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Windfall

If the dog had not been tied, its charge would have been dangerous, and he would have been scurrying through the buckbrush, snag vines, and blowdown limbs back toward the sound of the river, scrambling for his life. Leashed as it was, it could only lunge and snarl, and he saw it was some kind of night-colored pit dog, all scarred and bloodthirsty in its eyes.

The woman had come out onto the warped and weathered porch with a shotgun, but not raised. In the shadow of the cabin she was not clear, but he could make out a long housedress, copper-checked, sleeves rolled to the elbows, almost half her buttons undone, like she had been interrupted in the middle of dressing. He saw her figure was ample but not at all large for a country woman. The air was wet with the morning’s rain, wet and hot, and he could imagine a bead of sweat running down her throat, along her brisket and under the dress. He could almost see it, but that was his mind and not his eyes.

Raising his hand, he took two cautious steps in her direction. He figured her to be adjusting her grip on the gun.

How do, ma’am. He was remembering to keep his voice low and sweet, as he had done with Ree, though it hadn’t much worked then. I don’t think your dog takes to me.

Hell, he don’t take to me.

At first, he had reckoned her about thirty, but now he guessed another decade onto that, her voice full and words cut off sharp.

I been walking down the river toward Spruce Pine, hoping to find work building houses. Y’all’s trees already turning here, I see. He was partial to maples. He pointed at a large red-leafed tree to the west of the cleared lot. I come from Tennessee, following the river—

So you realize by now this ain’t the river. It’s a scratch-ankle farm, in a good year. She pointed behind him with her left hand—byre and woodshed, coop but no smokehouse, a well. They’s only a creek ahind the barn, she said, and it don’t lead to no Spruce Pine, which is a far piece from here.

Yes’m. She wasn’t going to give him an opening, but he hadn’t had a bite since yesterday, so he was growing bold. Truth is, my stomach’s bout to believe my throat’s been cut. I ate a trout fish yesterday with some creasy greens, but nothing since. I left the river hoping to light on some berries or something. Apples out on the ground, p’simmons.

So you’re out shopping. Scavenger. Maybe happen on a field of late corn all ready for gathering? Apples on the ground?

She was going to make it hard, but he took a step forward and another, maybe twenty paces from her now. He could see her hair was in a bun with wisps twigging out in every direction, though there was no wind to stir them. The dress fit her loosely, no evidence of a shift, and when she stepped to the edge of the porch and out of the shadows, light beaming through the dress and falling on her tanned skin made him think again about that thread of sweat slipping down. But his heart was set on a handout, and he pressed the point.

Well, I got nothing to offer in swap but my personal sweat and time. So poor off I’m two payments behind on my own shadow. Likely you can see it’s wore thin, too.

He had hoped she would laugh, and she did, but the cur took another run at the end of his rope. The hemp snapped taut and held, and the dog sprawled to the damp ground and came up wobbly like it had been clubbed. The woman shook her head in disgust. The stillness in the air seemed to banish the chance of wind, even in case of a storm, but there was no storm showing.

So what are you calling yourself today? Mr. John Famish?

It was his turn to laugh, and he eased forward another man length, closer now to her than to the dog, which he now saw had a cut ear and a running sore in its left eye.

These were dangerous places, these hollers with the scrawny chaps and weary farmers, bitter, all of them sure any outlander was searching out a still or something worth robbing. It might be even worse finding a woman alone, if she was alone. She might panic.

Them Cohees down that way, Hunnycutt had said, are scared and mean and nearly bout desperate as Job. You got to watch the lot of em. They don’t trust God hisself. You got to be damn sure you want to wander amongst them heathens before you commence. Witches and scofflaws and troll chirren everone.

I call myself Hombre Satterfield, after what my mammy called me, which she come up with on account of my daddy being killed in the Cuban war whilst she was yet heavy with me. Hombre is what they say down there for man. Others have taken to calling me Sticks, as I’m always whittling on some scrap of wood. Slept on the riverbank last night, a cool wind, but no forage. I tried whittling up some bacon this morning, but no luck. He pulled a thin piece of cedar from his jacket and held it up.

The woman laughed again, mostly with her eyes, which were sparkling.

The sun had moved, and he could see her clearly now, broad featured but handsome, her eyes blue or blue-green. He was ten feet away, and it seemed to him strange she had left so many buttons undone. Not scandalous, but not all that modest, either. Careless, maybe.

Your husband about? Any chores I could work to earn a bait? He could see she was looking him straight in the eyes, almost slattern, and the gun barrel had not risen.

Happens Alton and them boys gone to town, if you call it that. Struck out early. She shaded her eyes against the sun and looked west. Back in a couple or three hours, most probable. I was getting a nap when I heard Nig start in.

She was looking him up and down in a way he’d understand in a different kind of situation. Taking his measure, as people said. He didn’t offer much to view in his mended canvas pants and calfhide jacket, hardly more than her height, narrow of hip and shoulder, rough-wristed, just enough beard scraggle to hide the pox scars, but he had good cheekbones and clear eyes. A white smile. It occurred to him to remove his hat and hold it with both hands at his waist. A cow off behind a locust grove on the slope started in lowing.

I could milk, for starters.

Could, but it’s early yet. We milk by lantern this season of the year. He was almost certain she was chancing a smile, but it might just be a way her face settled. A front tooth was chipped, which he liked. He felt a strange shiver run along his length and in his groin and couldn’t help wondering if he mightn’t be better off just stepping back into the cool woods with their solitude and birds and the river. This woman, he was beginning to suss out, could be trouble.

Come up closer so I can gaze you better. That’s right. She leaned against a porch timber. I thought so. That beard new? You can’t be much into shaving years.

There was a coarseness in her voice, throaty-pitched. He was starting to shuffle his feet and look down. She was likely twice his age, and he had let her have the upper hand, not just thinking she did.

Ma’am, if you could just spare me a pone of cornbread or apple or something, I’d be on my way. I’m just trying to beat the craving and make do. When he looked up, she had leaned the shotgun against the wall and folded her arms in a fashion that showed more of her skin, her bosoms pushed together so as to make a deep crease. He thought, She can’t not know.

I might scare up some of this morning’s biscuit. They’s a couple sweet potatoes still under the ashes, and some buttermilk in the jug. Apple sass. What’s a boy like you on a traipse by hisself for? Work, you say?

Maybe I’m looking for a new life. Things were getting stale up yonder. He pointed—roughly, north, back where Ree and the fellow he’d thrashed over her and the rich daddy were likely all after him for one reason or another. Raising his eyes a bit, he could see her feet, which were white and clean, beautiful feet, he thought, but he also thought, she is more dangerous than the dog.

Now she was primping, tucking wisps into the bun, then leaning over the rail, her goods hanging free inside that soft-looking dress. He was trying not to stare, but it was wasted effort.

She was kind of squinting at him, and then there was sorghum in her voice when she said, You come on in here and set at the table. I’ll put together something to satisfy your need. We can talk chores directly.

A whip-poor-will in the fenceline purled its call.

When she turned and entered the door, her hips had what he took as an inviting sway, then disappeared into the dark cabin, but Stick was thinking just new life and Alton and hoping there was fresh butter for the sweet potato. The shotgun was still leaning, uncocked, against the wall, and he passed it as he followed her lead, glad of the clasp knife in his pocket, which he touched to be sure. The black dog commenced to pace and whine at the end of the rope as the hand-hewn boards of the door shut between them, the sound of the river and wind in the green and sugaring woods suddenly far far behind.