Jinny slipped from beneath the comforter and rolled out of bed onto her knees as she did most mornings. After silent prayer she listened for the hushed cadence of measured breathing and detected but a yawn. Isabelle turned over, and without opening her eyes, slept on. Jinny uncrossed her crossed fingers, felt for her clothes stacked on a chair in the dark, and concentrated on navigating the minefield of testy, pressure-sensitive floorboards without blowing her cover. Given her well-tuned telemetry, the task seemed straight-forward enough.
She tip-toed to the kitchen and slid her folded clothes onto the table. One leg at a time, Jinny pulled the skin-tight, faded red thermals onto her sculpted physique. She downed a bowl of corn flakes, finished dressing, and jotted a cryptic message: “Mama—Gone to hollow to see the big buck—Back soon. Luv J.” A magnet grabbed, snapped, and held the note to the refrigerator. Its door—camouflaged with last year’s calendar, favorite quotes, and a few photos—was the closest Gemma ever got to Facebook.
Hunting season had expired—Jinny knew the game warden hadn’t—and so her rifle remained on the rack next to Conor’s inside the cold, screened-in back porch. She fumbled with the door-latch, quietly backed out the door into the frigid winter, and nearly jumped out of her skin when a deep voice came shivering out of the darkness. “And what are you up to, soldier?”
“Oh, Papa! You scared me to death. Well, not quite.” Jinny twirled around and they hugged. Neither wanted to let go. Caleb grunted. Excepting Sundays, he worked from dawn to dusk, even through the winter.
“Aren’t you glad it’s just me?” he coughed and chuckled, cheering them both.
“No. I mean, yes. B-u-r-r.” Jinny finished buttoning her coat and put on her gloves. “Do you need my help this morning, Papa?”
“Thanks, but I’ll wager that’s not why you’re up at this hour. Weren’t you afraid of waking your mother?”
“I was careful about that. Very careful.”
“So, what’s up, besides you? Have you forgotten today’s the Sabbath?”
“No. I couldn’t sleep. I kept imagining that big five-by-five pawing the ground outside my bedroom window steaming the window with his hot breath. Once I even thought I heard his nose squeaking against the glass, so I got up and looked out. I can’t seem to get him off my mind.” Jinny shuddered then jabbered on. “Curly said it was the biggest buck he’s ever seen, Papa. Alright if I just hike up the hollow on the chance that I might spot him before vacation is over? Please, please, please. I mean, before church?”
“Who’s church? Yours or the bucks?” Caleb’s cheery countenance glowed in the dark. “It’s going to be a red-sky morning, gal. Even city folks should take warning, and I don’t want you to get caught in the blizzard barreling our way. K-D-O-N says it’s already snowing in Tulsa.” Caleb pulled up a sleeve on his goose-down jacket. “You’ve got two hours—and no ‘buts’ or ‘what ifs.’ Agreed?”
“Yes, two hours. Thank you, Papa.” Jinny uncrossed her fingers and pivoted on her left foot, ready to disappear into the predawn gloom. “I’d keep in touch on my cell-phone . . . if I had one.”
“Your timing’s poor this morning, Jin. Now scoot before I change my mind.” Caleb tipped back his cap, put a gloved hand to his ear, and listened to the crunch of footsteps crossing the frost-covered pasture until all he heard was silence. He covered a cough and retraced his steps, mumbling over what he’d forgotten to do. “Your ability to forget improves every day, old man, and don’t count that as a virtue.” He returned to the barn, and the one antlered clock-radio clicked on.
“G-o-o-d Morning Abilenos; and no, you are not experiencing poor reception, just the hoarse voice of Cowboy Rodney Flank, as recognizable in Dickinson County as somebody singing off-key in the church choir, and YOU are tuned to 105.7, KDON—of the people, by the people, and here for all you early risers practicing for the morning of the First Resurrection.
“Sylvie just handed me a bulletin: ‘The deer hunt ended yesterday. STOP. Our station manager is coming in with an announcement. STOP.’ Here he is now. STOP. Clyde, just ease in here behind the radio-stream control panel, don’t mess with it, and have a piece of gum. STOP.”
