The Clattering of Bones page 2
let coffee drizzle into a mug, then slipped the pot back. He
almost turned to see if Patsy’d witnessed the maneuver.
“Walter, don’t do that,” she’d say. “It makes a mess. Can’t
you wait?” It was funny when she was the one complaining
about a mess. Talk about the pot . . . Walt took his cup to the
dining room, to get a better view of the fence.
Dining room. That was a joke, too. More like a wide spot in the
living room where the hand-me-down table had landed last
year when they moved in. The house had seemed just right at
the time, with room for the coming baby, and a sunlit yard for
Walt’s garden. But Patsy’s miscarriage derailed the unpacking—
unopened boxes were still stacked in a corner of the bedroom
and the dank basement—and they’d never figured out what to
do with the table, short of Patsy’s idea of chucking it in the
fireplace. Walt pulled a chair close to the window.
The glass was streaked and dull. But there was the deer, half
in the yard, half out, slung over the barbed wire fence like a
musty blanket on a clothesline. Walt opened the window, and
instantly regretted it. The doe had seen him, or heard the
grating of the warped frame; she struggled and kicked, craned
her neck. Her front hooves pounded the dirt and raised a dust
storm. The wire shuddered. Blood trickled down the inside of
her hindquarters, a leg twisted between strands, snagged on
a barb. Walt backed away from the window. She’s killing
herself, he thought. Got to keep her calm. Only way to save
her.
Patsy was in the kitchen now, leaning against the stove. She
lifted her coffee cup with two hands and eyed Walt as he bent
over the sink.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“There’s a deer. On the fence. Trying to figure out what I can
do to help her.”
“If you had a gun, like every other man in this county, you’d
know what to do.” She looked over his shoulder. “Can’t see
anything,” she said.
“Not the season, honey, even if—”
“But you’d let it die slow?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Walt left Patsy inside and peeked around the corner of the
house, but the deer saw him and started thrashing again,
slashing a trough with her hooves, kicking her hind legs out,
stretching her neck up to make herself look bigger. He’d seen
dogs do that, to fool larger animals. If he could keep her quiet,
maybe cut the wire or find a way to lift her off the fence, she
might have a chance. The closer he got, the harder she
struggled, and that’s when he thought of the jute sacks.
Sometimes Patsy bought a forty-pound bag of potatoes from
the wholesale market and Walt saved them.
“They’re filthy,” Patsy’d crabbed when he rescued the first one
from the trash. “They’ll just be more clutter.” To Walt it didn’t
seem much different than hording plastic tubs for leftovers, or
grocery bags for the garbage, but Patsy wouldn’t listen.
“I’ll find a use for ’em,” he’d said.
They were in the garage, under a stack of bricks left over from
when he’d redone the front walk. That was in the fall, when
Patsy’d been so snappish and distant he couldn’t stand to be
around her, and he’d invented time-eating projects in the
yard—the walkway, transplanting the azaleas, setting out
dozens of bulbs and daylilies. Those extra bricks he piled
beside the crib he’d painted for the baby, tucked behind boxes
so Patsy wouldn’t have to see it.
He came out the side door so as not to spook the doe. He’d
have to work fast, run hard to where she was, grab her neck
to keep her still, and slip that sack over her head. Then she’d
settle down, blinded, and in a minute she’d be calm enough for
him to take the next step. Except now he saw his cutters
would be no match for the heavy-gauge wire. And he wasn’t
sure how he was going to lift her off that top rung without
hurting her even worse, especially with her hind legs caught up
in the next two strands.
But there was no sneaking up on her; the doe wouldn’t let him
near. Walt held the putrid bag open like a butterfly net, but
when he came close her flailing grew so wild he could hear the
barbs rip through her flesh and the fur actually flew. He’d
always thought that was a dumb expression, but there was no
denying the hair on the doe’s hide floated in the air like
dandelion fluff. This is killing her, Walt thought, and backed off.
