View from the SideRoad E-Book

Sharon M. Kennedy

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 262

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Enjoy U.P. Stories from the View of a Yooper
Join us for a trip through Michigan's rural Upper Peninsula in this collection of fictional short stories. Let the characters of View from the SideRoad surprise you with their resilience, humor, and unpredictability. Whether it's a sailor who shuns water, an old maid who wants to shoot her cats, or a man who keeps his lover in the junk drawer, the stories range from witty to wry to weepy. Sharon is a master of the short form. As readers of her newspaper column and previous collections will attest, she never disappoints. Her stories will keep you turning the pages and thirsting for more.
"Penned by Sharon Kennedy, a hidden gem in the wilds of Michigan's Eastern Upper Peninsula, this book is a fine collection of humorous, satirical, and poignant stories."
--Jim Dwyer, Writer, Mackinac Journal
"View from the SideRoad weaves vivid tales with warmth and humor. The author really knows how to captivate the reader with tantalizing stories."
--Jill Lowe Brumwell, Author of Drummond Island: History, Folklore, and Early People
"Sharon Kennedy is one of the Upper Peninsula's premier writers. A well-read columnist in the Eastern U.P., she has turned her attention to writing books and U.P. literature is the better for it. Her stories are reminiscent of Cully Gage's, Northwoods Readers, but with her own spin and style."
--Mikel Classen, Author of True Tales: Forgotten History of Michigan's Upper Peninsula, recipient of Charles Follo Award / Historical Society of Michigan
"For some sailors, climbing the career ladder on a Great Lakes freighter involves paying a pungent price as illustrated in the story, 'Tank, ' a wonderfully funny portrait of what can happen to a lifelong bachelor oblivious to any sense of personal hygiene. This book is an entertaining read."
--Rich Hill, Author of West of the River, North of the Bridge
From Modern History Press

Leseprobe

View from the SideRoad: A Collection of Upper Peninsula Stories

Copyright © 2022 by Sharon M. Kennedy. All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-61599-692-6 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-693-3 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-694-0 eBook

Published by

Modern History Press

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

[email protected]

Tollfree 888-761-6268

FAX [phone]

Distributed by Ingram (USA/Canada), Bertram’s Books (UK/EU)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kennedy, Sharon M., 1947- author.

Title: View from the sideroad : a collection of Upper Peninsula stories /

Sharon M. Kennedy.

Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Modern History Press, [2022] | Summary: "A compilation of short stories depicting the struggles and lives of contemporary adults in the unforgiving rural environment of Michigan's Upper Peninsula"-- Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022037624 (print) | LCCN 2022037625 (ebook) | ISBN 9781615996926 (paperback) | ISBN 9781615996933 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781615996940 (epub)

Subjects: LCSH: Upper Peninsula (Mich.)--Fiction. | LCGFT: Short stories.

Classification: LCC PS3611.E625 V54 2022 (print) | LCC PS3611.E625 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20220808

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022037624

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022037625

To Kyle, Sakari, and my daughter, Stephanie, whose faith in me never waivers.

Also by Sharon M. Kennedy

The SideRoad Kids: Tales from Chippewa County

Life in a Tin Can: A Collection of Random Observations

Contents

Introduction

Tank

Zelly’s Midnight Battle

Vance and the Venison

The Frying Pan Incident

The Upstairs Renter

Memories of Rose

Summer Will Not Come Again

Long-Suffering Edith

What Day Is It?

