“Slow as molasses, my Esra. So, what can we do for yens? Put tha gun down, son, yer a’makin me nervous.”
The only way out was through the door behind the old woman, and I was confident I could get us past an old woman armed with only a walking cane. But who was this Esra, and what if he had more than a cane? How many more people were outside, also with more than canes?
I fitted a hand on Thais’ waist and pushed her behind me.
The old woman, short and portly on thin, bony legs that bowed slightly, hobbled forward despite the gun still being trained on her, and she went toward the nearest shelf; the end of her cane tapped against the floor.
My gun followed her while I also watched the doorway.
“Tha Graham’s have a nice place, duncha think, son?”
The old woman had to catch her breath when she reached the shelf. She extended a gnarled hand for a bottle of shampoo. “They was good folks. Lasted ‘bout, oh I cain’t ‘member, maybe four years. Here you go, dear”—she held out the bottle of shampoo to Thais—“this one smells nice; if ya use just a dime, it’ll last yens a good long while.”
“Thanks, but we’ll be going now,” I said, grabbed Thais’ hand and started for the door.
Then I heard the shuffling of boots making their way slowly up the steps, accompanied by a shadow.
“It’s just my Esra,” the old woman croaked. She placed the shampoo back on the shelf. “How long do yens plan to stay at the Graham’s?”
Confused by her unfazed reaction to armed strangers, I couldn’t answer.
“My Lord, Esra,” said the old woman, just as an old man stepped into the doorway. “If ya go any slower—”
“Be quiet, woman!” Esra barked, with the dismissive wave of a knotted, fibrous hand. “I said I was a’comin, June, so crawl outta my butt, will yah.”
Thais smiled. I squeezed her hand with warning.
Esra was a gremlin of a man, skinny as a yardstick, with big pointy ears set against a tanned, leathery head where a single tussock of white hair swirled two inches above his forehead. His back was hunched; he had bony shoulders like jagged rocks jutting from a short-sleeve plaid shirt. The blue-jean overalls that sagged around him seemed like they were too heavy for his skeletal frame—but he was strong enough to carry a ten-gauge shotgun in one hand. I noted the way he casually carried it; his hand loosely folded about the stock; his finger nowhere near the trigger; the gun relaxed down at his side like a briefcase—it was as if he were going for a stroll in the woods, not coming to blow the heads off looters in his supply cabin.
“Don’t you tell me to be quiet, you old dog”—she shook her finger at him; her beady eyes like little hard green-apple candies were set in her heavily wrinkled face—“I told ya to come wit’me when I heard ‘em yellin’, but nooo, ya had to sit there on yer lazy rump and read the magazine.” She shuffled slowly across the small space, hitting the end of her cane on the floor. “Ima burn them damn magazines, Esra! Ima burn ‘em! That’s all they’re good for anymore.” Then she mumbled, shaking her head as she moved past Esra toward us on the other side of the room. “Thinks he’s a’gonna buy a tractor to dig’im a hole for a pond,” she said, looking right at us as if Esra wasn’t in the room. “Well there ain’t no tractor stores, an’ iffin there was, how in the world he think he gonna gas it up is a mystery to me; it sure is, I tell you wut. Honey, please put that gun down. Do we really look like yens would need to waste a bullet?”
“How many of you are there?” My own voice surprised me; it seemed like a long time since I’d used it.
And despite June’s request, I didn’t put the gun away.
THAIS
I wished that he would put it away; at least lower it; keep it in his hand as a precaution, but not continue pointing it at the poor old woman. I should have been used to that by then—Atticus threatening people—but I knew I’d never be.
“Just me and Esra and our grandson, Jeffrey,” the old woman finally answered.
She pointed at the wall with her thumb as if to indicate where ‘Jeffrey’ was.
“But he ain’t right in the head. Knows to watch fer dangerous people—I tell yens, that boy can spot the wicked from a mile away—but he ain’t too bright otherwise. Sweet boy he is—well, not so much a boy anymore; but in spirit he’ll always be my sweet Jeffrey. Wut’s yer names? Been knowing about yens at the Graham’s since ya took residence, but we ain’t really much the visitin’ type. Got too much to do ‘round here.”
“Ya talk too much, June,” Esra grumbled from behind; his voice sounded like stout whiskey.
He bent over, set his shotgun against the wall barrel up, and then rose back up into a creaky stand.
“You’ve known we were in the cabin since last month?” Atticus asked, leery.
I reached out and put my hand atop his gun hand, pleading with him to lower it.
ATTICUS
I thought I should’ve been used to her doing that by then, but I knew I’d never be. I wanted to pull her off to the side and shake her and say to her: “Do you not remember the people at the farm, Thais? Do you not recall the thieves who tried to make off with our shit while we slept in the woods, Thais? Or—goddammit Thais!—do you not remember a man not so long ago named Mark Porter who you thought was harmless?” But I said none of these things—the hard look I gave her probably said everything actual words didn’t have to.
Despite the look, Thais kept her hand on mine, and refused to move it until I lowered the gun.
Gritting my teeth, I finally lowered it.
“Jeffrey was out runnin’ in the woods,” June croaked, “when yens found the Graham’s place. Sometimes he runs off and we just cain’t catch’im. He likes to go to the Graham’s pond and swim—it’s why Esra wants a tractor to dig a hole here, so Jeffrey’ll quit runnin’ off. We always get real worried he ain’t gonna come back. Too many wicked people runnin’ around nowadays. Some’d likely just kill’im fer his shoes—or just ‘cuz they can. Jeffrey’s fast, but he cain’t outrun no bullet.”
Esra stood dragging a pocketknife blade underneath the bed of his fingernails; he seemed little interested in joining the conversation.
Thais stepped up a foot, but remained in arm’s reach of me.
“I’m Thais,” she said, reaching out a hand to June, “and this is Atticus. We thought nobody actually owned this place…well, we realized that maybe someone did—we were going to leave without taking anything.”
“Nice to meet yens,” June said. She patted the top of Thais’ hand in a grandmotherly fashion. “Esra, come an’ say hello; maybe this strong, young man could help ya dig yer pond hole.”
A pang of dread kicked me in the back of the head—the last thing I wanted to do was dig a hole of that magnitude. In the scorching heat of summer.
“Why didn’t you all just move into the cabin by the pond?” Thais asked.