Bygones – Chapter Two
The smell of mold from the rotting leaves drifted across every yard, into every house with a window open to chase out winter. It stuck to the bottom of boots and car tires and stirred in the puddles from the spring rains. There had been more snow than is usual for Kentucky and it receded reluctantly in the shadowy hollers, exposing the forest debris from the previous autumn slowly, and then running finally, melted, into creeks along the rocky hills or seeping out of cliff faces. A pair of climbers, hiking off the paths and scouting for untouched routes in the rock outcroppings, stumbled over her body lying still in the shadows under an icy blanket of old snow.
It was a dry funeral. The alcohol flowed but not the tears. She'd been missing already for four months and anyone who might grieve her had already done so. Mrs. Nickell had trouble getting through the service, not for the woman found but for the boy lost. He sat next to his father as was proper but she commented on the considerable space left between them on the church pew and Tim went home with her afterward for dinner leaving Frank Gutterson on his own to handle his grief with a few bottles and some friends. Mrs. Nickell figured he would cope just fine. He proved her right by carrying the party through until the wee hours.
A more somber gathering was held at her house; she made coffee and put out cookies for those sympathetic who came to talk.
"Now Millie, it doesn't pay to speculate," Sheriff Henley said, standing in her kitchen while she loaded donated food onto plates. "What good does it do?"
"You can't tell me it was an accident, Doug," she responded. "She never walked over in that part of the forest and never wandered off the paths."
"She was depressed."
"She's been depressed for years and who can blame her? But there are more sure ways to leave this world. And I can't believe she'd abandon her boy."
"We have nothing, Millie, and I shouldn't even be talking to you about it. Accidental death. Misadventure. Let's leave it at that."
Tim and Christine ran around the woods playing escape from the monsters, sneaking in now and then to warm toes and grab cookies and feast on cake. Mrs. Nickell made them tea later and they sat at the kitchen table ignoring the adults in the front room. One would wander through occasionally, run a hand over Christine's hair or mess Tim's. Tim would growl after and Christine would giggle.
They were enjoying themselves now that the boring part of the day was over. Neither of them knew what to make of it all but they both recognized an opportunity for fun and took advantage of the extra freedom and the extra baking. Tim's mother was already gone, gone and cried for and slid into the back of his life, into his memories. His feelings for whatever was in the coffin at the service were fleeting and remote, like movement that you catch out of the corner of your eye in the woods that you know was a bird or an animal and wish you could have seen but didn't, and can't regret long since you weren't sure what it was anyway. His feelings for her were like that and wouldn't linger, not in the mind of a nine-year-old boy.
"Let's go back out," Tim suggested later. He was restless in the stuffy house filled too full with people.
Christine didn't mind the warmth, the lit room and the calm chatter, shook her head slowly and stayed put in her chair. "It's getting dark. I don't like the dark," she said firmly.
"My daddy's got a rifle. We could get it."
"You don't know how to shoot a rifle."
"Do so," he lied. "Come on."
"Is he even your daddy anymore?" she hissed, trying to keep him inside.
"Sure he is," Tim answered, a bit of flint to the edges of his tone. It felt something like a dare, the way she said it, and it moved him to be reckless.
She hesitated when he pushed back his chair, but he was up and already putting on his boots and jacket and she caught some of his adventurous energy and followed. They slipped out the back and Tim led her on his secret path through the forest to his front yard. He knew where the rifle was and he knew where the box of ammunition was and he figured it couldn't be too hard to put the two of them together. The idea thrilled him and scared him and he liked both feelings. But the feelings that crept under his jacket as they got close to his house, those feelings he didn't like, those feelings crawled in under his skin when he heard the laughter from the men smoking and drinking on the porch, the laughter jabbing and slicing into the night air, those feelings sank down into the pit of his stomach and turned the cake sour, those feelings swallowed whole the other feelings, the thrill and excitement, and stopped him cold on the edge of the opening to the yard. Christine had stopped before that even but Tim had crouched and inched forward enough to watch, uncertain now, dreading, confused. This wasn't fun anymore. Finally, Christine tiptoed closer, painfully quiet though she could never be heard over the sharp-edged laughter. She reached out and took hold of his jacket and pulled him back.
"I want to go home now."
"Fine, if that's what you want," he conceded, a whisper with a weak sneering worked in. He led her back.
But the next time Tim and Christine explored in the woods, he was ready. They went first to Tim's house, looking anxiously in the yard for the car then sneaking up and onto the porch, hesitant, and on in through the front door. He shimmied the closet walls and pulled down the rifle, collected the box of ammunition from the drawer and the two friends ran, breathless, out the back and into the woods until they were out of sight of the property. Tim sat and loaded the old rifle, fumbling it a few times, dropping a round in the leaves, but carrying on, determined. He had asked, shy and polite, to be included on Mr. Nickell's spring hunting weekend, watched every action with the rifle, remembering. He listened gravely to all the safety warnings, nodded when he should, got a turn to shoot, and now he was ready.
At first he couldn't hit a boulder at twenty yards but he fired that rifle until it was dark and he and Christine felt like they'd gotten away with something alright. And it was fully spring now, too, and the world added its excitement to theirs and it seemed even better and in his child's mind Tim had done fair play, he'd stolen something from his father, tit-for-tat, though not even-steven, not by a mile.
Frank thankfully wasn't there when they stumbled out of the woods later, hungry for dinner. Christine ran off down the road toward home, feet kicking up high behind her as she put on speed to put distance between herself and trouble. Tim snuck the rifle back into the house and shimmied up the walls of the closet and laid it reverently on the shelf. He stood still in his parents' bedroom after looking around for something else to sneak away with. It was messier than he remembered it and it smelled different now. He walked into the front room and it too smelled different, more tobacco and beer. He wandered from the couch to the table to the TV dragging his fingers along dusty surfaces, picking up items and looking at them like they were new. Everything was exactly the same but it was not the home he remembered. He finished his tour in his bedroom. He started when he heard a car on the road, froze a moment in panic, then grabbed the first item he could find that was small enough to carry and sprinted for the smell of someone else's home cooking and his bed on the couch.
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