“This is Clyde Okkason speaking; I know what I’m doing, so STOP. Funny, eh Rodney? No? Then from now on go outside to smoke . . . go on, git. Now down to business. Folks, believe it or not, Sheriff Banner called to let us know that after the city buttoned up for the night, somebody assaulted Moses out in front of the county courthouse and chipped off both his ears. They knocked the Decalogue from his arms and then—crushing vegetation and leaving tractor tracks but no fingerprints—chained up and dragged the Ten Commandments face-down into the Dwight D. Eisenhower Memorial Rose Garden, of all places. I don’t need to tell you how frost-bit we all should be over this desecration. Sheriff Poindexter . . . did I say Banner? . . . anyhow, he needs help figuring out who’s been disrespecting our values, and so the mayor’s agreed to a town meeting.
“Come on over to the basement of the Elks Lodge at 6 p.m. It’s time we got to the bottom of this ungodly offense before it’s too gol-darn late. And before you say, ‘it’s none of my business,’ roll off your couch and look out on the front porch. Has somebody re-strung your American flag upside down on the pole, like they did the mayor’s, or has it been stole altogether? And what’s next? When tomorrow comes will I be announcing that somebody broke into Motel 6 and snatched all the Gideon Bibles? It’s time for action. Come on down and join us at 6:30. Light refreshments will be served. For KDON, I am Clyde Okkason.”
“And I’m Rodney Flank. Are you early-risers anxious to make tonight’s meeting clip along? Submit your written agenda items on-line, and I’ll consider airing them with my laundry. What’s that Clyde? Oh yes, STOP. For your listening pleasure, here’s one of my favorites. Guess who first recorded this one, give me a call, and mail you a free . . .” Click.
Jinny had crossed the canal bridge, the county road, and continued south. Looking back, the O’Dwyer homestead and barn were but an undulating mirage—spattered with wind-tossed hues of green and purple on a background of grey flannel. Actually, what she saw was not a mirage, but that’s the way Jinny chose to describe it in her diary.
At dawn, the eastern sky blushed, and scrawled grey diagonals lined its rosy cheeks. Looks like snow. Good timing. I’ll be at Church before it rolls in. Jinny paused to eyeball the Hackberry stumps lazing on fallow land to the southeast where they’d always been. Long ago, Uncle Albert and his nasal-toned goose-call had hoodwinked Jinny into crawling eighty yards toward the stumps, 16-gaugeshotgun cradled in her arms, so she could surprise a gaggle of Canada geese. “Fooled once. On me. Fooled twice. Not to be.”
She plodded on, zig-zagging back and forth up the draw and hound-dogging the ground for deer tracks. Suddenly, Jinny jerked up as if she’d reached the end of her leash. “NO, NO, NO. NO TRESPASSING, WHOEVER YOU ARE.” Jinny’s verve vaporized. She scowled at a large boot print in the mud, wagged her head, and howled, “I’d sure like to know whose size-thirteens trampled my morning expectations. So now what?” Her voice trailed off.
Overheating, Jinny unzipped her coat and allowed her enthusiasm for the hunt to evaporate. She checked her watch and clicked her tongue against a thirsty pallet. “Well Jinny gal, say so long to a short morning and a tall deer.” But then the light of imagination irradiated her brain. Looking again at the tracks, she imagined a bulky brute wearing an orange jump-suit stenciled KDOC, front and back. A surge of excitement rippled down her seventeen-year-old spine and tingled both young calves. She still had some growing up to do. Warm air escaped her purple lips as she dipped her head sideways and spoke to her jacket collar. “Control, please be advised: I’ve located fresh human tracks, and I’m unarmed. Do you copy? “
JInny paused, awaiting an answer, and then continued, “The runner looks to be a heavy male, and he’s not far ahead of me. Hold the hounds. Let’s not spook this guy. Maintain helo surveillance at eight thousand feet. Over?” She paused for confirmation and then replied, “Yes, I can track the runner for half an hour, but I need to be home before church or face a court martial.” Jinny tucked her shiny brunette hair under the collar, re-zipped her goose-down coat, and only blinked twice before alien tracks suddenly filled with fleeing feet.
