Without at Caution

Jacqueline stood across the kitchen from her husband. Atop the counter, she pressed her sweaty palm firmly into an old potato. It ground against the soiled cutting board as she gazed out the side kitchen window, past the crumbling wooden window frame and to the desolateness outside. “Alls I'm sayin' is that I known plenty of women who didn't want no kid to begin with, and it makes me think,” she said nodding her head slightly, “it makes me think there ain't nobody who can raise a child like it ought be raised.” She swung her face around once at the weight of what she'd just said and continued cutting the potatoes. She wiped her brow with her dirty left sleeve and then looked to see how damp she'd made it. “Made me think,” she continued, chopping, “made me think a little higher of the two of us, you know.”

He continued chewing his sunflower seeds, remnants of a few shells mounted in his unkempt beard. Across the kitchen from his wife, he looked out the opposite window at the other end of the same thing she looked at. Nodding his head back and to the left, he made a grunt before inserting more sunflower seeds, as if to indicate that he'd heard her and that he'd, too, been pleased they hadn't born children in the many years of their marriage. His chest raised his dirty grey shirt up to the air before he heaved an unstable cough, lightly spewing remnants of the shells off of his beard and down his shirt. She said:“We doin' ok.”

He hadn't moved. She glanced to the wooden floor. After a moment she chuckled to herself loudly. “I know you waitin' for her Eugene. I know you just waitin' for that horse.” She shifted in her seat and smiled her polite smile.
“Yeah and what are you waitin' for over there?” he replied without turning to her. She sliced through a potato. Then she went on: “You know someday she's gonna' take the two hours' trot from her house to ours just like usual, but she's gonna' be alone.” He lifted his upper lip slightly. “And you know what?” She said this like schoolteacher: “Thats how you're going to learn that your dear friend has died.” Eugene shot up out of his stool and turned to face her. He balled both fists.

“You're wrong,'” he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. A lone sunflower seed remaining on his beard.

“I don't lie to you,” she brought her stretched palm back to her chest. “And I'm just sayin' that's the way life is.”

“You're still wrong,” he said. She turned back to finish cutting up the potato with her eyebrows raised.

“Oh come now. He always been a trouble makin' man...” she murmured as the image of her husband's lone friend, Charlie Wilkinson, appeared in her head. Whenever she pictured him, she pictured his broad shoulders first. The rest of the man appeared slightly after, as though his enormous body hung from the strong iron rod of his shoulders. “The man lives like an animal. An' he talks like one.” She cleared her throat, then said with squinted eyes and her mouth raised: “And you know what? Sometimes I hear what y'all talk about out there on the porch, about your families.” Her husband's jaw loosened a bit, as did the frame of his eyes. “Alls I'm really sayin' is, it's a damn good thing you don't live the way he does, Eugene. I know you two got a strong friendship an' all,” she said as an almost puzzled look became her, “real strong.”

“That's right,” her husband interrupted. She shook her head and went back to the potatoes.

Eugene went back to waiting, looking out to the path that led off into the distance towards Charlie's. His face was wrinkled all around his eyes, his thin hair parted to the right side of his head. He'd lived at that house with his wife for twenty two years. She, too, looked wearied, like a woman made of paper who'd been crinkled up and then flattened again over and over, every day, for decades.

Eugene stood up and moved to the cupboard to retrieve his brown mug. He slung two of his enormous fingers through the handle and took it to the bowl of clean water near his wife on the other side of the kitchen. He scooped it through one time, splashing a little water over the edge of the bowl. Standing there sipping his drink, he watched the ripples in the bowl below flowing in different directions. He took a swig of water and moved back to his perch to wait for Charlie. The light was fading outside. When he sat down and looked out, he saw something a hundred yards away. And before he could see for certain what it was, he knew it was a horse. His eyebrows lifted like dumbbells and his mouth opened slowly, revealing the mash of old sunflower seeds stuck in his gums. He thought he might be daydreaming.

The animal stood perpendicular to his gaze, silhouetted in the orange glow of the sky. Eugene shot around to see his wife still looking quietly in the other direction out her window. When he looked back to the horse, he squinted and saw the cream colored beast turning her head to look straight at him. “Sally,” he whispered softly to himself. The horse began trotting towards the house casually, as though she'd done it a million times before. She carried an empty saddle.

