Saving Shiloh (3 page)

“You get the other two done, you call me,” I say, and go
back inside. Why Judd Travers would bring over three dead squirrels as a present to my ma, I don't have a clue. But the thing is, Dad's a hunter, too, so I got to be real careful what I say. When he comes back in, he's cut off the heads, the back feet, and the tails of those squirrels, he's gutted them, and now we got to soak them. I fill a pan with water.

It's later, after Ma's put Becky to bed and is reading a story to Dara Lynn, that Dad and me cut up the squirrel meat. I feel like a murderer.

“I don't think I want any of this after it's cooked,” I say finally.

“Nobody's going to make you eat it,” says Dad.

“Bet I could be a vegetarian,” I say. “I could live just fine on corn and beans and potatoes.”

“For about a week, maybe,” Dad tells me. “You'd be first to complain.”

“Would not!” I say. “I just can't see going hunting. I can't see how you can shoot a deer or a rabbit or anything.” I sure am getting smart in the mouth, I know that.

Dad's voice has an edge to it. “You like fried chicken, don't you? Like a good piece of pot roast now and then?”

I think about all I'd have to give up if I gave up meat. Forgot about fried chicken.

“Judd was right about one thing,” Dad goes on. “Just because we didn't kill the meat we get from the store don't mean it died a natural death. The hamburger you eat was once a steer, don't forget. Somebody had to raise that steer, send it to market, and someone else had to slaughter it—just so's you could have a hamburger.”

I'd have to give up hamburgers, too? I'm quiet a long time trying to figure things out. “Well, if I wanted to be a vegetarian, could I?”

Dad thinks on this awhile as he drops the meat in a pot of water he's got boiling on the back of the stove. “Suppose you could. But of course you'd have to get rid of that cowboy hat I bought you at the rodeo. Your belt, too.”

“Why?” I say.

“They're leather; it's only fair. You don't want animals killed for their meat, then I figure you don't want 'em killed for their hide, either. And you know those boots you had your eye on over in Middlebourne? You can forget those, too. Same as that vest you got last year at Christmas, the suede one with the fringe around the bottom.”

Man oh man, life is more complicated than I thought. One decision after another, and no matter which way you lean, there's an argument against it. What it comes down to is that I like to eat meat if I don't have to know how the animal died. And I sure don't want to give up my rodeo hat.

“Well, one thing I know,” I tell my dad as we set to work cutting up the potatoes and carrots, “I don't want Shiloh turned into a hunting dog.”

Dad don't answer right off, but I can tell by the way he's chopping that I struck a nerve. “He was already a hunting dog before you got him,” he says. “I was hoping I could take him coon hunting with me some night.”

“He's not going to be no hunting dog!” I say louder.

“Well, he belongs to you, Marty. You got the right to say no, I guess.” And then, after we put the vegetables in the fridge, waiting to go in the pot when the meat's tender, Dad says, “Tomorrow, I want you to take some of this stew over to Judd, and thank him for the squirrels.”

I figure this is my punishment, and maybe I had it coming.

W
hen I get up next morning, Ma's got this big waffle sittin' on my plate, a sausage alongside it, little pools of yellow margarine melting in the squares. Syrup's hot, too.

Still, a waffle can't make up for the fact that on a day off school, wind blowin' like crazy, I got to hike over to Judd's place and give him the remains of what I wish he hadn't shot in the first place.

To make things worse, Dara Lynn's sittin' across from me in her Minnie Mouse pajamas and, knowin' I got to go to Judd's, crows, “I'm not gonna go outside alllll day! I'm just gonna sit in this warm house and play with my paper dolls.” And when that don't get a rise out of me, she adds,
“Alllll
day! I don't have to go nowhere.”

I asked Ma once if Dara Lynn had been born into our family by accident or on purpose, and she said that wasn't the kind of question you should ask about anyone.
Accident, I'm thinkin', looking at her now. Nobody'd have a daughter like that on purpose.