A big man came barreling over arise, puffing like a runaway slave, but in no way did he measure up to Jinny’s fancied fugitive—except, perhaps, for the big feet. His black seaman’s cap was pulled over his ears, his worn jacket zipped in a choke-hold, and his blue denim trousers sported frayed duct-tape patches over the knees. He spotted Jinny, stumbled, toppled head over heels down the incline, and rolled to her feet. “WO, Jinny?”
“WO yourself, Curly.”
Curly looked as surprised to see Jinny as she was sorry to see him. Panting, he grinned. “Howdy do, Rabbit? I just about ran you over.”
Jinny’s hollow reply revealed both disdain and disappointment. “Hello and goodbye.” She side-stepped Curly, then dosey-doed. “Did you just call me, ‘Rabbit’?”
“Yep. You’ve got all the moves,” he panted. “And by the way, Rabbit, when I got home last night I started thinking real hard, and . . .”
“Take two aspirin and call me next year.”
“Huh?” Curly’s brow wrinkled up like a scrunched rug, but not for long. After regaining his feet, he backed up a paragraph and started over. “What I meant to say was I’m not as surprised to stumble on you as you was to run onto that skunk yesterday while crossing the log between them Galapaghost Islands.” Curly’s sniggered. His snigger caught up with a cheerful giggle, and then he lost it. Slapping his thighs, he bent over and laughed like the plastered fat lady above the Lagoon Fun House in Utah. His face turned red, and he shrieked, “Was that funny or what? I almost split a gut.”
“Why don’t you just split?”
“You’re joking, right?” His smile disappeared into his mouth.
Jinny looked wistfully up the trail. “What I really wanted today was to see Conor’s buck.”
“So? Ask if I’ve seen any signs.”
“Okay, have you seen any signs, Curly?”
“Only the one staked by the road in front of my house—Slow Down: Children at Play.” He smirked. “Ha. You didn’t see that coming, did you?”
Jinny’s tried not to smile—and succeeded. “No, I didn’t see it coming, but what I really need to get is GOING. See ya later, much later.” Hoping Curly would sprinkle some pixy dust on himself, twirl around three times, and vanish, Jinny briskly hiked fifty yards before glancing back, only to see her childhood chum standing as rigid as a pillar of salt. She took a deep breath, tapped her lips with an index finger again, and concluded,“When Lot’s wife got left behind, she turned into a salt-lick. Can’t have that. No cows up here to lick. HEY, CURLY, ARE YOU COMING OR NOT?”
Curly came running. “Thanks Rabbit. For a minute I wondered if you hoped I’d go home and drown myself in the bathtub.” Fortunately, neither could foresee the tragic irony dunked in his confession.
Jinny cringed. Curly perked up. “This’ll be more fun than finding the city of El Diablo.”
“That would be El Dorado, not El Diablo. Nobody wants to discover the devil.”
“Oh yeah, I knew that. Didn’t Dorothy L’amour write about seeing ET in the Ozarks somewhere?” The conversation continued to deteriorate. The weather deteriorated. To Jinny, all hope that they’d see a deer deteriorated. But Curly’s resolve was fixed. “How is it God’s four-legged creatures can tell when hunting season’s done? Go figure, huh Rabbit? They should come out to stretch their legs about this time of day, so keep your eyes open.”
Ten minutes later the duo had forgotten the deer. Curly found himself crawling behind Jinny in search of an al-Qaida outpost high in the Hindu Kush Mountains. She paused, head down, as she neared the crest of Rocky Ridge. It mattered little that Rocky Ridge is in Wyoming.
Curly alligatored up next to the more agile G.I. “Should I go over first?”
Applauding the idea, Jinny pictured Curly, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, about to be wasted by a sniper’s round. “Be my guest.” One day she’d regret even the thought. Curly climbed to his feet ready to charge.
“CURLY LOOK OUT.”
