I was statued, unable to back out of the room or even explain my mistake. He continued watching me. Plastic flowers in a beer pitcher on the windowsill; Rorschach-stained window shade pulled down behind it. Peeling wallpaper in the corner and a worn maroon shag carpet, the shags burring like clotted blood.
“Um… the bathroom. I… I thought it was in here.”
He continued to stare at me, breathing small and soft so as not to waste his dwindling allotment of air. I backed slowly out of the room; his eyes followed me in a helpless gaze until they were gently closed by the door. I found the bathroom with its old toilet. Rust ring in the bowl and sink. I peed, flushed, and tiptoed past the mistaken door, feeling his eyes on me still.
Miner’s eyes.
“What the fuck you doin here, homo?” It was Tilroy, the fat bully from two weeks ago at the tree house. He was shirtless in his bedroom doorframe, pink stretch marks feathering the sides of his dough belly.
I froze, felt like I’d been caught rifling a secret closet. “Nothing, I was just going to the bathroom,” I stammered. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here, fuckface.”
“I’m just helping my grandfather; he’s looking at a hurt mule,” I added. That seemed to soften Tilroy just a little.
“Agnes?”
“Who?”
“The mule, dipshit. Agnes. You’re here to fix her?”
“Uh, yeah. My grandfather does the fixing—I’m his assistant, though,” I said proudly.
His black eyes seemed to gather up light, his face relaxed, and his voice became plaintive, hopeful. “She broke her leg an it’s all kinds a painful. Your grandaddy’s gotta fix her. He’s good, ain’t he?”
“He’s the absolute best.”
Tilroy’s smile was a nearly imperceptible upward twitch. “You wanna see my crossbow pistol?” He motioned for me to follow him into his bedroom.
I hesitated. “I think I’d better get back outside. My grandfather may need my help.”
“It’ll jus take a second. I ain’t gonna shoot you or nuthin.” He chuckled in a way that offered me no assurance.
I looked down the brown-paneled hall to see if Pops had come looking for me, then followed him into the bedroom. The room was Spartan, with a simple single bed pushed against the wall, a dirty coiled rug on gray particle-board floor. A work desk at the foot of the bed fashioned from cut plywood laid across two sawhorses. The walls were covered in black-and-white heavy-metal music posters: Slayer, Metallica, Dokken. As I moved closer I could see that the posters were charcoal and pencil drawings, not photographs.
“Where did you get all these drawings?”
“You like Slayer?”
“Sure,” I lied.
“I copied that one from a picture I saw in Metal Head.” He pointed to the Metallica drawing. “That’s from the album with ‘The Four Horsemen.’ ”
“You drew all these?”
He nodded. The workmanship and detail in the drawings were truly spectacular. It was hard to tell them from a photograph.
“Who taught you how to draw like this?” I asked with a half laugh. I was amazed and perplexed that such talent was housed in the same mind as the bully I knew.
“Nobody taught me nuthin. I jus do it.”
“Seriously, these are really, really good.”
“These ain’t even the best. Hang on.”
He moved to the closet and pulled back the curtain, then knelt, digging into the far corner under a pile of clothes. He stood and turned slowly around. He was holding a long, thin metal box, the size of two briefcases. He put it on the worktable, unbuckled the hasps, and gently opened the lid. Inside was a full array of pencils, brushes, pastels, paints, every bit of art gear imaginable, perfectly ordered in row upon row. The bounty of art supplies seemed completely out of place among the meager surroundings. In a sleeve in the top he gingerly pulled out a large pencil drawing. It was a picture-perfect rendition of the inside of Miss Janey’s, with Mr. Paul standing in front of the bank of cutting stations, arms crossed, smiling wide.
“Wow, it looks exactly like him.”
Tilroy was beaming now, his face inviting. “He got me this artist set so I tole him I’d draw him up. Gonna make it all color an stuff. Maybe he’ll hang it up the shop. That would be cool… professional sorta.” He gently brushed a cluster of dust off the drawing.
“Man, you should go to art school or something.”
“That’s what Mr. Paul says. He even talked to my daddy bout it.” Tilroy looked down at the drawing again and the smile left him; his eyes went cold. “I ain’t gonna go, though. Art school is for pussies.”
We were awkwardly silent now. Finally I said, “Look, I really gotta get back to my grandfather. He probably needs my help.” I started to drift out of the room. Tilroy was still standing at the table running his fingers gently down the line of colored pencils. “I’m gonna go outside now,” I said again. But he was already off somewhere to a world where art supply suitcases were celebrated and husky, awkward kids didn’t have to kill deer or race cars or say nigger or get whipped. “I’m gonna…” I stepped through the door and ran down the hall out into the thick morning.