Aunt Betty’s Secret

Misbegotten Larke Jones

Junk Drawer Blues

Mary Beth Biggins and Her Beanies

An Evening at Lucky’s Tavern

The Orange Room

Forgive Us Our Sins

Crowded Aisles at Callaghan’s Market

Talk On, Jade Bea

December’s Quarry

Gone Too Long

The Premature Passing of Howdy Blanks

About the Author

Introduction

Although fictitious, some of the stories in View from the SideRoad are loosely based on tales I heard throughout my youth. My Dad was an Irishman who never missed an opportunity to embellish something his buddies had told him. Set in Goetzville, “The Premature Passing of Howdy Blanks” was one of his favorite tall-tales. Mom was also a storyteller and her rendition of Barbeau’s “Vance and the Venison” was repeated every Thanksgiving. “The Upstairs Renter” was inspired by my trip to Ireland. It’s about a Sault Ste. Marie man who slowly sinks into madness as he writes his novel. Gardenville’s “Summer Will Not Come Again” is a story that epitomizes the love between a husband and wife and the innocence of their young granddaughter. Les Cheneaux’s “Long-Suffering Edith” tells the tale of a woman who does not want another child. “Junk Drawer Blues” expresses the feelings of a gal from Shingleton who gets on the wrong freeway. When she finally arrives at her destination, the behavior of her lover is a thorough disappointment. “Aunt Betty’s Secrets” takes place in Detour Village. It’s a tale about relatives who search for money by rifling through their dead cousin’s belongings. “Forgive Us Our Sins” is an example of how a religious fanatic from Pickford can turn his wife into a non-believer. “December’s Quarry” illustrates the heartache endured by a Gulliver family when poverty grinds them down. Although the towns mentioned in the book do exist, the characters and situations are not real and do not represent any specific person, dead or alive.

Tank

Tank had sailed on the Joseph L. Block, a Great Lakes freighter, for more than 30 years. He was short, overweight, bald, and dirty. Especially dirty. He had this thing about water. He didn’t mind sailing on it from March through the end of the season in mid-January, but the thought of standing underneath a shower or sitting in a tub made him cringe. Other than being dirty, Tank had no faults. He was a good Christian from Trenary, a tiny town in Michigan’s Western Upper Peninsula famous for its Finnish cinnamon dunking toast. He didn’t drink hard liquor, smoke pot, sniff cocaine, stick needles in his veins, or chase women. He had no wife or children that he knew of, no close friends, no family other than his elderly mother, and no lawyers chasing him. But Tank did have two things he treasured—his red 1999 Ford F-350 diesel truck and his mother’s Pomeranian, Punk.

I met Tank in January of 2005 when we shared a room at the Holiday Inn near the Great Lakes Maritime Academy in Traverse City. The company we worked for, ArcelorMittal, owned the Block and had sent some of us men for two weeks of training. We were engine room wipers which means we pushed a broom or mop and didn’t do much else. Once we passed this class, we’d be certified Q-MEDs. Don’t ask me what that means because I didn’t ask when I was told I’d become one if I was sharp enough to pass the tests. I could have cared less. I was happy pushing a broom and occasionally mopping the engine room floor, but I was pressured into this classroom business by my gal, Rita.

Anyway, I rolled into Traverse City late Sunday afternoon. I was driving my gray 2004 Chevy S-10 pickup, and I was tired. When I got to the hotel, I asked the little lady behind the desk to point me in the direction of my room. She handed me a card for 304 and told me to take the elevator and follow my nose. I’ve stayed at lots of motels and hotels—some dumps, some high class—but I never stayed in one that had a peculiar odor like this one. It smelled like somebody had died a long time ago, but the authorities had just found the body and decided to leave it where it was. The stench worsened as I got to my floor. When I got to my room, I was ready to pass out.

I’ll tell you, I’m a big man. At 59, I’m broad across the chest, tall, strong, muscular—boxed in the ring for pay in my younger years—and I’ve never run from anyone or anything, but when I slipped that plastic card into the slot and that green light popped up telling me the door would open, I was ready to bolt. I can’t say I took a deep breath because I was trying not to breathe at all, not wanting to inhale that odor. I turned the handle and walked in.

That’s when I met Tank. He was lying on the bed closest to the window. The heat was cranked up to about 90, his boots and socks were on the floor, and he was tapping his feet to the beat of a Don Ho tune coming from a Discovery Channel special. Vomit rose to my throat, but I swallowed it down and threw my gear on the bed nearest the bathroom. Tank sat up straight and saluted. “Tank Windsor at your service,” he said. “Glad to make your acquaintance.” He stuck out a grubby hand. I had no choice but to shake it.

“I’m Carl,” I said. “How’re you doing?”

“Doin’ good. Got no troubles as long as I got Punk to keep me out of ’em. How about you?” Tank was still holding my hand, actually squeezing it, and I had to wiggle my fingers from his grasp. Punk was the size of a minute, but he growled like he was an Irish wolfhound.