Shiloh starts dancin' around when I put on my jacket and cap. He thinks we're going to take a run down to Doc Murphy's or somethin', but I know that as soon as I turn right at the end of the lane, he'll start to whine and go back. Surprises me, though. This time he goes halfway across the bridge before he stops. I finish the rest of the trip alone.

I'm thinkin' how when a man wrecks his truck and his leg both, and almost loses his job—his life, even—he's sunk about as low as he can get. Dad says either he'll hate himself so much he'll decide to change, or he'll hate the way other folks feel about him, and turn that hating onto them. Sure hope he don't turn his hating onto me.

I'm passing by the house of one of Judd's neighbors, the family that took two of his dogs to care for till Judd's better. I see the smaller one at their window now, barkin' at me, but his tail's wagging. Never saw any of Judd's dogs wag their tails before.

I get to Judd's and have to knock three times before he comes to the door, and then I see I woke him up.

“What you doin' out this early?” he asks, hair hangin' down over his face, his pants pulled on over a pair of boxer shorts bunched up above his waistband.

“Dad wanted me to bring over this squirrel stew,” I tell him, handing him the jar. “Thought you ought to have a share of it.”

That pleases him then—as much as you can please a man you just woke up. “Can get some more squirrels where those come from—pick 'em right off the tree,” he says, and laughs.

It's then I know this is one big mistake.

“Well,” I say, “actually, we don't eat all that much meat. But Ma didn't want the stew to go to waste.” Trying to be polite and honest at the same time is hard work.

Judd quits smilin'. “She
didn't
like it then, so you're giving it to me?”

Uh-oh.
“No! She likes it fine. Just wanted you to have some.” Right this minute I am wondering what the difference is between a fib and a lie. Last summer, when Shiloh run away from Judd and come to me, and I hid him up in our woods, I told Judd Travers I hadn't seen his dog. Didn't tell my folks I had Shiloh, neither, and they claim I lied. What am I doing now? I'd like to know. Ma don't appreciate those dead squirrels any more than I do. If I stand here and tell Judd Travers the naked truth, though, I'll get my britches warmed pretty quick when I get home, you can bet.

“Well, you tell your ma that anytime she wants some more, let me know. I can't hunt nothing else, I can at least shoot squirrel.”

“I'll tell her,” I say. And I head back home.

There's somethin' good waiting for me when I get there. Ma says David Howard called and wants to know can I spend the day at his place. His ma will be picking me up about eleven.

“Ya-hoo!” I say, throwing my jacket in the air, and Shiloh dances around, too; if there's any happiness going on, he's a part of it.

“Change your shirt and comb your hair,” says Ma.

I go into the girls' bedroom where I got a bureau in the corner, all my clothes in it. I get out a sweatshirt with
BLACKWATER FALLS
on it, and put it on.

Dara Lynn's still in her pajamas—she and Becky. Got their paper dolls spread all over the bed.

“Where
you
goin'?” Dara Lynn asks.

“Over to David's,” I say. And then, not even looking at her, “Can't wait to have lunch at David Howard's: chicken salad with pineapple in it, pickles and potato chips, and a big old fudge brownie covered with coffee ice cream and chocolate sauce.” Truth is, I don't know what we're havin' for lunch, but figure that's close.

Now I done it. Dara Lynn slides off the bed and goes hollerin' out to the kitchen to ask why don't we never have fudge brownies and chocolate sauce, and I get away just in time.

David's in the car with his mother when they pull in. For the second time that day, Shiloh thinks he's going somewhere, but don't even get out of the house. I give him a hug and tell him we'll have a run when I get home, and then I slide in the backseat beside David. Since we usually play up in David's room, his ma don't appreciate a dog runnin' around inside the house.

“How was Thanksgiving, Marty?” she asks. Mrs. Howard's got blond hair, and she's wearin' a heavy white sweater. She teaches high school. David's dad works for the
Tyler Star-News.

“Yeah,” says David. “How was dinner with Judd?”

“Nothing special,” I say. “It was okay.”

“Was he drunk?”

“ 'Course not, but he's still banged up pretty bad. He'll be wearing that cast another month, at least.”

“Do you see any change in him, Marty?” asks Mrs. Howard, and I can tell by her voice she don't expect much.