He poured more coffee and watched from the dining room
window. The deer’s struggle slowed, but every now and then
she’d lift her head or twitch her ears and he knew she was still
alive. There weren’t many options left. He could call a
neighbor—John Craig down the road was a good man—and
maybe the two of them could get the deer down, even with all
her crazy dancing. Maybe she was going to be still now, maybe
she’d figure out he only wanted to help.
Or he could call the Sheriff. Walt wasn’t on particularly good
terms with the Sheriff’s office, didn’t like their coming around
all the time, like this spring when one of his oh-so-helpful
neighbors had called to report an incident at Walt and Patsy’s
place. It had all been a misunderstanding—Patsy’d screamed
bloody murder when she saw the garden shears in his hands,
probably remembering another incident, ancient history, when
he’d just been laid off and they were both drunk, involving a
butcher knife and shouted threats. And there’d been that
muddle in high school, not so long ago really: pranks with beer
cans and spray paint, brawls with boys from Defiance, getting
high and racing down country roads. It got so the Sheriff
came looking for Walt and his buddies at the first sign of
mischief.
All behind him now. It wasn’t as hard to quit drinking as he’d
thought it would be, and Patsy went right along with him, even
seemed relieved. It was part of their plan, and things were
good for a while, peaceful, although they had to get by on
Patsy’s tips from the nail salon while he hunted for work. And
when Walt got hired on as a landscaper, life seemed downright
sunny; they saved a little money, Patsy got pregnant and they
bought the house. But the Sheriff still stopped by from time
to time, like he figured Walt was destined for trouble.
So Walt didn’t want the Sheriff’s help. He made some calls.
The Game Department was no good, when he finally got
through to somebody. She was polite enough, but said there
was nothing they could do, and suggested he call
Transportation. That made no sense to him but he called and,
it being Sunday, got no answer anyway. It dawned on him
they’d be the folks to clear away road kill, and then he wished
he hadn’t left his name on their answering machine. That wasn’
t what he wanted at all. The Wildlife Center didn’t do rescues
in the field. “You ought to call the Sheriff,” they said.
Walt set his coffee cup on the dining table, noticed the dust fly
and brushed his hand across the surface, leaving stripes that
turned his fingers gray. He waited.
Patsy made herself breakfast—Walt heard butter sizzling in the
skillet and then the crack of eggs and Patsy’s humming as she
stood over the stove with a spatula, the ting as the bread
landed in the toaster. Walt drank his coffee, kept an eye on
the doe.
He turned when he heard the click of Patsy’s heels on the
linoleum. She stood in the doorway, a plate in one open hand
like a serving tray, sopping up runny yoke with her toast.
“You going to watch that damn deer all day?” Patsy’s nails,
freshly lacquered in a shade of pink that brought undercooked
pork to Walt’s mind, scraped the underside of the plate. “That
thing better be gone by the time I get back.” She was going to
church with her sister, Molly, then a movie at the mall and
shopping afterward—a high school ritual they hadn’t grown
out of. Patsy’s plate rattled in the sink, just as Molly honked
out front. The screen door slammed and Walt didn’t have to
get up to picture the two women gunning away in Molly’s beat-
up Grand Am, hair fluttering out the windows, trailing the
oldies station behind them like exhaust. Beat-up because it
wasn’t hers and she didn’t give a damn what her ex-boyfriend,
Darryl, had to say if he ever showed up to claim it. Probably
wasn’t worth it to him, knowing he’d have to get past her first.
Now Walt made something to eat. He and Patsy hardly ever
ate breakfast together anymore, and she’d stopped cooking
for him months ago. Sometimes he fixed supper, but Patsy
didn’t show much interest and most of the food went into the
trash, or down the drain. While he waited for his toast, he
watched the deer for signs of life. It was still, maybe the head
bobbed, but Walt wasn’t sure. He found the butter and jam
and returned to his spot by the window, feeling like he was at
the movies, too. He watched a rabbit nibble on the spirea he’d
just planted, then bolt into the woods with another rabbit in
pursuit. He finished the toast, catching the crumbs in his
cupped palm, and licked the jam off his fingers. A cardinal
landed on the feeder to peck at the sunflower seeds and then
was joined by a drab female. Walt tapped on the window and
the birds scudded into the sycamore at the edge of the yard.
almost turned to see if Patsy’d witnessed the maneuver.
