Winter's Bone

19

THE NEEDED skill was silence. Along the dangle of knotted branches gray squirrels crouched utterly still as the day roused. They were alarmed by every sound but not long alarmed by any. The dawn air held the cold of night but there was no breeze and squirrels soon lost their fear of the new day and moved out along the branches. Easy meat for the table with naught but silence and a small bullet required.

Ree and the boys sat with their backs propped against a large fallen oak, butts on gathered leaves, boots in thin patches of snow. Trees were yet in shadow down low but fresh sunlight warmed the upper reaches. Ree noted a squirrel standing upright on a high sunny branch and slowly raised the rifle and popped a shot. The squirrel squeaked mortally and spun a loop on the branch, hind claws scraping at bark for a final grip before falling limp to ground. Harold budged forward to retrieve the squirrel but Ree held him back. She shook her head and whispered, “Leave him lay. They all run into their holes hearin’ that shot, but if you stay still’n quiet they’ll come right back out in a few minutes. We want two more.”

She passed the rifle to Sonny, and they leaned back to wait. The boys had red noses and Ree told them with gestures not to sniffle their snot but to let it build full, then remove it with one quick snort. Sonny saw a squirrel lying along a thick branch but fired too low and splattered bark chips. He frowned and passed the rifle to Harold. The sun rose and tree shadows began stretching wide across the open spaces. Harold’s shot did not hit squirrel or tree, a wasted bullet sent whirring into the distance. Ree pegged another and Harold winced as the squirrel fell squeaking and clawing feebly at the air. This one bounced off several branches and landed on a log. With his next shot Sonny hit his target in the hind parts and the squirrel thudded to ground and started to scramble awkwardly in the snow and winter brambles.

Ree nudged Harold. “You can chase after that one. They got claws’n teeth, you know, so wear gloves to grab ’em.”

“He’s still alive!”

“Notch his head ’tween two fingers’n pull—like with a chicken.”

“He’s callin’ for his momma!”

Sonny stood and shook feeling into his legs, then slipped on his yellow leather gloves and walked toward the maimed squirrel thrashing about in snow spotting with blood.

“I’ll do it—he’s mine, anyhow.”

The squirrel huffed after breath and squeaked things defiant or pitiful or both. Sonny hunkered and dropped a hand over the squirrel’s little head and jerked it beyond connection with the body though the skull remained inside the fur. He watched the chest sink a last time, then gathered the others and carried them all by their tails.

Ree said, “There’s a way to make a stringer for these things if you get a big bunch. These bones here, behind this thing like an ankle? You can poke a hole there between the bones and run a stringer through like with fish, but we don’t need a stringer today. Not for this amount.”

Harold said, “Let me carry one.”

The sun was taller though light had not yet broken through to the ground. The path was narrow and iced on the north slope. These rough acres were Bromont acres and they’d never been razed for timber, so the biggest old trees in the area stood on this ground. Magically fat and towering oak trees with limbs grown into pleasingly akimbo swirls were common. Hickory, sycamore, and all the rest prospered as well. The last stretch of native pine in the county grew up the way, and all the old-growth timber was much coveted by sneaking men with saws. If sold, the timber could fetch a fair pile of dollars, probably, but it was understood by the first Bromont and passed down to the rest that the true price of such a sale would be the ruination of home, and despite lean years of hardship no generation yet wanted to be the one who wrought that upon the family land. Grandad Bromont had famously chased timber-snakers away at gunpoint many, many times, and though Dad had never been eager to wave his gun about in defense of trees, he’d loaded up and done it whenever required.

Sonny said, “Look—I can stick my little finger down inside the hole. It sticks down purty deep, too.”

“Don’t you go lickin’ that finger, now.”

“I think I feel the bullet.”

They crested the slope, breakfast held swinging by the tail, and started toward the house below. Smoke drifted from the stack. Across the creek a cussing Milton was trying to start a cold balky truck while another Milton banged on the motor with a wrench. Ree kept her eyes on her side of the creek and led the boys down the curving damp trail to the rear of the house.