“Not a lot, but Dad says he's tryin',” I answer.

David and me each tell what all we ate on Thanksgiving—how many rolls and helpings of stuffing, and after
the car goes back down the winding road, through Little, and past the post office in Friendly, we get to David's house, which is two stories high (four, counting the attic and basement), and has a porch that wraps around three sides of it.

David whispers he has a secret but won't tell me till we're in his room, so while his mom gets lunch, we go upstairs. David's room has a map of the universe on one wall and a globe on his bookcase. Except for the bunk beds, David Howard's bedroom looks like a school. Got his own desk and chair, bulletin board, and encyclopedias.

As soon as we're alone, he closes the door. “Guess what? You know that fight Judd Travers was in, back before his accident?”

“Yeah?” I say. “With the guy from Bens Run?”

“Yes,” says David. “Well, the man's missing. It's going to be in the newspaper this week.”

“So?” I say. “What's Judd got to do with it? He's been laid up for weeks now with that broken leg.”

David's eyes gleam like two small penlights. “The man's been missing since
before
Judd's accident. His family just now reported it. What do you bet Judd killed him?”

“
What?
”

“I think Judd was trying to wreck the evidence along with his truck.”

“Go on!” I say. “And maybe kill himself in the bargain? You're nuts!”

“Marty, we've got to check it out! I'll bet we'd find blood on the seat or something.” David gets excited about somethin', he almost shoots off sparks.

“If there's blood on the seat, it's Judd's,” I tell him.

David shakes his head. “Here's how I figure: Judd and the man from Bens Run had another fight, and Judd kills
him. Maybe he didn't mean to, but he did. Throws the body into the cab of his pickup to hide it, then buries it and tries to rig up an accident so any blood in the truck will look like his own.”

David's imagination has got us in trouble before, and I know what would happen if Judd catches us snooping around his truck.

“Nope,” I say. “Whelan's Garage fixed that truck up for him after the accident. Cleaned the inside and everything. If there was any evidence, it's long gone. Besides, he wouldn't stuff a body in the cab. He'd put it in the back.”

David sighs. He don't like to give up a good idea. “Judd could've buried that body down by the creek!” he says.

“Well, the fella from Bens Run must not have been too popular if nobody reported him missing for a month!” I say.

“His family thought he'd gone to visit a cousin in Cincinnati. That's why they didn't report him missing before now,” David tells me.

Must be nice, I'm thinking, to have a reporter for a dad—learn all the news before it comes out in the paper.

“There's nothing to say we can't take a look around the bank where Judd's truck went down,” David goes on.

“I suppose we can do that,” I answer.

Mrs. Howard calls us to lunch then, and this time it's turkey sandwiches with turkey soup. I think I've seen enough turkey to last me awhile, but the real disappointment is there's leftover mince pie for dessert. Just about the time I'm wondering if she invited me to help eat up leftovers, though, David's mom says, “Now if you'd rather have chocolate chunk cookies, Marty, I've got those, too.”

“I'd rather have the cookies,” says David.

“Me, too,” I tell her.

She smiles and takes the pie away and comes back with a plate of homemade cookies and two bowls of mint chocolate-chip ice cream.

Only thing I don't like about being at David's house is I got to watch how I talk. Mrs. Howard don't—doesn't—correct me the way Miss Talbot does at school, but she'll repeat my words using the right ones, and then I know I made a mistake.

“Well, deer hunting season began last Monday,” she says as she removes a tea bag from her cup. “At least Judd Travers won't be out there shooting. I suppose your dad will go hunting this weekend?”

“Maybe,” I say. “He don't hunt as much as some folks.”

“He doesn't?” she says, and I know I got to say it over.

“No, ma'am, he doesn't,” I tell her. David grins.

Miss Talbot tells me I'm smart enough to be almost anything I want if I just work on my grammar, so I'm trying.

After lunch we fool around up in David's room. He's got this revolving light, and if you close all the shades and turn it on, it sends sparkles of light, like snowflakes, swirling over the walls and ceiling.