A ghostly face came over the man. He leaned on the kitchen counter with both palms and watched her approaching. He cleared his throat. “Get out of here, you. Go on home.” The horse continued. Startled by his voice, Jacqueline turned around and saw her husband leaning against the counter with his eyes to the ground.

“My Lord, Eugene,” she said, pressing her flat palm against her heart. “Is that... her?”
“Yeah,” he turned slowly and met his wife's eyes, beginning to nod his head,“that's her.”

“My Lord...”

He sighed and lightly bumped his clenched fist against the top of the counter a few times. In his stomach, he felt an intense weight. He thought something monumental had passed through his mind and vanished, as though he'd glimpsed a magnificent future only to see himself devour it.

“Looks like you were right,” he said.

“Well... you know I was just sayin' all that about the horse to get you riled up. I had no idea he'd actually gone and died today! You know I would't of said nothin' about it!”

“Jacqueline...” he tried.

“And... oh Lord,” she got out. The idea of Charlie's death finally hit her, and she was about to feel powerfully sad. “Oh my Lord... and... and oh no, what of Annabel?”

“Forget Annabel, Jacqueline! Charlie's the one who gone and died.” The horse now stood at the window breathing moist air into the kitchen.

“I can't even look at her,” he moaned, rubbing his hand against his bearded chin and walking to the closet. Opening it, he found his shovel. He brought it out and held it flat above both open palms and raised it closer to his eyes. Jacqueline had moved closer to the horse. Hunching over and to the side she studied its nose and upper body. She turned to speak and found Eugene holding the axe to his nose, his eyes closed as he smelled it. She moved her head back and forth quickly. “Eugene,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “What you think you gonna' do?”

He pushed the back door open with speed and marched outside. Before he'd come to a stop he thrust the shovel into the Earth as though he'd chosen the exact spot years before. Taking a moment to gather himself, he closed his eyes and took a breath before thrusting the first hunk of Earth off to the side. He began digging. His wife, back to her usual window perch, looked out to him and said, “What on Earth do you think you doin'?” He didn't respond. He went on digging wildly. “Wait,” she said loudly with her arm outstretched through the window and her palm open. Then she retracted her arm and shuffled toward the back doorway. There, she paused and took a deep breath. After popping out, she said sternly, “What the hell you thinkin'? You think they gonna' want him buried here, at our house, Eugene? Don't you think his family'll want him buried at his own damn house?”

“It ain't about what they want.” he replied after a slight pause.

“Oh my Lord, Eugene. This is just...” her upper lip swallowed her lower lip. “This is ridiculous. You're ridiculous, you know that?” She threw her hands up into the air in a second and then shuffled back inside. The ripples in the clean water bowl had smoothed. She pushed her hands palm down against the bottom of the bowl and scooped up a tiny splash of water for her face. Leaning against the cupboards on her right palm, she closed her eyes and pictured Charlie, handsome and alive. She took another deep breath.

--

Eugene had been digging for nearly thirty minutes. The horse had made her way around to the back yard. She watched him calmly as he dug. He would ride her back to Charlie's property to claim the body.

“How the hell you gonna' justify this, Eugene?” she said, back at her customary window. He dug. “Well, how?”

He paused and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “Jacqueline, you didn't know the man. This is justified.”
“Oh it's justified, then?”
“That's right,” he said glancing back at her, “it's justified.”

“Wait...” she murmured, her face softening all of a sudden, her pulse rising. She swallowed hard before asking, “he tell you he wanted to be buried here? He tell you that?” She tried hard to keep an uninterested face. He wasn't paying attention to her anyway.

“He told me.” He stated clearly, half to his wife and half to himself.

Jacqueline hesitated for a second, letting the corners of her mouth rise, and she turned back into the house.

Eugene found a peaceful rhythm in the shunk of the shovel hitting the Earth, followed by the dirt drizzling down atop his pile. A gentle shiver ran through his body from the longest hair on his head down to his toes. The sweat dripped from his nose and chin to the grave below. He thought it was right to be digging the grave. He thought his dear friend would've wanted it this way. He thought of all the times Charlie had gone on for hours about how his family was a gigantic thorn in his side. How his damn children were slurping up his life as children slurp the last bit of soup from a bowl. The horse stood calmly next to him, breathing loud, moist breaths in and out, waiting. He could hear her breath from over his right shoulder as he dug. Jacqueline lay on her back atop the bed, smiling peacefully to the ceiling.

