Bent Road

Chapter 14

Daniel exhales hot breath into his cupped hands. Even through the old green sleeping bag that Ian brought up from his basement, the wooden floor is cold. The Bucher house doesn’t have a heater, only a parlor stove in the main room off the kitchen where Ian’s two older brothers are sleeping. In Daniel’s house, they have a radiator, the same radiator that cooked up Mrs. Murray. Mama says that never happened, but every time it clicks on, he thinks he can smell roasted skin.

Watching the Bucher brothers through the opened bedroom door, Daniel wonders if they are the lookouts for Jack Mayer. He pulls his knees to his chest and scoots farther down into the sleeping bag that smells like someone peed in it. Ian had said the cats did it, but Ian’s brothers laughed like Ian was the one who did the peeing. Next to Daniel, Ian is sleeping, and by the dual snoring coming from the bed in the corner, so are the two brothers who share Ian’s room. Daniel breathes through his mouth so he can’t smell the sleeping bag and covers his ears so he won’t hear Jack Mayer climb through the kitchen window to sneak off with Mrs. Bucher’s leftover brisket and mashed potatoes.

By morning, the house is warmer. The Buchers may not have radiators in every room, but they have enough people in their family to warm up the place quickly. Daniel pulls on a gray sweatshirt and the wool socks Mama packed for him and follows Ian into the kitchen. It smells like his kitchen, except for the pee smell that is stuck to him. Coffee bubbles up, bacon pops on the stove and dish soap foams in a sink of hot water. Daniel presses down on his hair and straightens his sleeves.

“Good morning, sir,” he says when Mr. Bucher nods in his direction.

Ian nudges Daniel and muffles a laugh. “Something quick for us, Ma,” he says, walking on one flat foot and one tiptoe. Since he got his new boots, he walks that way whenever he doesn’t have them on, probably so he can forget about being crooked.

“Yeah, Ma,” one of the older brothers says. He scoops a handful of potato peels out of the sink and tosses them in an old coffee can. “Daniel’s going to show us all what a great shot he is. Okay we use your.22, Pa?”

Mr. Bucher nods over his coffee cup.

One of the brothers, the biggest, and the only one wearing a hat, turns in his seat. Mrs. Bucher doesn’t seem like the type of mother who would allow hats at the table. Except when the man turns, it isn’t a Bucher brother.

“Morning there, Dan.”

Uncle Ray raises his cup and tips his hat.

Celia pretends to sleep as Arthur slips out of bed. She knows they’ll be late to church if they don’t get a move on, because the sun is high enough in the sky to fill their bedroom with light. Once Arthur has left the room, Celia pulls the blankets to her chin and tucks them under her shoulders. The front door opens, closes, and opens again and Arthur stomps his heavy boots. He only uses the front door when he is gathering wood for the fireplace from along the side of the house. When the night temperatures dip so low, the radiator can’t keep up, but Arthur will have a fine fire going in no time. Newspapers crackle as he twists them into kindling and, after a few minutes, the sweet, rich smell of a newly started fire drifts into the bedroom. The house will warm quickly, but Celia wonders if even then she’ll want to get up.

She pushed Arthur away last night, gently, but firmly, and this morning, she pretended sleep. She should tell him but won’t because it’ll only make things worse. She can’t tell him how Ray looked at her out there on the porch the other night, how she can see what Ray is thinking and that it makes her ashamed. Or maybe Arthur would think her silly, or worse yet, selfish for thinking of herself instead of Ruth. Maybe she is silly and even selfish, too. Whatever this feeling is, shame or guilt, it’ll pass. No, she can’t tell Arthur, because if she really made him understand, if she made him appreciate that in the privacy of a single glance, a man can tell a woman that he is coming for her, he’d kill Ray. Just like that. He’d kill him.

“Morning, sir,” Daniel says.

Uncle Ray looks at Mr. Bucher with his good brown eye, while the bad eye seems stuck on Daniel. He laughs and says, “Would you look at the manners on my nephew?” Then he stands and gives Daniel a solid pat on the back. “Thank you for the hot wake-me-up, Ida. Real kind of you.” Nodding to Mr. Bucher, he says, “Monday morning, then?”

Mr. Bucher stands and shakes the hand Uncle Ray has held out to him.

“Are you off so soon, Ray?” Mrs. Bucher says, poking her bacon with one hand and balancing her new baby on her hip with the other. “Bacon’s almost done.”

Uncle Ray holds up a hand and shakes his head. “No, thank you all the same. I’ll leave you to your family, Ida.”

“Will we be seeing you at church this morning?” Bouncing the baby so she won’t fuss, Mrs. Bucher spears the fatty end of one piece of bacon with her fork, flips it and lays it back in the grease.

“Well, how about that. Today is Sunday, after all.” Uncle Ray says it as if Sunday snuck up on him. “I guess I’ll get along and put on something decent.”

“We’ll all be glad to have you back,” Mrs. Bucher says.

