Daniel Woodrell - Winter's Bone

“This baby’s my baby boy, Ned.”

“Is he? I have so many days I can’t picture.”

“Uh-huh, he is. You know it’s been quite a while since I seen you, Mom. How are you? How’re you doin’?”

“The same.”

“Still just the same?”

“Different kinds of same.”

“Well, your hair looks nice.”

Ree stood and tapped her boots against the stove, getting the fit right. She said, “Mom. Mom, we’ve got to run down to Reid’s Gap for a little bit. See somebody.”

Mom’s expression settled and she turned her head away from the baby, toward the television. Hounds in a huge pack were gathered on a damp brick street outside an ancient chapel being blessed for the hunt by a wan but wordy reverend while men in red coats sat lordly atop beautiful jostling horses waiting for the amen. She said, “Have fun.”

The night cold made flimsy ice on the steps. Gail carried Ned swinging and Ree held her by the arm going down to the truck. The truck was antique in age, with a long wobbly gearshift to the floor and a bench seat. The sitting spots were worn open to the hairy stuffing and poking wires. Gail laid Ned in the middle and Ree sat beside him. The engine kicked alive with a loud chuff and black puffs from the tailpipe scudded low across the snowy yard.

The moon was a blue dot glowing behind moody clouds.

Gail said, “Does Mom know what’s goin’ on?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you think you should tell her?”

“Huh-uh.”

“Why not?”

“It’d be too mean to tell her. This is just exactly the sort of shit she went crazy to get away from.”

“I guess she couldn’t help any, anyhow.”

“Nope. It’s on me.”

The truck bounced high along the rut road and tilted this way and that. The snow had been compacted by warmer hours and lay thin, but there were pits in the rock and dirt the truck had to be gentled over to avoid scraping bottom. There were scads of shallower potholes and spring floodwaters had cut creases in the dirt hubcap-deep. Ree held Ned’s carrier steady with her left hand. Gail said, “You-all’s road has got rough to where you about can’t call it a road no more.”

“You’ve been sayin’ that since third grade.”

“Well, it was true in the third grade and it’s done nothin’ but get truer since then.”

“We like it this way—it keeps tourists out.”

“That’s the same ol’ joke your dad told me the first time I ever rode in here.”

“I think he meant it, though.”

“I think he must’ve, ” Gail said. She squeaked the truck to a stop at the blacktop. “Which way is this place?”

“Go towards Dorta, then take that road there that heads south past Strawn Bottoms. You know the one, right? Then it’s just a little ways further across the line.”

“Oh. Now I’m thinkin’ maybe I have been there before. Is this the place where they got all the blueberries? The ones you pick yourself?”

“Yup. They got acres and acres of them berries. I never did do any pickin’ when I was down there, though.”

Ned gurgled and goo-gooed, opened his eyes slow as a school day and closed them at the same pace. He wore a little skullcap that tied under his chin and was wrapped fat with a sky blue blanket. The truck smelled of baby powder and drooled milk crusty on the blanket and stale butts in the ashtray. When headlights passed going the other way and Gail squinted against the light, her hand instinctively reached to protect the baby.

Gail said, “My daddy fell by yesterday, brought me some more of my clothes’n stuff, and I asked him if he knew where your dad might be. He wouldn’t really look at me when I asked, so I asked again, and all he said was, ‘Go nurse your boy.’”

“I know, Sweet Pea.”

“It gave me a flat bad feelin’ when he answered like that.”

“He’s probly right.”

Ree sat with one hand on the baby and her eyes on Gail. Passing cars lit her behind the wheel in quick stuttering glimpses, her wry curled lips, freckled bony cheeks, and those hurt brown eyes. She watched Gail’s hand move from steering wheel to gearshift as the road rolled up and down and around the dark country. She watched her hand reach toward Ned and touch his baby nose as they crossed the Twin Forks River on a skeletal iron bridge and could hear the cold water humming south.

Gail said, “This road here, ain’t it?”

“Yup.”

The first time Ree kissed a man it was not a man, but Gail acting as a man, and as the kissing progressed and Gail acting as a man pushed her backwards onto a blanket of pine needles in shade and slipped her tongue deep into Ree’s mouth, Ree found herself sucking on the wiggling tongue of a man in her mind, sucking that plunging tongue of the man in her mind until she tasted morning coffee and cigars and spit leaked from between her lips and down her chin. She opened her eyes then and smiled, and Gail yet acting the man roughed up her breasts with grabs and pinches, kissed her neck, murmuring, and Ree said, “Just like that! I want it to be just like that!” There came three seasons of giggling and practice, puckering readily anytime they were alone, each being the man and the woman, each on top and bottom, pushing for it with grunts or receiving it with sighs. The first time Ree kissed a boy who was not a girl his lips were soft and timid on hers, dry and unmoving, until finally she had to say it and did, “Tongue , honey, tongue,” and the boy she called honey turned away saying, “Yuck!”

There were five streets and two stop signs in Reid’s Gap. Snow was piled high in the parking lot of the elementary school and the Get’n Quik store was the only building with lights on. A field of crashed vehicles butted against the road through town, and these trophies for bad luck from many eras spread crumpled downhill beyond sight. Yard sale signs on sticks were stuck in the ground at corners. Flyers for Slim Ted’s Tuesday Square Dances at Ash Flat were tacked to telephone poles. Churches stood at both ends of town and a windowless senior center at the heart.

Ree said, “Her house is yellow, just off this road, here. It ain’t far, I don’t think. It’s a sort of pretty little place. Wait—turn in here.”

“I thought you said yellow.”

“She must’ve painted.”

April Dunahew had a rail fence across the face of her yard and bordering the driveway. A rose arbor stood over the sidewalk shoveled clean and the house lights were bright. The house was now an ordinary white with green shutters. Gnarled evergreen shrubs grew squatty along the walls. A small car and a long truck that had a business name written on the side were parked in the drive. The door had a bell that made music of four ringing tones.

The porch light came on and the door eased back. April wore a black dress that draped waistless to her ankles and eyeglasses hooked to a glinting chain. She had blond hair curled springy and a ready smile. She said, “Is that…?”

“Ree. It’s me.”

“You’ve cut your hair!”

“I got tired of it hangin’ to my butt’n bein’ in my way all the time.”

“I loved that wild-ass hair of yours. Just loved it.”

“You never had to rake the leaves out of it every night like me. Plus it’s grown back pretty good since spring, anyhow. April, this girl is my friend Gail Lockrum, and that’s her boy, Ned.”

“You keep forgettin’ it’s Gail Langan now.”

“Oops, slipped my mind again—she got married. To a Langan.”

April said, “Married’s a good thing to be once you’ve got yourself a baby. That’s how I still think. That’s my two cents, anyhow. Why’n’t you-all come on in and we’ll sit.”