Halfway through digging the grave, Eugene heard the horse clomping around behind him. It was consistent, like the animal was dancing, so he said over his shoulder, “quit it, Sally.” A man's voice responded: “Well what she ever do to you, grumpy old man?”

The shovel stayed lodged in the Earth a few seconds before Eugene removed it and turned slowly around. Sally stood right next to the horse he'd mistook for her. He couldn't have distinguished between the two horses if it hadn't been for his dear friend Charlie sitting atop one of them. He stood motionless for a second before stumbling away from them. He tripped backwards on the lip of the grave and plopped down onto the pile of unearthed dirt next to it.

“What the hell's wrong with you, boy?” Charlie spat out with a smile.

Eugene looked at his dear friend, and then to Sally, and then to the foreign horse. He'd been certain it was Sally who rode up riderless earlier. He'd been certain. He opened his mouth but words wouldn't come out.
“Eugene,” Charlie muttered, “Eugene what's wrong with you now?”

Eugene clenched his hand around his neck as he cleared his throat. “Aw, Charlie... Charlie...” he said defeatedly. Both of the men looked down to the grave. A seriousness appeared on Charlie's face through the dark.
“You diggin' your own damn grave?” he said quietly. Not knowing how to respond, Eugene shrugged his shoulders, pursed his lips, and opened his eyes wide. “Are you diggin' your own God damn grave?” Charlie said. “Well,” he continued coolly, “I got news for ya', boy.” He dismounted Sally slowly, keeping a hand on her neck and looking at the other horse nearby, “you ain't dead yet, Mr. Frenchman.” He chuckled and spat.

“Well I know that,” Eugene said, rubbing his beard. “But Charlie...” He paused to purse his lips. If he'd been wearing a hat, he would have taken it off and held it to his chest. Like a dog, he looked up to meet his dear friend's gaze. “I dug it for you.”

A few seconds passed where all they heard was the two horses. Charlie's head pivoted to the side a bit before he burst out laughing, slapping his hand on Sally's neck. Eugene sat motionless.

“Charlie...” he whispered, still looking his friend in the eye. Again, Charlie's face was pulled taught and serious. “Really, what is it, Eugene?” he said. “What's really goin' on here?”

Jacqueline had heard Charlie's voice and made her way back to the window perch where she sat silently. She heard her husband outside talking. “Charlie, I thought you was dead.” He sniffed and continued, “I thought this other horse here was Sally 'n that you'd gone and died 'n she had nobody to carry over here.” Charlie paused. Then he shook his head.

“This horse don't look a thing like Sally,” he said bluntly. “This one don't have a spot on her left shoulder like Sally does.” Eugene studied the foreign horse's shoulder intensely, still holding his chin. Then he studied Sally's shoulder. He turned his head over on its side and said, “Well ok, Charlie, but I really thought you was dead, honest to God.” Charlie motioned for him to stop talking.

“Why would my horse,” he began, “come all the way to your house after I was dead, Eugene?”

“Well, you know,” Eugene struggled, “Cause she's used to doin' that every other Friday, and here we are at friday.” Charlie gestured again for his friend to stop and said gravely: “Eugene. Why in God's name are you diggin' my grave in your own damn backyard?”

“I told you!” Jacqueline interjected sharply from her seat at the open kitchen window, pointing a finger to her husband. Both men looked to her. “I told you this was ridiculous!” Eugene's face shifted to panicked anger before he moved his eyes back to his dear friend. He shifted his seat in the unearthed dirt.

“I don't know, Charlie... I just...”

“You just thought I'd switch my last name to yours? Is that what you wanted?”

“No, no... I just remembered all those times we had where you were complainin' 'bout that family of yours, and how they're just spoilin' your life away.” Jacqueline let out a single siren of laughter and continued watching from her perch.
“Why you assume I'd like to be buried here? I'll be buried at my own house when I'm dead, not here. And I certainly ain't dead yet, boy.”
“Sure, sure I know,” Eugene replied quickly. There was another pause.