“I’m fine. Drove in from Illinois. Little town called Odin about an hour’s drive north of St. Louis. Where you from?” My head was spinning from the heat and the stench, but I tried to act normal. Tank’s coveralls were filthy. A crawling, bushy black beard covered every inch of his face except his forehead and eyes. His black eyebrows covered them. His hands were cracked and calloused and unusually white for a man who obviously never showered. Maybe he had a medical condition.

“Me? I’m from everywhere and nowhere. Been sailin’ so long, I ain’t had time to settle in one place since I left Trenary the summer of 1965. When the boat lays up in January, me and Punk hop in the truck and follow the road. It don’t matter where we go. We got nobody to please or answer to, so we please ourselves and answer to no one. You got a wife?”

“No, not now. Had four throughout the years, but none now. Got a girlfriend in Brimley, though. Excuse me a minute,” I said and headed for the toilet. I couldn’t keep my lunch down.

“You all right in there?” Tank hollered. “You eat somethin’ that didn’t agree with you? You want some Pepto? I got some tablets in my pocket.”

“I’m okay. I’ll be right out,” I yelled.

“You don’t look too good, old boy,” Tank said when I sat on my bed. “Can I get you anythin’?” He looked sincere, but I knew I couldn’t stay in this room.

“I’ll be okay. Just let me catch my breath and get some fresh air.”

“It too hot in here for you? I can turn the heat down. There, is that better?”

“That’s fine. Thanks.” I was trying to breathe without inhaling.

“You got medical troubles?” he asked.

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, then, it’s just a case of nerves. This your first time here?”

“Yeah. Yours?”

“No, third time. I think I know the answers, but when I take the test they fly away as fast as ducks fly from a shotgun.”

“Don’t they say third time’s a charm?”

“How many times you say you been married?”

“You got me there.”

Tank scratched his armpit, increasing the stench. “Some fellows like to talk,” he said. “Others don’t. Take me, for instance. I don’t say much most of the time unless I’m with Punk. No dogs allowed in this fancy joint, so this little beggar has to stay in the truck. I snuck him in underneath my jacket, but I know he can’t spend the night. I’ll leave the truck runnin’ so he don’t freeze to death. I’ll bet Punk’s got me trained better than any wife you ever had. I’ll take him for a walk now before it gets too dark.” He put on his socks and boots and grabbed his Carhartt jacket from where he had thrown it across a chair.

As soon as the door closed, I slid the window open and called the front desk. “Get me another room,” I shouted to the little lady. “I’m in 304 and if I stay here much longer, I’ll be dead.” She said she’d try her best but in the meantime she suggested I calm down. Easy for her to say. I dug in my suitcase for a bottle of Mesmerize cologne and sprayed a good amount of it throughout the room. Then I figured I might as well hang up some of my shirts so they wouldn’t wrinkle. I’m fussy that way. Whether I’m in this room for five minutes or five hours, I don’t want wrinkled shirts. When I opened the closet, it was empty. Either Tank hadn’t unpacked or he didn’t have anything other than the clothes on his back. I didn’t see a suitcase, backpack, duffle bag, or even a plastic bag from K-Mart. Except for the lingering smell and the indentation on the bedspread, there was no indication Tank had ever been in this room.

Maybe he was a bum who had wandered in from the cold and found a door unlocked. Yeah, that must be it. I didn’t think I’d be seeing him again. When I looked out the window, his truck was gone. Good. I thumbed through the phone book, found a Pizza Hut, ordered a twelve incher with the works and a Diet Pepsi, and clicked on Fox News. I stretched out on the bed and called my woman. She answered on the second ring like she always does because I trained her. It sure is great knowing there’s a gal waiting for me who doesn’t ask questions. I trained her on that count, too. If you train them right from the get-go, it makes life a whole lot easier.

It wasn’t long before my pizza arrived. I ate my fill, switched channels until I found “City Confidential” and settled down for the night. I must have dozed off because it seemed like my head had just hit the pillow when someone was shaking me awake. For a few minutes, I couldn’t remember where I was until Tank’s bushy face was next to mine.

“Mornin’ Sleepin’ Beauty. Time to rise and whine,” he said. “I’m gonna walk Punk now. Class starts in an hour.” As he was going out the door he turned and said, “Say, what’s that awful stink? Hit me full force when I walked in here last night. The place smelled like a whore house.”