Harold said, “Ree, are these for fryin’ or for stewin’?”

“Which way do you like best?”

Both boys said, “Fried!”

“Okey-doke. Fried, then. With biscuits, maybe, if we got the makin’s, and spang dripped on top, too. But, first thing is, we got to clean ’em. Sonny, you fetch the skinnin’ board. I think it’s still leanin’ on the side of the shed back there. Harold, you go for the knife—you know which one I want.”

“The one I ain’t s’posed to never touch.”

“Bring it to me.”

The skinning board was a weathered barn slat scored with a snarl of cuts and stained by various bloods. Sonny laid the board at Ree’s feet and she dropped one squirrel onto the wood and set the others to the side. When Harold returned with the knife, Gail came with him and stood on the porch, sipping coffee.

Ree said, “Hey, Sweet Pea, how’d you sleep?”

“Good as ever.”

Sonny nudged Ree with his elbow, said, “Show me how, huh?”

“I’ll show the both of you—Harold, you stay close.”

She stretched the squirrel lengthwise and drove the blade in at the neck.

“Now, these are harder’n rabbits but still not too hard, really. Think like you’re cuttin’ the squirrel a suit, only you’re cuttin’ the suit off of ’em, not for ’em to put on. Open ’em at the neck, here, cut the wrists free like so and slit the arms, cut the ankles free like so and slit the legs, then split ’em like this down the middle and bring all the cuts together. Their skin sticks to ’em more than rabbits, so you got to pull at it, and help it along by easin’ the blade between the fur and the meat. Harold, put your hand in there’n yank out them guts.”

“I ain’t touchin’ guts!”

“Don’t be scared—the thing’s dead. Nothin’ to be scared of.”

Harold backed slowly toward Gail and onto the porch.

“I ain’t scared to do it, I just don’t want to do it.”

Sonny crouched to the skinning board and shoved his fist inside the squirrel and pulled the guts onto the wood. He scrunched his face and shook his head. The guts made a somber pile of deep reds and pale reds, browns, and blacks. He looked at the guts, then at Harold. He said, “It ain’t no worse’n cleanin’ up puke or somethin’. You should do the next one.”

“But cleanin’ up puke always makes me puke.”

Ree was watchful over Sonny as he split the next squirrel open. She said, “You got you a whole bunch of stuff you’re goin’ to have to get over bein’ scared of, boy.”

Gail said, “Harold, you got the sand for this, ain’t you?” She stroked his dark hair and when his eyes met hers she bent to kiss his cheek. He blushed, leaned his head into her middle, and threw an arm around her waist. “I’ve always known you to be such a brave little rascal.”

“You can’t always leave all the ugly stuff to Sonny, you know. That ain’t right.”

“I don’t mind—he’s my only brother.”

“I mind. Harold, get your butt down here. You don’t wanna make me run after you. You truly don’t. Get down here now’n squat beside me. Close your eyes if you want, but get your goddam fingers in there’n yank out them guts.”

Harold did not move and Ree stood to grab him by a wrist. She pulled him down the porch steps to the skinning board. He crouched on his knees with his eyes held shut and she guided his hand inside the squirrel. He made the sort of face that generally breaks into tears, but squeezed with his hand and pulled and pulled until the guts lay on the board. He stood then, calmly looked at his hand, then at the guts. He said, “That really ain’t no biggie, is it? His insides sure was good’n warm on my fingers.”

Gail said, “Look at Harold! Look who’s still the brave, brave little rascal I always thought he was.”

Harold seemed embarrassed but pleased and stood over the gut piles staring down. “We don’t never eat those parts, anyhow, do we?”

“Nope.”

Sonny and Harold rushed together beaming then and slapped their bloody hands at each other. They stood still giggling for a moment and carefully rolled red fingers across each other’s cheeks to make spotty war paint stripes. They laughed and hopped about the snow-caked yard, swatting away with bloody hands while Ree tossed the remaining squirrel onto the skinning board and bent to cut the suit.