Pops was explaining the mule’s prognosis to Sen Budget. His hand chopped at the air for emphasis. “The cast would stay on for eight weeks, then just a splint for another four. She’ll be able to walk, but her hauling days are over.”
Sen rubbed the back of his neck. The mule was still on its hindquarters, holding the broken foot in the air like a begging dog.
“That ain’t gonna do. A mule what can’t haul ain’t much good, now, is she?”
“No, Sen, I don’t suppose she is.”
He grabbed the halter rope from the dirt and pulled the mule toward the barn. The mule refused. He pulled again and the mule dug deeper. A third time, with muscle. The mule didn’t move. Sen threw the rope down, mumbled something to himself, and walked purposefully toward the house and into the kitchen door. Pops watched him, puzzled. Thirty seconds later, he bounded from the door, walking stiffly toward us, his right arm taut as wire, big-barreled handgun hanging down past his knee. Lucille banged out after him, leaning against the iron rail, arm slabs taking the bright sun. Tilroy came out right after her. The two girls stopped playing in the pool and turned to see what was going on.
I stood frozen as Sen clipped up to the crippled mule and put the long gun to her temple. Pops acted fast, grabbing me by the collar suddenly and jerking me from the line of the shot just as Sen pulled the trigger. The boom of the gun sent us both jumping. The bullet passed through the mule’s head, sending it sideways and breaking the only windowpane left in the barn. The gun recoiled past his right ear.
Agnes shook her head as if a fly was buzzing it; blood fauceted from both holes. She placed her hooves on the ground for balance, then jerked her broken foot up, causing the good leg to slide slowly forward until she was prone in the dirt with the good leg splayed out front and the bad leg tucked under her body. Chin in a spreading blood pool; dust floating on the blood like miniature sailboats.
The girls, standing now, held each other and wailed. I looked over at Tilroy, whose mouth was an O, eyes popped, hands on his shaking head. His face went scarlet.
It was the first time I had ever seen any animal killed; it fascinated and frightened me at once. The air had taken on the consistency of water, and everyone’s movements seemed checked by the new aerodynamics.
Sen watched the mule bleed, gun still at his ear. He brought the barrel down slowly, readying for another shot, when Pops stepped forward and wrenched it from his hand.
“I think we’ve had enough gunplay for one morning.” Pops was in a boiling rage, his ears red. He pushed Sen back and emptied the remaining bullets from the gun and tucked the weapon into his waistband.
“Hey, you can’t just take a man’s gun like that. It’s my mule an I’ll do as I please.”
Pops’ ears went white. “You goddamn idiot, you almost shot my grandson. Now you will do as I please. Go tend to your daughters.”
“Don’t you be lettin that stand, Sen Budget,” Lucille bellowed from the back porch. She huffed off the steps into the dirt and wombled toward us. “Who the hell you think you is anyway, comin in here takin my husbin’s gun like that?” The girls began crying a fresh chorus.
“Lucille, this is my bidness,” Sen barked.
“Like hell it’s your bidness—my daddy give you that gun.” She turned to Pops. “Give me the gun, now.” Left hand planted on her substantial hip, the other held palm up to Pops.
“Ma’am, you’ll get no such thing. You can pick the gun up at Sheriff Binner’s tomorrow. Kevin, let’s go.” Pops turned and strode to the truck. I followed quickly. Lucille stalked after us. The wirehaired hound yapped disapproval at the commotion.
Tilroy came running over to his father, his face still flecked with scarlet, tears freshly wiped on his shirt. “Whoa, Daddy, that was cool.” His voice was a pitch higher than usual. “I ain’t never seen nuthin drop like that.”
His father regarded him coolly, then smiled and gave him a high five. “I thought you were gonna be a * again.”
Tilroy shook his head and blinked back tears, then shook his head again.
Mrs. Budget began to rail into Pops. “You think you’re bettern everybody else; well, I’m callin the sheriff, is what I’m doin. That’s right, you get the hell outta here. This ain’t Russia—we got us rights.”
Pops was silent and angry as we pulled onto the dirt road that led out of the Hollow with Lucille Budget’s tirade fading into the trees.
“Pops, I mean, he just shot her! Right there in front of us. Shouldn’t we call the police or something? I mean, he shouldn’t be allowed to just do that. Should he?”
“It’s his mule, his gun, and his property,” Pops replied. “I don’t have much say in how Sen Budget lives his life, but I can’t respect any man who’s careless with a firearm.”
The shock of the incident made my throat feel crowded with cotton. And today, as I think about that morning in Beaver Hollow and lay it alongside the rest of the summer, it accords to a deeper and necessary understanding of the whys and hows of everything that came after.