Chapter 7

7

August 2000

Josie was mortified at the scene between her brother and father and once back at the house, to distract Becky from her family drama, Josie suggested that they search for the missing dog.

Josie and Becky walked slowly up the dusty lane. The farm rested in a dip at the bottom of a valley and when they reached the top of the lane, they could see for miles. Fields of alfalfa, soybean, and corn were yellow and green patches in a never-ending quilt that blanketed the earth. Narrow gravel roads were gray seams and Burden Creek was a ragged tear through the fabric.

They took turns calling for Roscoe. Their voices were harsh, momentarily silencing the chirp of crickets and the high-pitched buzz of the grasshopper sparrow hiding in the butterfly milkweed and partridge pea. Josie was getting nervous. Roscoe never stayed away for this long. She had visions of him lying by the side of the road, struck by an unaware farmer in his truck or on his tractor.

"I wonder where Ethan is?" Becky asked, looking up and down the gravel road. Josie wondered the same thing. He should have been home by now.

"Who cares," Josie said, still miffed at him for nearly ruining the night. Becky shrugged.

Unhurriedly, they walked up and down dirt and gravel roads past the Cutters' new hog confinement operation, past the old Rasmussen farm all the way to Henley farm. The sun, matching their pace, was still a few hours from setting.

Describing the Henley property as a farm was being generous. The cropland was sold off long ago, and all that remained in the Henley name was a wind-scrubbed two-story farmhouse that stood on a hardscrabble yard along with dozens of rusted-out vehicles. A half-collapsed barn and several outbuildings were bursting with broken-down washing machines, farm equipment, and lawn mowers.

The girls approached a woman holding an unlit cigarette in one hand and a bucket in the other as she crossed the weedy yard.

Sixty-one-year-old June Henley, all tendons and sinew, wearing a housedress, flip-flops, and a pink, rolled brim cloche to cover her bald head, was a curiosity to the girls. Though most neighbors knew one another, to date, Josie had never actually met June nor her adult son, Jackson, who lived with her. Josie shyly introduced herself and Becky and explained how they were looking for a lost dog.

June relayed that they had stray dogs hanging around the yard all the time and they could walk through the property and take a look. "My son is tinkering about, so just stay away from the outbuildings."

The girls thanked her and began to explore the five-acre property. Filled with what looked like garbage to most, it was surprisingly organized. The mangled steel and rubber collections were sorted into long, weedy rows.

One row was dedicated to antique farm equipment—tractors, hay rakes, manure spreaders, and seed drills; one row to old pickup trucks; another row to stacks of old tires.

"Look at all this junk," Becky marveled. "What do they do with all of it?"

"Probably sell it," Josie shrugged. "My grandpa likes old stuff like this."

They called out for Roscoe but managed only to summon a mangy tabby cat and rouse a sleeping possum. The possum bared his sharp teeth at the girls causing the girls to squeal and clutch at each other.

Laughing nervously, the two watched as the possum scurried off into the brush with his long tail dragging in the dirt behind him.

The two girls parted ways briefly. Becky turned down the row that held all the antique farm equipment while Josie veered off behind the mountain of stacked tires.

Minutes later, the girls reunited at the end of the row. Josie looked back and saw a tall, thin man staring back at them. Uneasiness coiled in her stomach.

"Who's that?" Josie asked.

Becky shrugged. "I think it's that lady's son. He just wanted to know what we were doing."

"He looks creepy," Josie observed.

"He did smell kind of bad." Becky wrinkled her nose and the girls laughed.

Josie and Becky made their way back toward the Henley house. They waved goodbye to June Henley, who was sitting on her front porch steps. Josie looked over her shoulder to find the man still staring after them. She walked faster.

As they left the property, Josie noticed a wadded-up cloth in Becky's hand. "What's that?" she asked.

