tree I passed and it amazed me with its detail and life. I stopped and watched two horses browse in the weedy pasture. Born graceful. When I got home, I was so cheerful that my mother asked what had got into me. I made her laugh. I ate and ate. Then I went upstairs and fell asleep for an hour and woke into the same great wash of dread I began with every time I woke up. I’d have to do the same thing tomorrow morning. And I did. As I sat against the oak tree there were moments I forgot why I was there. I would get up to leave, thinking I was crazy. Then I remembered my mother stunned and bleeding in the backseat of the car. My hand on her hair. Or how she had stared from her bedcovers as if from a black cave. I thought of my father helpless on the linoleum floor of the grocery. I thought of the gas can in the lake, on the hardware store shelf. I thought of other things. Then I was ready. But he did not show up that Tuesday. He did not show up on Wednesday either. On Thursday rain was forecast, so I thought maybe I’d stay home.
I went anyway. Once I got to the overlook, I went through all of the actions that had become routine by now. I sat under the oak tree with the rifle, safety on. The water beside me. There was low cloud cover and the air smelled like rain. I had been there for maybe an hour, waiting for the clouds to break, when Lark walked onto the tee dragging his clubs in a stained old canvas wheeled cart. He disappeared behind the planted pines. Cradling the rifle the way Cappy had taught me, I stepped down the hill. I’d told myself exactly what to do so often that at first I thought I’d be all right. I found the spot marked out just at the edge of the bushes where I could stand, nearly hidden. From there I could sight and aim just about any place Lark might be on the green. I thumbed off safety. I gulped in air and let it out explosively. I held the rifle gently the way I’d practiced, and tried to control my breathing. But each breath got stuck. And there was Lark. He hit from a low rise near the pine trees. The ball arced and landed at the edge of the clipped circle with a bounce that took it another yard toward the hole. Lark walked down quickly. The scent of minerals began to seep out of the earth. I brought the rifle to my shoulder and followed him with the barrel. He stood sideways, staring down at his golf ball, squinting his eyes, opening them, squinting again, completely absorbed. He wore tan pants, golf shoes, a gray cap, and a brown short-sleeved T- shirt. He was so close I could read the logo of his defunct grocery store. Vinland. The golf ball rolled to a spot half a foot from the hole. He’d tap it in, I thought. He’d bend over to scoop it out. When he straightened up I’d shoot.
Lark walked forward and before he could tap it in I shot at the logo over his heart. I hit him someplace else, maybe in the stomach, and he collapsed. There was a loud silence. I lowered the rifle. Lark rolled over on his knees, staggered to his feet, found his balance, and began to scream. The sound was a high squeal like nothing I’d ever heard. I got the rifle back to my shoulder, reloaded. I was shaking so hard I rested the barrel on a branch, held my breath, and shot again. I couldn’t tell where that shot went. Once again I worked the bolt, reloaded, aimed, but my finger slid off the trigger—I couldn’t shoot. Lark pitched forward. There was another silence. My face was drenching wet. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Lark began to make noise again.
Please, no, please, no. I thought I heard those words, but I could have said them. Lark was trying to get up again. He pedaled one foot in the air, rolled over, onto his knees, and rose in a crouch. He locked eyes with me. Their blackness knocked me backward. The rifle was lifted from my arms. Cappy stepped forward beside me. I didn’t hear the shot. All sound, all motion, had stalled in the sullen air. My brain was ringing. Cappy picked up the ejected casings from around my feet and put them in the pockets of his jeans.
C’mon, he said, touching my arm. Turning me. Let’s go.
I followed him uphill in the first drops of rain.
Chapter Eleven.
At the oak tree, we turned and looked down. Lark was lying on his back, the golf clubs neatly waiting in their cart. His putter cast down at his heels. He hadn’t moved. Beside me, Cappy dropped to his knees. He leaned over until his forehead touched the earth and put his arms over his head like a child in a tornado drill. After a while, he lifted his head and shook it. We wrapped the rifle back up in its bag, and set it aside as we tried to restore the ground where it had been buried. Cappy used a branch to brush up the grass I had trampled.
Nobody’s home at my place, said Cappy. We gotta hide this. He had the rifle.
We waited until a passing car was out of sight before we crossed the road. Now the rain was misting down. When we got to Cappy’s, we went straight to the kitchen tap. We washed our hands, put water on our faces, and drank glass after glass of water.