A stiff had wind shifted into overdrive, and a tumbleweed the size of a tractor rolled across the barren pasture, collided head-on with Curly, and knocked him down. His knitted cap soared fifty yards before snagging on a gnarly, leafless, cottonwood scrub. Curly jumped to his feet and–to Jinny at least–he appeared to be airborne. His flight terminated at the tree, where he managed to disentangle, stretch on his tip-toes, and scissor the cap between two fingers. “Gotcha. . . . No-no-no.” It danced away, bouncing once like a flat stone on a glassy pond, and then off it soared in the general direction of Colorado Springs.
After five scary minutes of tacking like a sailboat back to Jinny, Curly threw his arms around her, and they sank to the ground. At first, she didn’t resist. Furious quarter-sized hail pelted Curly’s head, but feeling warm inside he endured it with only three words— “Jinny, at last.” She tolerated the tempest within and without for as long as it takes to say, “Jack Frost” and then popped back her head and tagged Curly on the chin. An elbow into the overenthusiastic hugger’s ribs completed their separation.
Home by eight, Jinny. Remember, no excuses.
She pulled the woolen scarf from her mouth, wiped her runny nose with a glove, and screamed over the din, “WHOA! OUR RECON JUST GOT CANCELLED. HOW THE DING-LOUIE DID WE HIKE ALL THE WAY TO ANTARCTICA?”
Hail stones sounded like exploding popcorn as they battered the ground. Curly’s scalp stung. He pulled up his waist-length cotton jacket and fashioned a makeshift hood. Resolved to dodge the draft, he pointed toward Canada. “THIS WAY . . . GRANDPA CORKER’S BARN . . . I THINK. GRAB THE TAIL OF MY COAT AND STAY WITH ME.”
“YOUR COAT DOESN’T HAVE A TAIL.”
“GRAB IT ANYWAY.” Caught in a white-out of hail turning to heavy snow buffeted by gusts reaching sixty miles an hour, Jinny kept her head bowed against Curly’s back and prayed for deliverance. She struggled to keep in step with his slushy size-thirteens as together they tromped. Progress became more difficult, conversation, impossible. Curly quickened his pace when he spotted the barn twenty feet ahead. “WE’RE HERE. JINNY, WE MADE IT.” Because she was tailgating, Jinny plowed into Curly and down they went—too numb to laugh, too cold to cry.
The barn door— ajar enough to admit either the refugees or an icy breeze—was frozen in place. The musty interior was gloomy and ghostly dark. Jinny shook off the wet snow like a dog, but she couldn’t shake an eerie feeling. Curly put his shoulder to the barn door, but it didn’t budge. “Wow. Monster storm, eh Rabbit?” He shook icy water from his worn coat and then worked at shiver-control by slapping his arms in a warm self-embrace.
“Curly, this old barn gives me the creeps. Let’s build a fire.”
“Good idea, but first I gotta show you my inheritance. Follow me.” He felt his way into the darkness while the barn’s married, aging planks eerily creaked and swayed in unison overhead like a giant, dysfunctional parallelogram. Leary of the senescent sanctuary, Jinny didn’t budge but let her eyes adjust and take in the vague outline of rafters, cobwebs, the loft, and the stalls.
Conor where are you when I need you? “Undoubtedly not in church,” she exclaimed aloud.
“No, this isn’t no church. Are you coming?”
On edge and ready to bolt, Jinny jumped. “Curly, what was that?”
“You mean the scream? It’s the wind.”
“No. I mean that loud . . . well, it sounds like the barn is about to achieve lift-off and move to another county.”
“Yep, this old barn loves to rock and roll, but its tied down good. I hope. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“I won’t be here long enough to get used to it. Something tells me we need to get out of here.”
“Okay, but before we skedaddle, I have a surprise to share; but first . . . where did I leave the old kerosene lantern? It’s over here somewhere.” Curly, lost in darkness, mumbled, “Yes, here it is. Oops.” THUD. Jinny jumped.
“What was that?”
“Just one second, little lady.” Curly pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket, lifted the lantern’s glass chimney, and lit the wick. It purred to life and cast a phantom glow across his face. “Come over here. Come to me-me-me-me.”