“I known you a very, very long time, Eugene.”

“Sure you have, Charlie” he confirmed from his seat. “Sure you have.”

Jacqueline stood motionless under the doorway. Eugene kept glancing to her and then looking away crisply. He shot to his feet, took a step closer to to his dear friend and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. He raised his head up high, pointed to the grave, and said down his nose: “You want me in there?” Charlie brought his eyes from the grave to his dear friend. Jacqueline was silent.

“What's got into you? I ain't shootin' nobody tonight.” Eugene was stumbling closer.

“You want me in there.” he said nodding up and down in an exaggerated way, panting. He stumbled closer and slapped his palm down upon Charlie's chest. Slowly, he leaned his face in, his beard almost touching Charlie's face, and he whispered through gritted teeth: “You. Want. Me. In. There.” His body waved back and forth as though drunk, and his eyes looked straight into Charlie's. In the doorway, Jacqueline stood motionless, silent. She felt her chest burning wildly within. Moving her gaze away from her husband, a grin came over her old cheeks, and she locked eyes with Charlie across the yard.   

In the Boy's Grasp

The boy's corduroys were muddy from the knee down and his sweaty hair flat against his forehead. He ran past branches and bushes with the urgency one feels simultaneously and exclusively with triumph, as though nothing—not the actions of friend or foe or God—might distract him from returning to his front porch, prize in hand. He bit is lower lip as he leapt over the creek and continued to where the expanse of his family's front yard began beyond the trees. His shirt tucked into his dirty pants and buttoned to the top button, it was tight around his throat as his heart pumped blood into his head. He knew what fire the prize of his first solo hunt would spark; his brothers would be envious, his father proud. He tripped over a bug-covered log and landed face first into a pile of dead leaves and dirt. Without wiping the mud from his eyes, he got up and continued his pace, out of the trees and into the field; his home was in sight.

“What in the hell...” whispered the boy's father through the pool of tobacco in his mouth. He sit way back in a small wooden chair, his mud-less boots resting on the porch's side rail.

“What's your damn brother runnin' from?”

The boy's brothers and father watched and spat their tobacco as he ran towards the house. George, the second-youngest, attempted the first response to their father.

“Looks to be he's got hisself a rabbit.”

“Ain't no rabbit,” said the father.

“But sure it is. Ain't nothin' else that color grey 'round here.”

“Ain't no rabbit,” said the father.

The faint sounds of the running boy's cries sounded like distant sirens, a constant repetitive flow of the word “Daaaad! Daaaad! Daaaad!” He held his prize up into the air as he ran, a dead and grey thing flopping jerkily with each stride.

“Daaaaad!” he yelled.

“Well sure thing is he damn well needs you to see whatever it is he got hisself,” said George, spitting off the porch onto the yellow and dry grass with a smirk.

The father watched coolly, expressionless. None of those boys had ever seen him surprised or shaken up. Every last one of them figured God himself could show up on their front doorstep and their father would just stare at God blankly, with that churning tobacco mouth and those slanted, squinted eyes. His eyes slanted down as they moved outward on his face, giving him a tragic appearance unless he squinted them sharply, as he always did. And sure enough, as though he'd been expecting his youngest son to run up out of the woods with a carcass in hand, the father explained flatly,

“He got hisself a duck.”

Cheers and hoots from across the porch followed. All three of the boy's siblings slapped their knees and began yelling to their ten year old boy brother. The father simply continued his expressionless recline. George, William, and Howard Jr. stood up, beckoning their boy brother to hurry up and show them the prize, though surely the boy was already running as fast he could.

“He got hisself a duck.”

“Damn right, he did, look at them orange feet!” cheered Howard Jr. His father's eyes still hadn't moved, his body not so much as shifted. He spat some tobacco spit into the spit bucket and swallowed what juice remained in his mouth. Then, as his youngest boy neared the front porch, he spoke:

“So where in shit's sake you find a dead duck layin' around? Somebody shoot it n leave it lost in the bushes?”

“Dad!” he yelled as he ran up the steps and stood next to his father. “Isn't she beautiful?”

“How do you know that there's a she?” asked George, excitedly. George's fat face grew fatter with excitement.

