Erica did not recover the next day, or the one that followed, nor the entire time they were sequestered at the cabin in the Natchez Trace. Her symptoms followed a pattern established early on: an unrelenting fatigue that no amount of sleep could conquer and a low-grade fever unassailable by chicken soup or drugstore remedies, with a rising temperature in the afternoon, dipping at sunset, causing her to complain of the chills and request extra blankets abed or in the parlor chair where the daily dose of hot spiced milk would be delivered by the cherub of the house. This cycle induced a gradual ennui or emptying of passion, although that, too, drew scant complaint. Though her appetite had deserted her, the thought of food sometimes made her sick. She occupied her few waking hours with the books in the glass cabinet, games of chance and imagination with Una, and, when her energy waxed, short strolls around the grounds.
At first, Wiley was solicitous, worried over her health and well-being, preaching caution. He spent the first few days of her infirmity carefully disassembling the rifle and shotgun, cleaning and oiling the guts and letting them dry in the sun, and then, with some difficulty, refitting the pieces. The Gavins, used to men with rifles out in the country, paid him no heed. October played fair and mild, and he enjoyed being outdoors with a task that required his solitary attention and concentrated effort. But as evening passed to a lonesome night above in the loft, and the next days followed with no signs of progress, he grew agitated and restless. Mrs. Gavin sometimes left them alone with her granddaughter, driving off in an old white Rambler, mysteriously produced from a hiding place, and returning several hours later loaded down with groceries or, once, a quarter cord of firewood stacked in the back. Grateful to have some useful purpose, Wiley helped her unload supplies, eying the car and coveting the keys. For the most part, however, he went off on his own. He took to hiking the trails around the lake, pleased to be among the birds and small animals amid the fallen leaves. Some days he ventured back to the spot where the stolen car had been parked, prowled through the brush and along the shore for some clues to the Duster's disappearance.
To test his marksmanship, he took the rifle with him into the woods to wait for something to move, shooting at the birds that chanced his way, killing one with a single bullet through the breast. After huffing through the underbrush, he found the body, cupped it in his hand, and brought the winged thing to eye level. The cowbird was limp but stiffening with rigor mortis, its feet curling around a missing branch, its wings poised for departure. Wiley waited the rest of the afternoon for something bigger to kill, but the forest creatures grew wary of his presence and nothing flew or crawled or crept nearby. Back at the cabin, he asked Mrs. Gavin whether Erica needed a doctor but was rebuffed by her assurance that the girl simply needed some rest, let the body do what the body does best.
Day by day the sickness whittled away the sense of momentum they had built for the journey, and as the date passed for the planned rendezvous with Crow and the rest of the Angels, Wiley's mood darkened in captivity. As long as she could not travel, he felt bound to stay, but he needed to make some outward sign of his commitment to the cause, a radical break to counteract the domestic and quotidian turn his life had taken. He was a warrior in a just cause, different from his contemporaries who had given up the fight. Buried each day in the Little Red Book, he began to meditate on what distinguished the bold rebel from the apathetic masses, and he concluded that he needed to demonstrate his dedication to a higher calling. The ascetic warrior moves against the times. Wiley decided he would shave his head as a rite of passage and cast off the trappings of the common crowd. He approached Mrs. Gavin with a request to borrow her car, explaining his need to drive into town and find a barbershop.
“I'll cut it,” she volunteered. “You want a shaved head? I do my granddaughter's hair.”
A quick look at the girl's ragged mop did nothing for his confidence, but he capitulated under the circumstances. Mee-Maw made him wash his mess of curls but instructed him to leave it wet, and draping a bath towel across his shoulders, she brushed it out like a horse's tail. Snipping the scissors in the air above his head, she asked again, “How much should I take off? The whole head, Una?”