“Walter, don’t do that,” she’d say. “It makes a mess. Can’t
you wait?” It was funny when she was the one complaining
about a mess. Talk about the pot . . . Walt took his cup to the
dining room, to get a better view of the fence.
Dining room. That was a joke, too. More like a wide spot in the
living room where the hand-me-down table had landed last
year when they moved in. The house had seemed just right at
the time, with room for the coming baby, and a sunlit yard for
Walt’s garden. But Patsy’s miscarriage derailed the unpacking—
unopened boxes were still stacked in a corner of the bedroom
and the dank basement—and they’d never figured out what to
do with the table, short of Patsy’s idea of chucking it in the
fireplace. Walt pulled a chair close to the window.
The glass was streaked and dull. But there was the deer, half
in the yard, half out, slung over the barbed wire fence like a
musty blanket on a clothesline. Walt opened the window, and
instantly regretted it. The doe had seen him, or heard the
grating of the warped frame; she struggled and kicked, craned
her neck. Her front hooves pounded the dirt and raised a dust
storm. The wire shuddered. Blood trickled down the inside of
her hindquarters, a leg twisted between strands, snagged on
a barb. Walt backed away from the window. She’s killing
herself, he thought. Got to keep her calm. Only way to save
her.
Patsy was in the kitchen now, leaning against the stove. She
lifted her coffee cup with two hands and eyed Walt as he bent
over the sink.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“There’s a deer. On the fence. Trying to figure out what I can
do to help her.”
“If you had a gun, like every other man in this county, you’d
know what to do.” She looked over his shoulder. “Can’t see
anything,” she said.
“Not the season, honey, even if—”
“But you’d let it die slow?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Walt left Patsy inside and peeked around the corner of the
house, but the deer saw him and started thrashing again,
slashing a trough with her hooves, kicking her hind legs out,
stretching her neck up to make herself look bigger. He’d seen
dogs do that, to fool larger animals. If he could keep her quiet,
maybe cut the wire or find a way to lift her off the fence, she
might have a chance. The closer he got, the harder she
struggled, and that’s when he thought of the jute sacks.
Sometimes Patsy bought a forty-pound bag of potatoes from
the wholesale market and Walt saved them.
“They’re filthy,” Patsy’d crabbed when he rescued the first one
from the trash. “They’ll just be more clutter.” To Walt it didn’t
seem much different than hording plastic tubs for leftovers, or
grocery bags for the garbage, but Patsy wouldn’t listen.
“I’ll find a use for ’em,” he’d said.
They were in the garage, under a stack of bricks left over from
when he’d redone the front walk. That was in the fall, when
Patsy’d been so snappish and distant he couldn’t stand to be
around her, and he’d invented time-eating projects in the
yard—the walkway, transplanting the azaleas, setting out
dozens of bulbs and daylilies. Those extra bricks he piled
beside the crib he’d painted for the baby, tucked behind boxes
so Patsy wouldn’t have to see it.
He came out the side door so as not to spook the doe. He’d
have to work fast, run hard to where she was, grab her neck
to keep her still, and slip that sack over her head. Then she’d
settle down, blinded, and in a minute she’d be calm enough for
him to take the next step. Except now he saw his cutters
would be no match for the heavy-gauge wire. And he wasn’t
sure how he was going to lift her off that top rung without
hurting her even worse, especially with her hind legs caught up
in the next two strands.
But there was no sneaking up on her; the doe wouldn’t let him
near. Walt held the putrid bag open like a butterfly net, but
when he came close her flailing grew so wild he could hear the
barbs rip through her flesh and the fur actually flew. He’d
always thought that was a dumb expression, but there was no
denying the hair on the doe’s hide floated in the air like
dandelion fluff. This is killing her, Walt thought, and backed off.
He poured more coffee and watched from the dining room
window. The deer’s struggle slowed, but every now and then
she’d lift her head or twitch her ears and he knew she was still
alive. There weren’t many options left. He could call a
neighbor—John Craig down the road was a good man—and
maybe the two of them could get the deer down, even with all
her crazy dancing. Maybe she was going to be still now, maybe
she’d figure out he only wanted to help.
