need a third pocket to put it in he was so damn useless. Rather sit on a tractor than mix with pigs.
Then he told me to be ready for blood and guts come sunrise.
“Slaughtering hogs,” he said, “is an all-day event.”
I didn’t mind. I’d worked with a dozen farmers outside Monroe and if there’s one thing consistent about farmers it’s that they don’t buy meat from the butcher. Harvesting animals is part of agriculture, and if you’re apprenticed long enough, you’ll see chickens with their tiny necks slit, and cattle, and hogs, and more steaming gut piles than you’d thought populated the earth, until you stop and think that every one of us has a mess of guts, and part of the game is to prevent them from winding up steaming on the ground. I nodded at Burt. “I better get my rest, then.”
“Hold up a minute. I want to talk to you on the porch.”
Gwen looked at me and I stared at the wall. Finally she said, “Gale?”
I looked.
“You don’t want any apple dumplins?”
“Didn’t know you made any.”
She fetched cereal bowls full of dumplins and warm milk sprinkled with cinnamon and a touch of nutmeg—I asked later that night—and Burt and I retired to the front porch. The moon was out and the air was brisk.
“You staying warm at night?” Burt said.
“I just bury myself in hay.”
I couldn’t see too well, but it looked like he nodded. I spooned a bite of apple.
“I’ll tell Missus Haudesert to give you a blanket.”
He sounded unprepared to move the conversation where he wanted it to go. I was ready to jump up and run, or fight him, or defend myself. I didn’t know which because I didn’t know exactly what he knew. Guinevere had been out a half-dozen times to the barn. Burt would have his way and she’d come out and cry on me. It made it hard to sit in the man’s kitchen and eat his apple dumplings. Made it hard to sit on his porch and thank him for offering to scare up a blanket.
“I’d appreciate that,” I said.
“I’ll just be out with it,” Burt said. “I’ve talked with you at least a dozen times on this very porch about a man doin’ his duty by his country, and you never let on any interest. The militia needs soldiers. Cal and Jordan are joining up, and you’re a year older’n them.”
I exhaled and downed a bite of dumplin’g “You think the militia would have my sort? I don’t have much to offer. Don’t even have my own rifle.”
“You got your willingness to serve!” he said, and backed it up with a slap to my shoulder. “I speak from the highest authority, and I know they’d have you. We’re fittin’ to put on a recruitin’ drive. Damned if it don’t look like the End Times is nigh, Commie shit going on, this country.” He nodded toward his neighbor a mile away. “Give me the gold standard and a fair market price for a bushel of corn, and leave my goddamn guns alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’ve heard all that before. I’ll take you to the next meet and get you enlisted, and you can go with me and the boys after that.”
I chewed more dumplings.
I thought about the militia that night, waiting on Gwen. I’d go, only to keep Burt happy. A man knows his principles, it don’t matter what folk he consorts with. Some of it sounded interesting enough—who doesn’t hate the Commies? Who doesn’t like the smell of a rifle and the punch line to a good country joke? Like Burt said, “The difference between men and women is that women want a hundred things from one man and men want one thing from a hundred women.”
A fellow can listen to anything, even if it turns his stomach, so long as his principles get the final word.
Next morning Burt and I ate eggs and drank coffee. Burt looked rough and told Gwen to brew the coffee strong enough to float a railroad spike. Gwen had a bruise on her neck. She’d told me about it, snuggled up with me just six hours before. Told me how he always liked to cover her throat with his hand.
Things
Then he told me to be ready for blood and guts come sunrise.
“Slaughtering hogs,” he said, “is an all-day event.”
I didn’t mind. I’d worked with a dozen farmers outside Monroe and if there’s one thing consistent about farmers it’s that they don’t buy meat from the butcher. Harvesting animals is part of agriculture, and if you’re apprenticed long enough, you’ll see chickens with their tiny necks slit, and cattle, and hogs, and more steaming gut piles than you’d thought populated the earth, until you stop and think that every one of us has a mess of guts, and part of the game is to prevent them from winding up steaming on the ground. I nodded at Burt. “I better get my rest, then.”
“Hold up a minute. I want to talk to you on the porch.”
Gwen looked at me and I stared at the wall. Finally she said, “Gale?”
I looked.
“You don’t want any apple dumplins?”
“Didn’t know you made any.”
She fetched cereal bowls full of dumplins and warm milk sprinkled with cinnamon and a touch of nutmeg—I asked later that night—and Burt and I retired to the front porch. The moon was out and the air was brisk.
“You staying warm at night?” Burt said.
“I just bury myself in hay.”
I couldn’t see too well, but it looked like he nodded. I spooned a bite of apple.
“I’ll tell Missus Haudesert to give you a blanket.”
He sounded unprepared to move the conversation where he wanted it to go. I was ready to jump up and run, or fight him, or defend myself. I didn’t know which because I didn’t know exactly what he knew. Guinevere had been out a half-dozen times to the barn. Burt would have his way and she’d come out and cry on me. It made it hard to sit in the man’s kitchen and eat his apple dumplings. Made it hard to sit on his porch and thank him for offering to scare up a blanket.
“I’d appreciate that,” I said.
“I’ll just be out with it,” Burt said. “I’ve talked with you at least a dozen times on this very porch about a man doin’ his duty by his country, and you never let on any interest. The militia needs soldiers. Cal and Jordan are joining up, and you’re a year older’n them.”
I exhaled and downed a bite of dumplin’g “You think the militia would have my sort? I don’t have much to offer. Don’t even have my own rifle.”
“You got your willingness to serve!” he said, and backed it up with a slap to my shoulder. “I speak from the highest authority, and I know they’d have you. We’re fittin’ to put on a recruitin’ drive. Damned if it don’t look like the End Times is nigh, Commie shit going on, this country.” He nodded toward his neighbor a mile away. “Give me the gold standard and a fair market price for a bushel of corn, and leave my goddamn guns alone.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you’ve heard all that before. I’ll take you to the next meet and get you enlisted, and you can go with me and the boys after that.”
I chewed more dumplings.
I thought about the militia that night, waiting on Gwen. I’d go, only to keep Burt happy. A man knows his principles, it don’t matter what folk he consorts with. Some of it sounded interesting enough—who doesn’t hate the Commies? Who doesn’t like the smell of a rifle and the punch line to a good country joke? Like Burt said, “The difference between men and women is that women want a hundred things from one man and men want one thing from a hundred women.”
A fellow can listen to anything, even if it turns his stomach, so long as his principles get the final word.
Next morning Burt and I ate eggs and drank coffee. Burt looked rough and told Gwen to brew the coffee strong enough to float a railroad spike. Gwen had a bruise on her neck. She’d told me about it, snuggled up with me just six hours before. Told me how he always liked to cover her throat with his hand.
Things
Similar Books