“'Cause it ain't colored like a boy duck is, dumbass.” replied the father. “Give that here, let me take a look at her.”

The boy handed his father the dead duck. The father turned it around in his hands, pulling at different parts, lifting other parts up for a better view.

“Ain't got none bulletholes... where'd you find this thing, boy?”

“I killed it, Dad!”

The father temporarily halted the churning of tobacco and looked his son in the face. He saw in this ten year old boy's eyes a man's pride. “How ye kill it?” the father said, his words seeping out of him as filthy water exits a compressed sponge.

“Yeah,” Howard Jr. beamed through his glasses, “how'd ye kill it?! Boy guess what and this lil' man did it hisself!” He patted his brother on the head and grinned.

The boy kicked his shoes off and folded his arms one over the other, still gripping the duck.

“I was down by the pond, and I saw her by the water, and I snuck up on her real quiet, and I walked up behind her and just grabbed her neck and I squeezed it harder n anything I ever squeezed.”

There was a quick but humid silence among the men on the porch. William's mouth was hanging wide open, for he'd never killed a duck like that. In fact, he'd never been so close to a live duck to be able to strangle it. None of those boys had. A whiteness grew over the father's face.

“That's my boy!” said Howard Jr.

“Alright!” said George.

“Well I'll be!” said William.

“I'll deliver it to your ma. She'll cook it up for dinner.” said the father. And with a last spit, the man left his boys on the porch and moved through the house with duck in hand, past the kitchen, to the back door. He stood there for a second, breathing heavily through his large nostrils, his eyes glued to the floor. Marianne had spotted him and followed him into the hallway. She found him standing by the closed back door to their house.

“What's that ya' got there, mister?” she delivered with a hand on her hip and a very toothy grin. “Got me a bird to cook up, did ya'?” He turned and looked at her, and then back to the duck. “Well?” she said. He smiled very quickly at her. And then, unable to break eye contact with her, his mouth turned downwards and into a drooping frown that matched his drooping eyes. “Boy killed it,” he said.
“Howard Jr.? I didn't see him take any guns out of the house.”
“The boy.”

“What do you mean, the boy? He find it dead on the ground somewhere?” She chuckled disbelievingly.

“Says he was down by the pond...” he began. She knew from his expression that whatever was about to follow was hurting him. She took a few drawn and slow steps towards her husband. “Says he was down by the pond, walked up behind it, grabbed its neck with one hand and strangled it 'til it dead.” He looked at her gravely, deeply.
“Say he just walked up and grabbed it? Sure he can't move that fast, he's just ten years old. He couldn't get twenty feet into the woods without trippin' over something.”
“I believe him.” the man whispered, moving his eyes away from his wife.

“Well,” she said, “give it here and Ill clean it up.” Her husband ignored this and opened the back door abruptly.
“Howard? Where you goin' with that?” But he was out. Moving like a deer, he was already twenty feet out into the back pasture as she repeated, “Howard?”
“Some creature'll come and get it and eat it up, no worry.” He said this to assuage something in him, to prove something to somebody inside of him. He gripped the duck's feet vice-like as he looked out to the setting sun behind the house, giving this isolated home a last hour of day before the tree line swallowed its remaining light. He reached back like a football quarterback and threw that duck into the dusk air. It wriggled as it flew, feathers and feet dragging back as the fat body pushed skyward. The father elicited a slight squeek from his wife in launching the bird, and the two of them watched as it soon plummeted back to the grass not twenty feet from the man.

“What on Earth...” began Marianne.

“Nothin' about it, Marianne. I's born in this house. Some creature'll come by in the night and take the carcass away to eat it. Better them eat on it than any of us,” he said, wiping his hands off on one another.

“Well Howard,” his wife, confused, replied, “Howard now why can't... we... eat it, again?”
Howard Sr. just smiled to her with squinty eyes as he returned to the back door of the house: “I's born in this house.” Grabbing his tin of tobacco off the chest in the main hallway, he made his way through to the front where his boys were making too much noise. He passed a photo mounted in the hallway of his own father. The man in the photo wore a white t shirt and wrinkled khaki pants. A lit cigarette in his mouth, he was posing, arms folded, next to the first deer he ever killed. The carcass lay awkwardly, tragically, on the hood of the truck. It wasn't the shell of a life so much as a pile of death, and beside it the man grinned.