“Oh, stop it.”
“Sorry, i can’t help myself. There’s something I’ve been dying to show you, but to see in this light you’ll hafta come closer.” He lowered his voice. “And Rabbit, keep this between us, okay?”
“You’re starting to freak me out. Show me what? I’m uncomfortable enough standing right here, thank you.” Jinny’s heart pounded against her breast-bone. She sneaked a peak at the barn-door. Still open. Good!
“Come on, Jinny. It’ll only take a minute.” Curly sounded anxious.
“Tell me why.” Still rigid, she clenched her fists. Aim for his nose.
Curly pointed and slapped at something flat. “I need help removing this heavy old cover.”
“Oh, okay . . . I think.” Mildly relieved, Jinny nervously cleared her throat, filed her fears in an unbuttoned ammo pocket, and helped fling back a pigeon-dunged tarpaulin. Beneath it rested a pick-up truck, its engine partially dismantled. Even in subdued light, Curly beamed like an auctioneer who had just unveiled a polished, classic car at a black-tie gala—red carpet and all.
He clutched the lantern’s wire-loop handle with one hand, then outstretched the other hand, and chortled, “Ta-da.” Curly waited one, two, three, four, five seconds for Jinny to express adulation— although, he was unfamiliar with the word. But Jinny was momentarily speechless, despite her gift of the blarney.
With her vocal volume tuned way down so as not to offend, she mouthed, why all the hoop-tee-do? Rust reigns; four flats; springs sprung; engine expired. “Hey Curly, is this a relic from the early baroque period? Or is it just broke, period?”
“Mind your manners. It ain’t broke. It’s a work in progress. So, what do you think, Rabbit?”
Jinny ground her teeth and snapped, “Don’t call me Rabbit. Rabbits love to multiply.”
Curly ignored the come-back and grabbed a shovel from the nearest stall. Backstopped by cobwebs, he resembled a grave robber on Halloween—the shovel in one hand and the lantern in the other. Even in the dim light, his eyes betrayed his disappointment; he spoke volumes without moving his lips; his smile was perceptibly paralyzed. “You aren’t impressed, are you?”
Taken aback, Jinny stammered and slowly began circling the truck, keeping it between her and Curly. “Well . . . Chevrolet is a popular brand. Or should I say, was? What year is it, or was it?”
“I’m not sure. 1957 and 1958 models were almost identical, and it’s a Ford, Jin. It’s a Ford.”
For Curly’s benefit, Jinny bit into the fingers of her glove, pulled it off, and rubbed her cheek. She pinched her chin as if she were a judging 4-H pigs at the Dickinson County Fair, and then quietly mumbled, “Nice withers, Curly. I see you’ve replaced the spark plugs and wires. The fan-belt looks new. What else? Got it running yet?” She had more to say but kept it to herself. She didn’t want Curly to suffer a blow-out—not while they were stranded together, alone in a freaky barn.
“Nope, and YOU think I never will, but listen up. I’m learning a lot about cars.” Curly retrieved a greasy, dog-eared Chilton: Chevrolet Repair Manual from the front seat and blew dust from its cover. “You probably missed the library stuff headed for Goodwill before Christmas break, but I rescued this little gem while helping Ms. Dewey load stuff in her trunk. Boy, does she have a sweet set of wheels.” He whistled. “She was dooly-whacked when I snatched this off the cart. ‘First book you ever checked out, Charles?’ she asked all snooty-like. ‘You know, son, the most valuable part of the human engine is the self-starter.’”
Jinny re-gloved her hand. “I thought you hated to read.”
“Well, most things, but not this. There’s lots of pictures. Shucks, even my Pap could read this. I surely could use his help. He’s a good welder when he’s sober, but when he’s drunk he’s a good- for-nothing.” Curly pulled off a glove with his own teeth, poked up five fingers and pointed at the crud under his fingernails. “Here’s proof I’m taking auto-shop from Billy Myers over at the community college two nights a week.”
“Good. Perhaps you should have held up only two fingers.”
“Huh?”