"Nothing," Becky said and dropped it to the ground. The girls made the two-mile walk back toward the Doyle house, stopping along the way at Burden Creek. They carefully picked their way down the steep bank to the edge of the water. Because of the lack of rain, Burden Creek was much lower than usual and the smell of dead fish was strong.

It did stink, but that was just part of living out in the country. The sweet scent of mown hay intermingled with cow manure. The clean, crisp smell of laundry just pulled from the line suddenly smothered by the sharp, acrid smell that came from the nearby hog confinement.

Josie and Becky walked along the bank, yelling for Roscoe and pausing to catch the small spotted brown frogs who croaked and hopped about in the shallow water. Becky giggled as the slimy creature squirmed in her hands.

It was nearing 8:00 p.m., and though the sun was finally sliding behind the trees, the temperature still hung in the mideighties, and the air was heavy with humidity. Mosquitoes buzzed around their ears and harassed them until they climbed back up to the bridge, wiping muddy hands on their shorts.

When the girls got to the top of the bank, there was a truck pulled off to the side of the road. Josie thought it was white but behind the glare of the setting sun, it could have been any light-colored truck.

"Who is it?" Becky whispered.

"I don't know, but I think I saw that same truck earlier today." Josie looked up and down the gravel road. It was empty. Through the grimy windows, she could see the shadow of a figure wearing a dark-colored jacket and a hat pulled down so low that it shielded his forehead and eyes. It was much too hot to be dressed that way.

For the first time, a ripple of fear coursed through her. "Let's go," Josie said, pulling on Becky's arm.

"Who is it?" Becky asked again. "Is it that creepy Cutter?"

"I don't think so, but I couldn't really tell," she said. "Come on, it's starting to get dark."

Behind them, the truck engine suddenly roared to life, and the girls screamed, grabbed hands, and started running, casting glances over their shoulders as their feet kicked up dust, leaving a gray cloud in their wake.

When Josie and Becky came running down the lane, Lynne was bringing in the laundry from the clothesline. Seeing the look of fear on their faces, she dropped the basket onto the grass and hurried toward them. "What is it?" she asked with concern. "What happened?"

"A man. In a truck," Josie said, trying to catch her breath. "Down the gravel road."

"Was he bothering you?" Lynne asked, taking in the girls' bright red, sweaty faces. "Are you okay?"

The girls nodded. "He was just sitting there, staring," Becky said.

"But he didn't say anything or do anything?" Lynne asked.

"No," Josie admitted, "but it was weird."

"It's probably nothing. Just one of the neighbors checking their crops," Lynne assured them. "Now come on inside and get something cold to drink."

They trooped into the kitchen and Lynne pulled a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. "You didn't happen to see Ethan while you were out there?" Lynne asked as she poured them each a glass. She was trying to be casual, but there was a lilt of worry in her voice.

"Not since earlier," Josie said, taking a big drink.

Lynne pressed her hands against the counter and craned her neck to look out the window above the sink. "That boy," she let out a weary breath. "Do you know what's been going on with him?" she asked, turning back to face Josie. Her eyes were troubled.

Josie shrugged.

"It's that jerk Cutter probably," Becky said and Josie kicked her beneath the table.

"Yeah," Lynne murmured.

"We're going to go upstairs," Josie said, taking her glass to the sink.

"I know you'll probably end up talking all night but don't stay up too late," Lynne reminded them. "We want to be on the road by six tomorrow."

"Okay. 'Night, Mom," Josie said, but Lynne stopped her by tugging gently on her ponytail. "Not so fast," she said. "Don't tell me you're too big to give me a hug and kiss good-night too, are you?"

Josie peeked over at Becky, who was waiting in the doorway, intently examining her fingernails. Looking back, Josie wished that she would have given her mother a long embrace. That she would have taken the time to remember the tickle of her mother's curtain of hair tumbling over her as she pulled Josie close. But she didn't. Josie gave her a quick hug and slipped away before her mother could kiss her forehead like she usually did each night.