Plopping a wad of fresh tobacco in his lower lip, the father thrust open the screen door to the front porch. His three older sons were in hysterics, overcome with the joyous news of their baby brother's newfound manhood. The boy was explaining how the duck's neck felt as he squeezed, how feeling the animal struggle for its life in his hands made his blood hot, how when he knew it was dead his eyes widened to wider than they'd ever open again.

“Boys,” interrupted the man, followed by a great spit into the spit bucket. The laughter continued, and the man shot his shiny right boot into the wooden porch, and the vibrations felt by the boys indicated to them well enough they ought to hush up. “Boys.”

Eight eyes directed right at him. He in the middle, and the boys looking in. The older boys still had their same dry tobacco wads in their dry mouths from before. “Which one of y'all,” began the father with one raised eyebrow, “is responsible for lettin' Daisy loose so'n I had to go 'n fetch her this mornin'?” All four of them hardened, statue-like. “Go on, now. I know one of you forgot to hitch her and close her up right last night. I found her out about a mile away this mornin' and when I'm through with a horse I hitch her up right. And I figure one of you is responsible, 'cause it sure wasn't me. And Lord knows it wasn't your ma.”

They knew it had been Howard Jr. But none of them moved. They would not squeal. And to this bond their father may have nodded appreciatively, if only it hadn't been for that duck. The youngest boy still had his arms folded with pride. The father shot towards the boy like a full on locomotive and violently pulled his arms apart, a face of terror growing over the young one. Then the father turned and looked at Howard Jr. Not averting his gaze, he spat directly into the spit bucket, and moved towards the son of his name. He cleaned up his part by running his right hand through his sweaty hair. “You little shit, goin' after that Robertson girl in town, weren't you?”

“No, no I wasn't, I promise...” began Howard Jr., but it was too late: his father knew. The man grabbed Howard Jr. by the nape of his neck and lifted him up out of his chair. “You goin' pay for that horse next time you leave her out. Mark my words. Them animals cost money to us, and they still mean money to us.”

The youngest boy was crying. The father threw Howard Jr. down to the floor of the porch with such force that Marianne heard the body's thud from the kitchen. Then the father looked straight and squinting into his youngest son's eyes, and he said: “You can make death happen. But death's coming anyways. I be a horse's ass if you can keep four boys in line, let alone alive. I's born in this house.” With this, he took the wad out of his lower lip, dropped it into the spit bucket, and marched back inside. Howard Jr. lay on the ground grabbing his neck and squinting his eyes in pain.

-

The next morning the four sons and their mother sat at the dining room table eating fresh laid eggs, sweet ham, and salty potatoes Marianne had made for breakfast. The youth at the table, the abandon with which her sons ate their food, made Marianne happy. She hadn't touched her plate. She'd only watched her sons shovel their food into their mouths.

Howard Sr. was out front chopping wood in his red and black flannel shirt and his blue jeans. He moved slowly but powerfully, his thick hands controlling the axe into the hunks of wood with precision. He sweat profusely, soaking his hair and his shirt. From inside, his family heard every chop he made. And with each chop, his grunting grew louder, more agonizing. He felt the pain of decades in his knees, in his back, in his shoulders. His job as a father was becoming, with each passing year, more of a pain, more of a stress, more of a weight upon his aging self. After a hefty chop, he rested the axe against his left shin and wiped his brow of sweat. Glancing to the driveway, he saw the spot where his father's Ford had rested in that hallway photograph, his old father resting against the old Ford. His eyes, only very quickly, relaxed from their squint and into their drooping natural state. Then he returned, picking up axe and thrusting it into wood.

Inside, his wife said to the boys, “Well I don't know what it's gonna take me to pry that man away from his workin'... I just don't know. I swear the only reason he ever does a job is so he can eventually move hisself onto another one.” Her boys continued shoveling food into their mouths. She picked up her fork and lightly jabbed at a piece of potato before moving it gingerly to her tongue. She loved the salty sensation and closed her eyes and sighed before moving her fork to a new piece. The youngest boy watched her.

“Your daddy got you pretty good yesterday, didn't he?” the wife said coolly to Howard Jr. “I told you sneakin' out to see that girl—Sally, Sue? What is her name, again?” The youngest boy perked up.