A checkered metal thermometer, labeled Purina Feed and Grain, hung catawampus outside one of several frost-bitten stables; the mercury registered twelve degrees Fahrenheit. Jinny—intentionally separated from Curly by one hundred and eighty degrees—circled the truck twice, observing as he pointed the shovel handle at parts he had recognized and tinkered with. “I got a decent battery out of Pa’s shop but still need some cash to buy cables, order hoses, and a new carburetor from Hagen’s; but she’s mighty sweet, don’t you think?” Without waiting for a reply, Curly continued. “She should be ready to roll off the show-room floor real soon, but don’t you tell nobody.”
“I promise.” An easy one to keep! And all you’ll need is cash for a license, cash for registration, cash for personal injury insurance, tires, regular maintenance, gasoline, and someplace to go. Jinny leaned through an open window and stared at the springs sticking through the rotted, musty seat fabric and asked, “Do you plan to pick me up for church when your truck’s resurrected?”
“If you insist. But I won’t wait till Easter,” he teased. “And Rabbit, I get it. I saw your face, but this truck isn’t as far gone as she looks. I’ll get her running. Just you wait.”
“That’s what I’d like to do. Get running. I wish this storm would pass so we could.”
“Okay then, come climb up into the loft and check out the weather report with me.” Jinny counted Curly’s steps as he distanced himself from her and strode briskly across the dank barn floor toward the loft ladder. “At least the blizzard gives me a chance to show you my hideout up here.”
“No, thanks, Curly. I’m good. I’ve got the creeps, but I admit, this would be a swell place to throw a Halloween party—if I weren’t invited.” To Jinny, peep holes high up in the rafters looked like rabid bat’s eyes glowing in the dark.
“Suit yourself. I’d radio down a weather report, but I don’t have a radio.” Curly climbed quickly but skipped the sixth rung. It was suffering from a compound fracture. “You sure you don’t want come up and join me? A feller can see a long way through the eye of a knot-hole,” he said as he topped out on level lumber.
“Through the eyes of a knot-head,” Jinny grumbled, aware that the wind had blunted her razor-tongued reply. She concentrated on Curly’s fuzzy outline as he shuffled to the exterior wall and hovered in place.
“The view sucks today, Jinny. I can’t see nothin’, but I perdict the chance of snow, snow, snow is a hundred percent guaranteed.” He whistled through the gap between his front teeth. “I sure miss my cap. Granny knitted and mailed it all the way from Toledo.”
Buoyant flakes of dust and straw scuffed from the loft through lighted gaps in the floor, pirouetted like fallen angels, and fouled the air. Jinny stood alone near the unlatched barn door watching them fall. She pulled the scarf across her mouth and listened to the howling storm—still demanding entrance. “Will you please climb down here and build a fire?” The barn leaned hard; prying nails screeched; one at a time, five shingles peeled free of the roof and left the state. The old parallelogram pitched again. The again. That did it. Jinny’s survival instincts blared: Climb. “C-o-m-i-n-g up. Which rungs do I skip?” she cried.
“That would be number six and don’t let a rat climb up your pant-leg.” Curly wasn’t grinning. Jinny climbed, hesitating on each rung, expecting it to give way, and knowing that her decision to choose the loft was flawed.
She peeped warily over the landing and managed to say, “Nice place you have up here, Curly. Not.” Curly sat huddled between two bales of straw to avoid the air-conditioned vents—the same knot-holes and cracks which emitted a little light into the barn. Outside the storm raged on. Jinny squinted, trying to see into the corners of the sagging, cobwebbed overhang, hoping nothing hung hidden in the shadows. Her imagination was alive, but not well. “Any bats up there?” she pointed.
“You mean the swoop-down vampires that get tangled in a girl’s long, silky, dark brown hair? Naw,” Curly sniggered. “But be careful where you step. Termites feast 24-7 on the deck boards. When it’s real quiet at night, I can hear them chew. At least, I hope that’s what I’m hearing.”
Jinny did a double take. “Hold on, hombre!” “Tell me you don’t sleep up here.”
“Yep. Like I said, it’s my hideout; but only when my Pap is on the warpath. Ma says . . . never mind, I’m not going there.”