"Good night, Dad," she hollered as they hurried past the living room and tromped up the stairs.

"G'night," he called groggily. Later, Josie would say she wished she would have taken the time to go to him, leaned into him as he lay back in his shabby recliner, felt his evening whiskers rasp against her face and said good-night.

The girls unfurled their sleeping bags and lay atop them. The heat pressed down on them like a thick quilt.

From below, there was canned laughter from the television and soft footfalls in the kitchen, then the rev of a truck and the crackle of tires on gravel. They talked about the fair, about the upcoming school year, about boys. Becky asked if Ethan had a girlfriend. Josie said he did, though this wasn't true. There had been trouble with a girl and no one since, but Becky didn't need to know that.

The conversation turned to music and movies and the box fan blew recycled air across their bodies. Words slowed and eyes grew heavy.

A slam of a door made Josie startle and Becky gave a frightened gasp.

A jumble of voices rose and fell.

"Where have you been?" William snapped. There was a muttered response and tromping on the stairs. "You don't get to just come and go as you please," William went on. "Especially carrying a shotgun around. Hand it over now."

"You made me leave the truck," Ethan shot back. "Like I'm going to leave it in there. Besides, we're stuck out in the middle of nowhere out here," Ethan yelled.

"I asked you where you were," William said tightly. There was silence then, and Josie imagined that her father and Ethan were staring each other down.

Ethan finally spoke. "I was at the pond, okay? Where else would I even go?"

"Nowhere for a very long time," William shot back.

"Like I go anywhere now," Ethan snapped. They were outside Josie's bedroom door now.

"Shhh," came Lynne's voice. "You'll wake the girls."

"Kara Turner's father called again," William said, lowering his voice, but it was impossible not to hear him.

Kara Turner was a girl that Ethan dated for a while. She was a pretty, quiet fifteen-year-old, but the romance didn't last long. Kara's father didn't like Ethan. Didn't like his attitude, didn't like the things he heard about the sixteen-year-old who kept calling, kept showing up at his door. But Ethan persisted. Making an appearance in the rare moments William allowed Ethan to run an errand into town. The girl's father called the house, telling them he wanted Ethan to stay away.

"You need to leave Kara alone, Ethan," Lynne said, her voice filled with weariness.

"It's none of your business," Ethan yelled. "Why can't you just leave me alone."

"We can't leave you alone. We can't," William said in exasperation. "This is serious. Stay away from her. Now the Turners are getting hang-up calls."

"That's not me," Ethan insisted.

"Someone is doing it, and the Turners think it's you," William shot back. "They're threatening to call the police."

"That's bullshit," Ethan hissed. "And you know it."

"What I know is you have had a serious lack of judgment lately," Lynne said. "Kara, driving on the baseball field..."

"That was Cutter," Ethan interrupted. "I wasn't even driving."

"And until you can show me you've grown up," William continued, "there are going to be some changes around here. Give me the gun."

"What? You think I'm going to shoot someone?" Ethan scoffed. "It's my gun. Grandpa gave it to me," Ethan countered.

"That's not even funny," Lynne said. "Don't joke about things like that."

"When you can show me that you can handle it responsibly, I'll give it back to you. Until then, it's mine."

"No," Ethan said defiantly.

"Give it to me," William said, and there was the rustle of a struggle.

"Get off," Ethan snarled, and the picture above Josie's bed shook with the impact of bodies striking the wall. "Don't touch me," Ethan said, breathing heavily. "It's my gun." There was the slam of a door. The quiet click of another. The hushed voices of William and Lynne arguing.

"I'm sorry," Josie whispered.

"That's okay," Becky said. "My parents fight too."

Outside the window, fireflies blinked and cicadas roared. She heard her mother calling for Roscoe. Josie thought of Ethan in his bedroom, seething with anger. She wondered what he had been up to all evening, why he had been so secretive as of late. What did her brother have to hide?