“That Robertson girl!” he said immediately, accidentally spitting remnants of potato back onto his plate through laughter.

“You shut it, boy,” replied Howard Jr. The other boys were chuckling, too.. “Her name is Sally. But that wadn't what he got mad about, Ma.”
“Oh, no?”

“Naw,” he brought a napkin up to his greasy mouth and continued, “he was just mad that I'd forgotten to hitch Daisy back up proper.” His mother's eyebrows raised with understanding.

“I see.”

Howard Jr. continued: “Whole thing was stupid, 'cause he knows I never left Daisy unsettled before and I sho' ain't goin' to do it again.”
“And sho', you knows that's not what your father was really mad about, don't ya?” she said with a satisfied smile. There was a pause. All in the room looked at expectantly at Howard Jr.

“Yeah well n what was he really mad about, Ma?” he retorted. To this their mother wiped her mouth with her napkin and prepared to explain. And she sat there looking at her plate for a few moments in silence, searching for something in her mind she thought she knew. The silence was broken by the father's last chop and grunt from out front.

Moments later, at the sound of their father hobbling up the porch steps, they all shot up to attention. They heard the steps coming down the hall, and the typical tinny sound of him dropping his tobacco canister onto the hallway chest. He carried the axe in his hand, and made his way past the kitchen and towards the back door. “Dad...” said the bright eyed youngest boy at the sight of his passing father, egg yolk dripping down his little chin. The father passed to the door and made his way out back.

He'd thought of the duck all the previous night and all morning. He'd seen the image in his head of his son making that final clamp with his fist, that final movement that was sure to kill. This vision would not leave him, nor could he shake the feeling that the carcass was still laying there, sensing him as he sensed it... And though he'd made it through the early hours of dawn without going to face it, he could no longer wait.

He turned the back doorknob and opened the door to find the duck. It was mangled to indistinguishable pieces, ripped open. And hovering over it, the ripper, a large and vulture-like bird, was moving hunks of duck into its beak and down its long, narrow throat. The father's eyes, seeing this bird eating this dead bird, widened to an unmistakable resemblance of shock. He stood motionless, staring at this vulture's feast.

Then the vulture-like bird, pieces of old blood and dirty feathers wedged in its beak, lifted its gaze to the father. Its eyes were narrow, and its beak and neck had stopped moving, the dark blood dripping quietly from the duck carcass and staining the yellow grass.

The father gripped his axe as tightly as he ever gripped anything, his strong hands almost cracking the wood. After a long breath in and out, he began running towards the vulture-like bird. He ran with a look on his face that he'd never worn; he was aiming to kill. His mouth open, his teeth grinding, his hair wild, and his eyes pushed open by sheer rage, he sprinted towards that bird, axe raised up in the air with his left hand. The bird fled, gathering a last bit of bloody meat and feathers before taking to lazy flight and safety. The father reached back and threw his axe into the air towards the flying bird, but it had already risen too high; his axe twirled in the air for a bit before falling quickly to the ground and thrusting itself into the dried grass of the back lawn.

Panting, practically hissing through his teeth, he rested his palms on his kneecaps as he attempted to decide whether or not he'd been like his father, like his son. His teeth were still grinding harshly. This adrenaline he'd never felt, this instinct he'd tried so hard to find, the actions of his father and now his youngest boy he'd tried to emulate... he was still himself, his old and disoriented self, powerless, fatherless, son-less... he began to cry through his heaves for breath, hands still on his knees. He saw the remains of the duck, ripped to shreds upon his lawn by something that found the carcass already killed. Then he turned to look towards his house, the house in which his father and he and all of his sons were born.

And he found his wife, hand on her hip, standing in the back doorway. He tried to squint his eyes towards her, but he couldn't. He tried to squeeze intelligible words out of his mouth, but he couldn't. So he looked down to the yellow grass and felt the pain in his knees. He wished he'd brought his tin of tobacco outside with him. Marianne, from the porch, shook her head side-to-side one time and found a spot in the sky. It was the scavenger bird off in the distance, flying away to scavenge somewhere else, for it had found her house and had its prize, and now it was continuing on to find some other carcass, some other shell to rip open and consume.