With a wave of his hand, he was gone, or maybe I should say his body was gone. I thought I was going to hurl again, but everything stayed down. I opened the window, turned off the heat, and sprayed more cologne. The tub was dry as I stepped in it and there was no sign of a wet towel. Why should that surprise me? After a quick shower, I dressed in my new beige Remington shirt and khaki cargo pants, slicked my hair into place, combed my eyebrows, plucked some wayward nose hairs, and put on my rings. I swung my arms through my new leather jacket and pulled on my Columbia boots. I was ready to face that little lady at the front desk and demand a room change. I couldn’t believe I had slept through the night as well as the stench, but I knew I’d never make it through another one.

When I got to the front desk, I was in for a surprise. The little lady was gone and in her place was a feisty-looking matron who informed me no other rooms were available. One look at the old gal and the fight went out of me. I could tell she wasn’t moved by my charm or good looks. I wandered over to the breakfast buffet and fixed myself some instant oatmeal, two English muffins with peanut butter, poured a cup of black coffee, and sat at one of the tables. The coffee was just right. Not too strong. Not too bitter. The food was putting me in a good mood, so I called my gal and she answered on that second ring. Rita wished me luck. I hadn’t set foot in a classroom in over 45 years and then it was only the eighth grade. I knew I was going to need all the luck I could get.

I drank the last of my coffee and returned to the room. I brushed my teeth and gargled with some fancy California mouthwash called TheraBreath, a gift from Rita. Most of the time, she’s a good old gal, but she has a wicked temper. I called her again just to make sure she was home and not running around with some other fellow. I reassured her she was my main squeeze which may or may not have been the truth. I learned a long time ago you got to keep the gals guessing so they treat you right and not take advantage. I closed my briefcase, put on my gloves and left the room. It was only a short walk to the classroom, but the wind blew cold off Lake Michigan and sliced right through me.

“Over here, Craig. I saved you a seat.” I walked into the empty room and took the chair Tank pointed to. “It’s nice to get here early,” he said. “We got the best spots.” He had plunked us in the back row, as far from the whiteboard as possible. I’ve only got one good eye and wondered how I was going to see anything.

“Name’s Carl,” I corrected, but it made no difference.

As the room filled with men, only latecomers sat by us. I was worried they might think I was the smelly one, but anybody could tell just by looking at Tank that he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in years. The teacher, a man who looked weather-worn and stern, walked to the front of the room and told us the next two weeks might be rough sailing, but we’d make it through if we paid attention which is what I did.

The time went fast and as the week wound down, I was more relaxed and sure of myself. The class was interesting. I learned about ballast and gauges, what to do in emergencies including a pirate attack, and a dozen other things I might remember if I don’t forget them. When Friday’s session was over, I headed for my room and Tank headed for his truck and Punk. On Saturday he disappeared early, and I had the room to myself.

I looked at a note of encouragement from my gal and that got me thinking about all the women I’ve known. The good ones, bad ones, mean ones, religious ones, the sober and the drunk ones. Then I thought about Ma. She passed away five years ago. She always loved me no matter what I did, and I did a lot of stuff I’m not proud of. What got me thinking about her was Tank. He talks in his sleep. Every night he yells, “Ma, it’ll be okay.” He mumbles for a long time before he cries. I never heard a grown man cry before. In the morning, he always asks if I heard him blubbering. I say yeah. This morning he told me about his mother.

“She’s in a nursin’ home,” he said. “Not on welfare, though. I pay the bills. Her memory’s gone, and she don’t know who I am. Punk’s her dog, but they don’t allow dogs at the home, so I promised her I’d take good care of him. When I sail, I put Punk in a kennel, and it just about kills me. He’s an old dog and probably won’t last much longer.” When he left the room, I cracked the window and sprayed more cologne.

The weekend went fast. I called Rita every couple hours, but I didn’t mention the class or anything else. I made her do all the talking. I learned a long time ago to say as little as possible so my tongue doesn’t slip up and get me in hot water with the women. That’s why I love cell phones. I can be with Charlotte and tell Rita I’m in my bunk watching the news while I’m really getting it on with Charlotte. Well, anyway, Tank returned late Sunday night. He greeted me like we were old buddies who hadn’t seen each other in years. He smelled worse than ever. Monday evening, he didn’t show up after his walk with Punk. For the rest of the week, I roomed alone. It didn’t take long for the smell of him to disappear or maybe I had just gotten used to it. I asked the guys if they knew where he was, but nobody did.