Not going where? Tempted to ask a probing question or two, Jinny decided just to hunker-down and listen. The wind sounded angry. Curly’s tone mellowed.
“Ma wants to sell the barn and Grandpa’s property to Cow Town Construction—or whatever it’s called—over in Abilene. Pa won’t hear of it, but sooner or later, Ma will figure out a way. She’s got to. So now you see why I gotta get this truck running and outta here, ASAP.” Curly rubbed his sore head, hoping for relief. “We’re a little low on cash just now, but Ma has always been generous . . . and she’s put up with a lot.”
“Yes, aren’t we—I mean, low on cash; but when spring comes there’ll be sowing-irrigating-weeding, feeding—you know, like last year.”
“Think your pa will even hire me on again next spring? He don’t say much, and Albert sure don’t care for me.” Before answering, Jinny warmed a breath of frigid air between her cheeks.
“Of course, you know he will, and don’t mind Albert. Most of what he says these days isn’t worth a plug nickel. He’s changed. Papa will want you back, or should I say, he needs your back. He says you’re as strong as an ox.”
When the wind pretended to circumvent Dickinson County for a few minutes, Jinny slid over, peered through the vertical cracks, and watched millions of parachuting snowflakes cooperatively touch down, scoot, land again, and climb on one another’s shoulders—each forfeiting its anonymity for the good of the whole. The barn fell as quiet as a mummy wrapped to the wrists in white linen.
Curly watched Jinny tiptoe around the scat, look anxious to bail out, pull the rip-cord, land outside, and run for home. “Before you jump ship, I got something to tell you.” He snare-drummed his cheeks four times and marched out his plan: “So as to make it more interesting, I’ll try to use some of your meta-thingies.” He meant metaphors, which drew a quizzical look from his seventeen-year-old skeptic. Jinny decided to delay her departure for one minute. She stretched, yawned nonchalantly, selected a double-stack, and sat across from Curly, waiting to see what he’d order up. He squinted, as if he were reading a menu. Jinny hoped she wasn’t on it.
Curly looked up at the rafters and stroked his unshaven Adam’s apple as if he were tempted to pluck it from the tree of good and evil. And then, in one quick motion, he startled Jinny by throwing both arms into the air like a preacher about to damn his congregation to hell–or signal a touchdown—but not a touch-back, Jinny hoped. “Did you know this hysterical old barn was built way back by the good folk of Abilene after my grandpa’s accident over at the brewery. Mostly they is all dead and buried—what I’m saying is those who died got buried, of course. Now, you may not know this, but one of them fellas by the name of Pierce become a famous artist. You may have saw some of his work; it still shows on the south side of the barn, but its fading fast.”
Just like my patience. Distracted by the Oreo stuck between Curly’s front teeth, Jinny’s memory toggled back to the pumpkin-carving contest sponsored by the American Legion on Halloween. She visualized the humongous homegrown pumpkins, her family working together to scoop out the seeds, and three-year-old Isabelle’s bewilderment when she became the object of congratulatory clapping and the reward—a red ribbon. The memories combined to elicit a preemptive smile, which Curly assumed to be in response to his historical histrionic.
“Oh, so you’ve saw the painted advertisement? They say Dr. Pierce helped a lot of sick people, except my Grandpa. He loved the stuff, but I think he showed too much appreciation and it killed him. That would be my Grandpa Buckhave. The painting says, ‘Dr. Pierce’s Tonic Will Cure Anything! Rub It on or drink it.’” Curly expected a comment. He waited, and waited, and waited.
“Curly, I think it’s time we left this barn before it leaves the county.” Jinny made no effort to hide her exasperation or her sarcasm at being cooped up. “I’ve let down my Papa, I’ve missed Church, and I sure wish I could skip Judgment Day.”
“Are you referring to your Ma?” Jinny nodded. “On that point we think alike. Someday, then, maybe you ought to join the army. Mr. Chambers suggested I enlist in the Marine Corps after I finish my GED.”
