Chris Offutt - The Good Brother

“You bushwhacked them boys,” Coop said. “There’s a couple who thought you might be all hock and no spit.”

“It don’t matter to me what they think.”

“That’s to your credit,” Owen said.

Sun warmed Joe’s face. The sky was blue as water and so close that he felt as if he could drink it.

“I like how it stays light till late,” he said.

“Guess you believe in daylight saving time,” Coop said.

“Never knew it was something you believed in,” Joe said. “Like Santa Claus or flying saucers.”

“Then you’re letting Congress tell you what time it is. To hell with the moon and the earth’s rotation and all that. I don’t recognize the authority of Congress over time.”

“Time don’t have anything to do with us or Congress,” Joe said. “A wristwatch is the same as handcuffs.”

“You’re coming along,” Owen said. “Most of us don’t wear watches.”

He adjusted his hat in the same manner as his sister, and Coop spat tobacco to the rocky dirt. He rested while standing, like a workhorse that lifted a leg. The sound of a track engine filled the air, and was joined by another. Wind carried the scent of exhaust. The passing vehicles raised a quill of dust that settled to the ground like frost, Joe watched them leave. At the corner of the barn Johnny stood by a truck.

“Now that you know I ain’t no spy,” Joe said, “he can go ahead and finish the job.”

“That boy ain’t been worth two sticks since shooting you,” Coop said.

“I don’t care.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t either,” Owen said. “But we’re stuck with him and you both.”

“Look,” Coop said. “Johnny wants to say something to you. We’d appreciate if you’d let him. It might help us get some work out of him.”

Johnny wore new jeans and a pink shirt with red piping, and crescent pockets. He stood mute and sad, and Joe realized that he had dressed for the occasion. Joe limped across the dusty land. When Johnny saw him coming, he flicked the cigarette away, spat between his teeth, smoothed his shirt, and tugged his pants. The cigarette butt trailed a line of smoke.

“Pick that up,” Joe said.

Johnny moved quickly, as if grateful for release. He mashed the paper and tobacco into the earth and scuffed it in a circle until there was nothing but dirt. He kept his head down. Joe leaned across the truck hood, to take weight off his leg. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture he recognized as having belonged to Boyd. Johnny kicked dust and looked at Joe and away. He tried to speak but no words came. He tried again.

“What happened,” he said, “you know, in the woods.”

Joe sensed that to look at Johnny or even nod would make him stop talking.

“That day,” Johnny said, “when you got shot” He stared at the ground as if he’d never seen it before. “It was my gun. Me that, you know, did it I didn’t mean to exactly. Everybody says you’re all right.” His voice tapered to a ragged whisper. “Anyhow, I’m sorry.”

There was not much Joe could say and he wanted to be sure Johnny got everything out. Johnny pressed his head against the fence rail, speaking to the dirt.

“I feel real bad about it. That’s why I never came to see you or nothing. It’s not like I go around shooting people. I’m not that way.”

He gathered breath and straightened his body.

“I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for it,” he said. “But if you want, you can shoot me back.”

From the pocket of his jacket he withdrew a pistol and proffered it butt-first. Joe took it as casually as borrowing a pencil. It was a.22 revolver with wooden grips and a long barrel, more of a target pistol than anything else. Oil glistened along the moving parts.

“Just the leg,” Johnny said. “So’s to square things out.”

His mouth was tight and a strip of sweat clung to his forehead.

Joe held the gun loosely, its weight comfortable in his hand. He released the cylinder, swung it open, and dumped the bullets to the dirt. They made six tiny pocks in the dust like the heavy drops of rain in advance of a storm. An expression of disappointment entered Johnny’s eyes. Joe returned the empty gun.

“Owen know you got this?” Joe said.

“No. I mean yes, but he don’t know nothing about this.”

“I had a brother used to hunt squirrels with a pistol. He’d aim with his eyes instead of the gunsight. The whole idea was to put a bullet in the tree bark so close to the squirrel’s head that it died from shock. He called it barking a squirrel.”

“Not much meat to a squirrel.”

“Hunting that way gave him a challenge. He said any damn fool could kill a deer with a rifle and a scope.”

“Hard part’s getting a deer home,” Johnny said. “Last time Owen got one, he had to quarter it and make four trips out, mostly at night. He never went again.”

“Somebody should tell him to hunt close to the house.”

“Nobody tells him nothing. Not even Coop.”

“How about you?”

“Everybody tells me what to do.”

“They tell you to talk with me?”

“That was my idea,” Johnny said. “I was kind of hoping you’d shoot just now. I know it don’t make much sense.”

“I might be just the man to understand that.”

“How’s that?”

“It didn’t bother me too much you putting one in my leg.”

“No?”

“It’s not that I liked it,” Joe said. “But more a case of not minding. I guess part of me thought I deserved it.”

“Same here.”

“You don’t, Johnny. You were just doing your job out there, weren’t you.”

“Yeah.”

“A leg shot ain’t that bad.”

“Wasn’t like that, Joe. You don’t care for me calling you Joe, do you?”

“No. What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t your leg I was aiming for.”

“Just a warning shot that got lucky?”

“No.” Johnny’s voice was forlorn. “I was aiming spang at the middle of your chest, but I got scared at the last and dropped the barrel.”

Joe held the cane tightly in both hands, glad he’d unloaded the pistol. Johnny bunched his mouth like pulling a drawstring bag tight. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. His voice was hoarse.

“Owen don’t know about that,” Johnny said. “He’d think I was yellow.”

The anger went out of Joe like a dumped sack. “Anybody can shoot somebody,” he said. “It takes a lot more guts to hand a man a loaded gun.”

“You ever kill anybody?”

Joe looked upslope. A steady wind bowed the cheatgrass in a gentle curve, aiming its spikelets east.

“Not me,” he said. “But I used to know somebody who did. It didn’t do him a damn bit of good.”

“What was it, an accident?”

“No more accident than you tracking me.”

Four cows crested the ridge and descended along a path cut into the earth. The last cow’s swollen udder swung like a bell beneath her legs. Johnny squeezed his thumb to the side of his hand, forcing a huge lump of flesh to rise.

“Feel that,” he said.

“What is it?”

“My milking muscle. Go ahead, feel it.”

Joe tapped on the tight skin. The muscle beneath was hard as clay.

“See that cow,” Johnny said. “Only one we never got rid of. She’s my favorite.”

“How come?”

“Got the softest tits I ever touched.”

The cow’s back ran straight as a rope from neck to rump. Manure clung to its tail. Joe felt a terrible sympathy for this boy.

“Johnny,” he said. “I forgive you. You’ll never understand it, but I appreciate what you done. I think you’re as brimful of courage as an egg is of meat.”

Johnny looked quickly away. He tugged his hat and stared at the sky. There was no sound of bird, animal, or wind. Bullets lay at his feet.