By Friday, the temp had dropped to negative 20, the course was over, and I was ready to head north on I-75 with my certificate as a bona fide Q-MED in my briefcase. I couldn’t wait to show it to Rita. I left early Saturday morning and called her as I was crossing the Mackinac Bridge. As usual, she answered on that second ring, but her voice sounded different. She said a friend of mine had stopped by with a letter addressed to me. She said the fellow had a strong smell about him, but he was pleasant in a sad sort of way. Then she asked if I wanted her to read the letter. I said go ahead.

Rita read, “Just a note to let you know I got word Ma died Monday. I was goin’ pass the test this time and be a Q-MED, but I was so broke up, I had to leave and take care of things. I also decided to retire. Got a nice nest egg saved. Just wanted to let you know you were real good company except for that awful stuff you sprayed. Here’s my number. Keep in touch. Be seein’ you, Tank.”

I asked Rita how Tank knew her. She said she had called the room one evening, but I wasn’t in. Tank answered the phone and they visited for an hour. She said she called a dozen more times, but each time I was out and wasn’t answering my cell. Eventually, Tank asked for her address. Her next words nearly knocked me off my seat.

“Don’t bother coming around again,” she said. “I’ve decided to try my luck with someone else. You might as well turn your truck around and head back to Illinois. It’s been fun, Carl, but it’s over.” She hung up. When I called back, it went to the answering machine. I called and called, but not once did she pick up the phone. Finally, I called Tank.

“Heard you dropped by Rita’s place,” I said and before I could say anything more, he informed me they were a couple. “I took one look at your little lady and I was hooked. After I left that note for you, I went straight to the Ojibway, Sault Ste. Marie’s most expensive hotel, got me a room, and soaked in the tub for an hour. Then I went to the barber shop once owned by Wimpy Smith and got a shave and my eyebrows trimmed. Then I bought a mountain of clothes at JC Penneys, and after that, I traded in my truck for a snazzy new black Corvette. Then I called Rita and asked if she was busy. She answered on the second ring like you said she always does. We went to dinner at the Robin’s Nest and talked for hours. The upshot is I asked her to marry me, and she said yes. We’re drivin’ to Vegas tomorrow to escape the cold, and Punk can hardly wait. All’s fair in love and war, right Craig? We’ll be wed in the Elvis Chapel. No hard feelin’s, right?”

“Right,” I said and hung up the cell. I tore my Q-MED certificate into tiny pieces and threw it out the window. I won’t need it if I’m giving up sailing. I was only doing it because Rita pushed me. Women. You can’t trust them, not for a minute. And I should know. I’ve had hundreds. I got off the freeway at the Clare exit and headed south. Then I called an ex-wife. She answered on that second ring, just like I knew she would because I trained her. Life is good when you know how to play it.

Zelly’s Midnight Battle

“Damn you cats. Quit waking me up at midnight. If you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot the lot of you which, of course, will bring Constable Miller of Dafter pounding on my front door in the morning.” With that, Zelly reaches for the shotgun propped by the side of her bed, walks downstairs, opens the back door of her well-kept house, and shoots into the night sky. The shrieking stops as she hears strays, as well as her own cats, run in every direction. She shouts a loud scat into the air and fires again. On the way back to her bedroom, she misses the top step. It isn’t until she hits the floor that she realizes her mistake.

“Goddamnit,” she says as she props herself into an upright position. “Goddamn everything to hell and back especially the cats, the steps, and my useless old legs.” She climbs back into bed, but sleep has left her. She tosses and turns. The Westclox on her nightstand reads just past twelve. Every summer night it’s the same routine. The neighboring cats fight hers. Try as she might, she can’t convince her three toms to stay in the house where they belong. They insist on sleeping on her good davenport during the day and spending the night prowling the neighborhood. Just yesterday, Barney, the oldest, came home with an entry wound in his left leg and an exit wound in his right eye. There’s always something stealing her peace. If it isn’t screaming cats at midnight, it’s a wounded one in the morning. If it isn’t a squirrel jumping from the spruce tree to her metal roof, it’s a rat running through the rafters. Zelly lies in bed and worries about everything under the sun until the sun comes up and she falls back to sleep just about the time it’s time to get up and get going.