Jinny lit up and sarcastically chortled, “Oh Curly, what a splendid idea. I had a great uncle who served . . . in Leavenworth.”
For as long as it takes to reload a timer’s gun with blanks, they tensed on separate bales; then Curly slowly stood and stretched like a swimmer before climbing to the block ready to dive. But outside the barn and inside Jinny’s gut the race was on. Curly sauntered over and plopped down next to his heartthrob—to him, a gorgeous brunette with chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones and a generally sunny disposition. Presently at five feet seven inches—but shrinking quickly–Jinny was a stunning complement to anything beautiful; her slim, curvy build and glowing complexion shared in the features of both her parents, who agreed that she ran like a Rolls Royce but had the strength and endurance of a Bobcat front-loader.
Unnerved by Curly’s close proximity, Jinny raised her arms to firing position and imitated the recoil of a shotgun. “Did I tell you my Wing Master dropped two roosters—pheasants, not chickens—with one shot last week?”
“You telling the truth?” Curly cinched up closer and grinned.
Jinny’s accelerated speech betrayed her anxiety. “Sid Niebuhr—you know him—he lives in the house with the covered porch down the road. He witnessed the shot from his tractor; he laughed, cupped his hands, and yelled, ‘Annie Oakley lives again.’ Joe lost a leg in Viet Nam, and sadly, lost his family in Topeka.” She paused to catch her breath. “The amputation was permanent, but his sense of humor remains attached. At least that’s the way Papa describes him. Now don’t get me wrong, I never make light of our war heroes. Some subjects are too sacred.”
“Whew.” Curly’s admiration for Jinny—like a bough overloaded with snow—could be held up no longer. His arm drooped around her shoulders. His engine pinged and his heart purred like an oil pump, and so did Jinny’s, but for a different reason. She pushed away, sprang to her feet quicker than a cow can say, “moo-ve,” and considered how best to restart a conversation without going into a stall. For her, Curly’s fuel mixture was way too rich. He needed more air, more time to adjust his carburetor, and Jinny wanted out.
Curly yawned, leaned back against a bale, nonchalantly shut down the lantern, and acted like nothing had happened. Pulling out a cigarette—secretly jacked from his father’s smelly glove-box—he clumsily lit up and offered Jinny the first puff. “Shame on you! Yes, now I remember the smell. When did you start smoking again? And no thanks. Smokes are for chimneys, not for dry hay lofts. Did you just douse the lantern?”
“Yes, to number two. And I guess you could say smoking is my New Year’s revolution. It calms my nerves.” Dropping the lighter into his jacket pocket, Curly’s eyes went to the floor. He put the fire-stick to his lips-inhaled-held it-exhaled through his nose-and coughed like he already had emphysema.
“Aren’t you afraid of starting a fire?” Jinny asked.
Curly’s voice got raspy. “I thought you wanted a fire.”
“Not here. Not now. All I want is to go home.”
“Home.” Curly blew a puff through his lips and settled back. “Ma came into the kitchen crying this morning. I was eating a cup of Graham Crackers for breakfast. She walked up behind me, put her hands on my shoulders, and squoze. I guess she didn’t want me to see her wet face . . . or the bruises. ‘Charlie, I’m divorcing your father.’ That’s all she said. ‘Charlie, I’m divorcing your father.’ I know I shouldn’t have stomped out and slammed the door, but that’s when I decided to hike up the draw.”
The wind took a breather. The lofty confessional fell quiet. Neither parishioner spoke for a long time. “It’s my fault, Jinny. It’s all my fault.”
Saddened, but not surprised, Jinny gazed sympathetically into Curly’s puppy-dog eyes— but kept her hands fisted. “Here’s the deal, Curly: First, remember the divorce is not your fault. And third: let’s get out of here before the storm blows us and the barn into the Land of Oz. My folks must be worried sick. I broke a promise.”
“But you left out second.”
“I reconsidered. My second point is none of your business.”
Curly jumped up and in a heartbeat snuffed out his smoke. Instead of following Jinny down the ladder, he reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and jerked her to the floor on top of him. “Curly, what the ding-louie are you . . .?” They struggled.