Or he could call the Sheriff. Walt wasn’t on particularly good
terms with the Sheriff’s office, didn’t like their coming around
all the time, like this spring when one of his oh-so-helpful
neighbors had called to report an incident at Walt and Patsy’s
place. It had all been a misunderstanding—Patsy’d screamed
bloody murder when she saw the garden shears in his hands,
probably remembering another incident, ancient history, when
he’d just been laid off and they were both drunk, involving a
butcher knife and shouted threats. And there’d been that
muddle in high school, not so long ago really: pranks with beer
cans and spray paint, brawls with boys from Defiance, getting
high and racing down country roads. It got so the Sheriff
came looking for Walt and his buddies at the first sign of
mischief.
All behind him now. It wasn’t as hard to quit drinking as he’d
thought it would be, and Patsy went right along with him, even
seemed relieved. It was part of their plan, and things were
good for a while, peaceful, although they had to get by on
Patsy’s tips from the nail salon while he hunted for work. And
when Walt got hired on as a landscaper, life seemed downright
sunny; they saved a little money, Patsy got pregnant and they
bought the house. But the Sheriff still stopped by from time
to time, like he figured Walt was destined for trouble.
So Walt didn’t want the Sheriff’s help. He made some calls.
The Game Department was no good, when he finally got
through to somebody. She was polite enough, but said there
was nothing they could do, and suggested he call
Transportation. That made no sense to him but he called and,
it being Sunday, got no answer anyway. It dawned on him
they’d be the folks to clear away road kill, and then he wished
he hadn’t left his name on their answering machine. That wasn’
t what he wanted at all. The Wildlife Center didn’t do rescues
in the field. “You ought to call the Sheriff,” they said.
Walt set his coffee cup on the dining table, noticed the dust fly
and brushed his hand across the surface, leaving stripes that
turned his fingers gray. He waited.
Patsy made herself breakfast—Walt heard butter sizzling in the
skillet and then the crack of eggs and Patsy’s humming as she
stood over the stove with a spatula, the ting as the bread
landed in the toaster. Walt drank his coffee, kept an eye on
the doe.
He turned when he heard the click of Patsy’s heels on the
linoleum. She stood in the doorway, a plate in one open hand
like a serving tray, sopping up runny yoke with her toast.
“You going to watch that damn deer all day?” Patsy’s nails,
freshly lacquered in a shade of pink that brought undercooked
pork to Walt’s mind, scraped the underside of the plate. “That
thing better be gone by the time I get back.” She was going to
church with her sister, Molly, then a movie at the mall and
shopping afterward—a high school ritual they hadn’t grown
out of. Patsy’s plate rattled in the sink, just as Molly honked
out front. The screen door slammed and Walt didn’t have to
get up to picture the two women gunning away in Molly’s beat-
up Grand Am, hair fluttering out the windows, trailing the
oldies station behind them like exhaust. Beat-up because it
wasn’t hers and she didn’t give a damn what her ex-boyfriend,
Darryl, had to say if he ever showed up to claim it. Probably
wasn’t worth it to him, knowing he’d have to get past her first.
Now Walt made something to eat. He and Patsy hardly ever
ate breakfast together anymore, and she’d stopped cooking
for him months ago. Sometimes he fixed supper, but Patsy
didn’t show much interest and most of the food went into the
trash, or down the drain. While he waited for his toast, he
watched the deer for signs of life. It was still, maybe the head
bobbed, but Walt wasn’t sure. He found the butter and jam
and returned to his spot by the window, feeling like he was at
the movies, too. He watched a rabbit nibble on the spirea he’d
just planted, then bolt into the woods with another rabbit in
pursuit. He finished the toast, catching the crumbs in his
cupped palm, and licked the jam off his fingers. A cardinal
landed on the feeder to peck at the sunflower seeds and then
was joined by a drab female. Walt tapped on the window and
the birds scudded into the sycamore at the edge of the yard.