Uncle Ray gives Daniel another pat on the shoulder. On the last pat, he holds on. “Nice manners. Real nice.”

Mr. Bucher walks Uncle Ray outside and waits there until a truck engine fires up before walking back into the kitchen. Mrs. Bucher gives him a nod, or maybe she is taking a deep breath and they both turn to Daniel.

“Ray’s going to be working with your father and me,” Mr. Bucher says.

The clatter of silverware stops and chewing mouths go quiet. The brothers sitting around the table and the one scooping potato peels and the one poking through the cabinets and Ian pause to listen.

“Down at the county. Driving a grader, I suppose. Your pa called last night. Asked me this favor. Said he’d be sending Ray over this morning.”

Mr. Bucher glances over at Mrs. Bucher again.

“Your pa’s a smart man, Dan. Keeping that snake where he can see him.” Mr. Bucher takes another sip of coffee. “Got a warmer-upper for me?” he says, holding his cup out for Mrs. Bucher to fill. “You understand that, Dan?”

“Yes, sir. A snake. I understand, sir.”

After eating two biscuits dipped in maple syrup, something Mama would never let him do, Daniel follows Ian and four of his brothers outside. His gut hurts, maybe because Mrs. Bucher’s biscuits were soggy in the middle, or maybe because he can still feel Uncle Ray’s hand squeezing his arm, or maybe because he isn’t as good a shot as Ian says he is. Before they left the kitchen, Mrs. Bucher said they had only a half hour because everyone needed to wash up before church. She said the whole mess of them was a sorry sight, so a half hour and no more. Daniel pulls his coat closed and, slapping his leather gloves together, thinks that if the older boys go first there won’t be time for him. Mrs. Bucher will call them inside and Daniel will shrug and say, “Maybe next time.” Walking toward the barn, four Bucher brothers leading the way, Daniel wishes he had never seen Uncle Ray and that Ian hadn’t told his brothers that Daniel is such a great shot-a good shot maybe, good for a city kid, but great means better than everyone else, better than every other brother.

“Who goes first?” Daniel whispers to Ian.

One of the brothers, the smallest, walks ahead of the group and lines up three cans on the top rung of the wooden fence that runs between the house and the barn. The wind blows down one of the cans. He kicks it aside, slaps his bare hands on his thighs and shouts, “All ready. Fire it up.”

Ian nudges Daniel forward.

“Me?” Daniel says. “You want me to go first?”

“Sure,” one of the brothers says.

The two oldest brothers didn’t bother following everyone outside. Instead, they are watching from the porch. “Hurry up with it, already,” one of them shouts.

“Here,” says the brother who’s two years ahead of Daniel in school. He hands Daniel a rifle. “You use a.22, right? This is a good one. Got a nice straight sight.”

“Yeah, Daniel,” Ian says. “Show them. Show them what a great shot you are.”

Pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the ground, Daniel takes the rifle. The morning air is cold and wet, making his neck and arms stiff. He squints into the sun rising above the bank of trees on the east side of the house, shakes out his hands and bends and straightens his fingers. “Sure, I’ll go first,” he says. “Those cans over there?”

“Yeah,” says Ian. “Get them both.”

Daniel brings the rifle up to his shoulder, rests his cheek against the cold wood, and with one eye closed, his breath held tight in his lungs, his feet square under his shoulders, he fires, flips the bolt action and fires again. Both cans fly off the railing.

“Got them,” Ian shouts.

“Na,” says the youngest brother and the one with the loudest mouth. “The wind knocked them off.”

“That wasn’t the wind,” Ian says. “Daniel got them both. Clean shots.”

“Na, just the wind,” another brother says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Daniel says, flips on the safety and hands the rifle back to the brother who gave it to him.

“It was the wind,” a brother shouts from the porch.

“I’ll show you,” Ian says, limping toward the spot where the two cans landed.

A few of the brothers laugh and mimic Ian’s awkward gait, while the brother holding the rifle takes aim like he’s going to shoot Ian.

“Told you,” Ian shouts, holding up the cans. “Clean shots both.”

The brother holding the rifle lowers it. “Okay,” he says. “So maybe you are a good shot.”

Ian limps back to Daniel’s side. “Told you so.”

The same brother says, “Maybe good enough to go hunting with us.”

All of the brothers nod, including Ian.

“Pheasant. They’re open season right now,” the brother says. “So are quail. Or you might get yourself a prairie chicken.”

“Sure,” Daniel says, remembering the prairie dog’s head that he blew off and the body he left behind. “I mean, not today, because it’s church.”

“Na, next time you come over. In a few weeks maybe,” the same brother says. “What do you think, Ian? Maybe when we get a warm snap, so you’re not so stiff.”

“I’m not stiff. I’ll go anytime.”

The brother laughs. “Yeah, well, in a few weeks. Next time you’re over. We’ll all go hunting. Then we’ll see what a great shot you are.”

“Yeah, a few weeks,” Daniel says. He looks at Ian and tries to remember if he is more crooked since it got so cold. “Anytime.”