There he stood in the bright light—Jacks—beaming, half a leash dangling from his neck, his tail wagging in river water, holding in his mouth what appeared to be a dead striped cat.
Nine
TIFFANY SAT WITH FOLDED LEGS ON THE LARGE SILL OF THE kitchen window. Her third cup of tea had long grown cold. The sky outside was black. It was past midnight, and there was nothing to do but lean against the window and wait. Wait for what exactly? She hardly knew. She spent some time thinking about the poem she was working on, about the coyote sprinting through a pine forest, but the poem felt aimless. Tiffany couldn’t find the turn, and so the coyote just kept running, breathless, for line after line. But toward what? Tiffany sighed, folded her hands in her lap, and stared out at the darkness.
Miranda had temporarily busied herself upstairs, but Tiffany wasn’t left without company. At the kitchen table sat the constable Sheriff Cal put in charge before leaving for the forest. His name was Bobby. Bobby was an old, red-faced man, kind, with an off-center bald spot that shone in the lamplight. He liked to talk.
“Now mind you,” Bobby said, resting a cup of coffee on his large belly, “my ma wasn’t much bigger than you are, but she could bale some hay.” He nodded, and his bald spot caught the light again. “Oh yes, that woman could get right up there in that wagon en catch bales and stack ’em faster en you seen most boys do.”
Tiffany exhaled and leaned into the coolness of the darkened windowpane. Miranda had excused herself from the room several minutes ago, and Tiffany hoped she wouldn’t be much longer. They found they had to take turns listening to Bobby, nodding at him, raising their eyebrows in surprise during the more revealing moments in his stories, like the time his brother did find the possum under the steps. That was a hoot. So, he’d say. Oh well. Bobby showed up at the Branson ranch about twenty minutes after Tiffany did, to “stand by” like Cal asked and make sure all was well at home as the investigation unfolded.
“Oh well. That was before Ma passed, of course. The farm’s sold now to folks who don’t farm it, so the top fields ain’t been baled in, well, let’s see”—Bobby tapped out some arithmetic on his coffee cup with his shaky fingers—“several years now.” Bobby then acted surprised by the package of Oreos Miranda set out for him earlier in the evening. He examined one and plucked it from its nest.
“So,” he said, “of course I stop out there at the farm from time to time to see how things are going, only for an hour or two, mind you—new owners ain’t much for conversation, always having someplace to get to.” Bobby dunked the cookie in his coffee. “I always wonder what place could be worth getting to if a person’s got a farm as fine as that farm is. If I’d of had the money to pay the banks, I’d live my life on that farm without leaving it. But all Ma had was that farm, and family farmin’ ain’t paid bills in, well, let’s see.” Bobby bobbed his cookie up and down in his coffee, stuffed it in his mouth.
Miranda strode back into the room. Tiffany lifted her head from the windowpane. Miranda didn’t look refreshed despite her reprieve. The entire evening she had looked markedly tired, and afraid too. She had stopped asking the constable questions about the search once it became apparent he knew little about it. Cal had been out of radio contact since the search began. Bobby’s only concern was that all was well and calm, and that they waited the thing out for word from the sheriff.
“There she is,” said Bobby, swallowing his cookie. “Lady of the house. Yes sir, everyone here is staying nice en calm, en this is all going to work out in the end. Sheriff Cal will see to that. We have a fine sheriff in Sheriff Cal. County’s been plenty impressed by him. Board’s gonna vote to make him permanent this summer. I’m sure of it.”
Miranda forced a smile and moved to the kitchen counter, where she wiped up a coffee spill with a rag. She put a few plates in the sink and turned on the hot water. There wasn’t much to do that hadn’t been done already.
“Just a sec, Miranda. I’ll do those dishes,” said Tiffany, hopping off the windowsill.
“No,” said Miranda, a bit too abruptly, and caught herself. “I don’t mind. Just keep the constable company if you would. Constable Bobby, could you use some more coffee?”
“Oh, that is nice of you, miss. Yes, I’ll have some more coffee, just a spot.”
“And how about more cookies?”
Bobby peered into the cookie package and gave Miranda a thumbs-up. “We’re good on the cookies over here. Say, did I already ask you about what your pa still farmed out this way, acrewise?”
Tiffany let out an exasperated smile and met Miranda’s gaze. Miranda held back a pained grin as she lifted the coffee pot. “You did,” she said, crossing the kitchen.
Bobby held out his cup and thanked her.
“Any word from that radio, Constable?” Miranda asked.
Bobby set his coffee on the table and checked the radio clipped to his belt. He squinted at it, fiddled with a knob, made sure it was on.
“Nope. Nothing yet, but try not to worry. We’ve got a good sheriff out there, and he’ll bring your boy back.” He looked at Tiffany. “And yours too, miss.”
“My boy ain’t out there, Bobby. I don’t have a boy.”
Bobby lifted a finger. “I knew that, of course, I knew that already. My apologies.”
Something stirred in Tiffany at the mention of the Breadwin boy. She didn’t know the boy well but had interacted with him a few times at the gas station. He was
