The Body of Martin Aguilera

Chapter Eighteen

Lewis didn’t get much sleep. He spent most of the night out of the bed, sitting in the chair by the window. He watched the horses standing, finally at ease. His head hurt. His muscles ached. He was dead tired, but he couldn’t sleep. Maggie watched him much of the time from the bed. She asked him once to come to bed, but he didn’t answer.

Maggie came up behind Lewis in the chair and rubbed his neck. “I love you, Lewis.”

He reached up and took her hands, held them under his chin. “You must. I love you, too.”

Morning came and Lewis decided that Maggie should drive Laura to the airport in Albuquerque. He didn’t think whoever it was that had tried to run him off the road would look for Maggie’s truck. The small truck also had bucket seats, which meant that only two could ride and he didn’t want to leave Maggie alone. He did wonder if he was just avoiding the awkward time with Laura and decided that of course he was, but that didn’t make the other considerations less real.

Maggie was behind the wheel. Laura was standing at the open car door, saying goodbye to Lewis.

He got down on a knee. “You call me when you get there, okay?”

She nodded.

“Are you all right?”

She hugged him tightly about the neck and he hugged back. He wanted to never let go.

“I love you so much,” he said.

“I love you, Papa.”

Lewis fought back tears and held her in front of him. “I hope you understand. We’ll see each other soon. You can count on that. Okay, young lady, you have a plane to catch. In you go.” He helped her into the truck, closed her door and walked to Maggie’s side. “You take it easy.”

“Speed limit all the way.”

“On the way back, too,” he said.

She nodded.

He leaned in and kissed her. He stepped back and waved as they drove off.

He went back into the house and took his shotgun out of the back of the closet. It’s come to this, he thought. He hoped he was over-reacting. He looked at the clock. Seven-thirty. That meant it was nine-thirty in the east. He picked up the phone and called a friend at Bennington.

“Hello, Mark, this is Lewis…I’m fine…How about you?…And Sylvia…Good, good…Listen, I was calling to see if you’d do me a favor…Shouldn’t be too much trouble. Would you check with the registrar and find out if a Donna Peabody is enrolled…That’s right, Donna Peabody…And you’ll call me back collect, okay?…That’s all. Thanks.” Lewis hung up and cleaned his gun.

An hour later, Lewis’ friend Mark called. Lewis learned that there was no Donna Peabody enrolled at Bennington.

Peabody. It was after Lewis had dropped him off that the van showed up. And that wound in the mare’s frog. Peabody could have cut her with his knife. After all, Lewis hadn’t seen the horse limping before.

Lewis took the shotgun and held it in his lap as he sat in the rocker in the living room. He looked around the room. Sitting armed in my own house, he thought. He never would have believed it. Who was Peabody? What did he want? Maybe he was just lying about his kid because she was a junkie or something and was ashamed of her. Maybe the mare really did pick up a stone. And then again, maybe Peabody didn’t want them going farther down into the canyon.

At noon, Maggie called to say that Laura had gotten on the plane.

“You’re coming home now?” Lewis asked.

“Yeah. Are you doing all right?”

“Yep. How was Laura?”

“Okay.” Maggie sounded unsure. “Her feelings were hurt, but I don’t think she knows what’s going on.”

“At least something’s working out right.”

“Do you need me to pick up anything on my way home?”

“Not that I can think of. Please, be careful. I’m fine, so don’t hurry. Don’t use me as an excuse to drive the way you normally do.”

“Funny man.”

“See you when you get here.”

“That’s one of those stupid things that people say,” Maggie said. “Of course you’ll see me when I get there.” She laughed. “Just giving you a sample of what you’re getting.”

“Bye.”

Lewis took the shotgun and went out into the yard. He pointed it at trees and at the shed and at his car. The thing felt heavier than he had ever remembered. He sat down on the chopping block and looked at the plateau below. When he was a boy he would go hunting with his father and uncle. He’d never liked the noise and after he got his first kill, a fat mallard, he always tried to miss. He could put up with the teasing about his eyes, but not with the dead animal, eyes open, looking back at him as his father held it high. But still he went. Even though given a choice, he went.

“Why do you keep going?” his wife had asked, for he continued to attend the rituals as an adult.

He didn’t have an answer for her. It was the killing, though. It was the killing that kept him going back out there. He couldn’t do it, but he wanted to see it.