She rearranges herself, pulls the covers underneath her chin, and thinks about her life. It isn’t a bad one. God saw fit to spare her the torment of a husband and children. At an early age, she had her fill of cooking and cleaning and caring for her younger sister, Rene. When she was nine, Zelly was put out to labor as a char and decided she wanted no part of domestic life if all it involved was drudgery. She scrimped and saved until she had enough money to buy an old Royal typewriter. Then she taught herself to type. At 15, she got an office job. She worked for Beyer Cement in Calumet until five years ago when she turned 65, her boss told her it was time to retire, and she moved back to Dafter. She knows she has plenty of good years left in her, but she has no idea how to use all the time on her hands.

But tonight it isn’t just the cats keeping Zelly awake. It’s worrying about her sister who stopped by yesterday with some disturbing news. Rene wants to leave her husband and asked Zelly if she could move in with her. Zelly’s first response was astonishment followed by outrage, but she couldn’t show her true feelings to her sibling. She’s caught in the middle of an awful mess. If she refuses Rene’s request, there’ll be hell to pay. If she gives in, she might as well check herself into a mental institution because Rene will drive her crazy. She was always the floozy of the family, and Zelly knows Rene will put a red light in the window as sure as day follows night.

“If I had a husband, things would be different,” Zelly muses aloud. “Rene wouldn’t dream of asking to move in with me. Just because I’m a spinster she thinks I don’t have a real life, but what the hell do you call what I’m doing if it isn’t living? I breathe like everybody else. I have feelings like the rest of the family, and I don’t want to be bothered with a middle-aged strumpet. Hell, I’m wide awake now. I might as well get up and make a cup of tea.”

Zelly putters in her kitchen. “Why the hell does the family always take advantage of me?” she asks the tea kettle. “And why didn’t I tell Rene the truth that I don’t want her here and the spare room belongs to the cats? Why am I such a coward? Why do I get everything backwards?” Zelly’s verbal monologue continues until the kettle whistles. She opens the tea canister and scoops out some loose leaves. She tosses them in a fancy teapot and puts it on a wooden tray next to her favorite china cup and saucer. She fills a matching serving plate with sugar cookies she baked two days ago. She carries everything to the living room and chooses the only thing of value her father left her—an ancient leather chair, soft and well-worn from years of holding his drunken body.

She has a habit of sitting in that chair, drinking tea, and surveying her comfortable room. Sometimes she sits for hours, in a stupor as she refers to her condition, and looks around the room at the pictures on the walls, the furniture, the books, the plants, and the carpet. In other words, she surveys the objects that complete her life. It’s as if she’s glued to her chair. This condition has not come upon her recently but has been with her from childhood. As the older of two children, Zelly has lived most of her life in a dream state. On the family farm, there was always endless work and never enough money. Death was a constant companion and sorrow the natural state of being. Zelly survived by carving a pleasant world of daydreams. Don’t look back, don’t look back was her mantra and the impetus pushing her forward from an early age.

The clock on the mahogany buffet strikes 1:30 a.m. She finishes her tea, puts the dishes in the sink, and climbs the stairs to her bedroom. This time she doesn’t forget the top step. Maybe she can get a little more sleep before the July sun announces the dawn of another day. She closes the door and switches off the light. Before reaching the comfort of her mattress, she stubs her toe on the wheel of the antique iron bed that once belonged to her mother and in which Zelly was conceived.

“Goddamn you goddamned wheel,” she says and pulls the pink sheet up to her chin. In the distance she hears the shriek of cats as the toms fight over the females. She sticks her arm out from underneath the sheet and reaches for the flask of Jack Daniels in the nightstand’s top drawer. After a good slug, she rolls towards the wall, oblivious to everything except her own rhythmic breathing. Sleep will soon come and another night will soon pass and all will soon be well if she can just muster the courage to shoot the goddamned cats and tell Rene to go to hell and stay there.

Vance and the Venison

Stud Strong of Barbeau was tracking a wounded deer on a brisk November morning when he saw smoke coming from a shack that stood north of the creek on his property. He wanted to check who was there, but first he had to follow the buck’s bloody trail into the forest. When the animal finally collapsed, Stud took off his gloves and slit its throat with his hunting knife. Then he gutted it. The heat from the spikehorn’s innards warmed his hands, and as the blood made contact with the cold air, it congealed underneath his fingernails.