The Clattering of Bones page 3
That sent the deer into a paroxysm that startled Walt.
The front legs stirred up even more dirt and that white tail
flew, her head high, like she was just now starting her
jump over the fence, and dropped fast when she came up
short. The hind legs banged against the barbed wire and
he could hear the twang even inside the house. And then
she was still.
He didn’t blink for fear of missing any twitch of movement.
But there was nothing. The hooves were planted,
motionless. The wires settled. The neck hung, snout
drooping close to the ground. The eyes stared. The
rabbits ran back into sight. The birds forgot about him
and returned to feed.
Now he had a different problem, but at least he knew what
to do. There was no hurry. Walt showered and dressed,
ready for chores. There was a fallen tree to clear down by
the creek, the garden needed attention, he’d let the grass
get higher than he should and it would be sluggish
mowing.
He took a break around three. Careful to slip off his boots
before he traipsed dirt into the house, Walt filled a glass
with ice and poured warm Coke. He felt cooler already,
just listening to the ice crackle and feeling the Coke spit
on his hand. He peeled off his sweaty t-shirt and traded it
for a dry one, held the glass to his forehead, ducked down
again to see the deer. Still dead, he thought, and shook
his head. Not funny, not . . . respectful. The cold Coke
burned his throat, hammered his head just behind his
eyes.
Out back now, it couldn’t be avoided any longer. He took a
few steps toward the deer and stopped. Took a few more.
Flies hummed in a chorus like they enjoyed their work,
swarming on the doe’s eyes, the nostrils, the trail of blood
on her legs. He took a few more steps and the swarm
lifted and settled again, and he wondered if all those
thousands of flies had gone back to their own spot on the
carcass or if maybe they’d taken that opportunity to
change places. Now the stench was noticeable. The doe
had been straddled there for hours in the sun, baking,
rotting, and it didn’t take long for the smell to start. But
he was close enough to see what he needed to see. She’d
managed to get a hind leg over one wire and twisted
under the next and it was squeezed around her like a
paper clip; barbs had sliced through the hide in a couple of
places and he could almost picture the wire sawing her in
half. A saw. He might need a saw, but didn’t relish having
to cut through bone just to get the deer off the damn
fence.
In the garage, he settled on the tools for the job: gloves,
a hoe, a trowel in case the hoe didn’t work. The flies
buzzed off when he came back, sounding angry, mad to
get to their prize. Holding his breath and gripping the deer’
s front legs, he lifted. Heavier than he’d expected, and he
couldn’t do it—she didn’t look that big with her head
down—and they were on an incline so lifting from the front
was moving her uphill, the lift harder. But the leg was
stuck in the wires anyway, and just lifting wouldn’t have
done the trick. He tried to pry the leg loose with the hoe,
but that was no good. With his boot he jammed the lower
wire down and pulled up with his hand, finally managed to
untwist that leg and let it spring free. Then he vaulted the
fence and came at her from behind. He wasn’t holding his
breath anymore, just working fast to get it over with. The
smell was bad, but the flies were worse. It seemed like
they were after his eyes, his nostrils now. He tried to shoo
them away, but there were too damn many.
One, two, three, lift, and she was off the fence, on the
ground, neck twisted and ugly like a train wreck, open
black eyes unforgiving. Her brown hair coated the top wire
where the body had creased, and blood in the dust
darkened and seeped into the rocky soil. Walt crouched,
grabbed the hind legs just above the hooves, and pulled
the doe under the fence. He dragged her through the tall
weeds, the thistle and wild roses, apologized for the
thorns that added insult to injury. The abandoned pasture
parted, and they left a trail of crushed grass and shivering
Queen Anne’s lace. He pulled, his breath coming hard as
he tugged the weight uphill, not from the exertion so
much, but just the sadness of what he had to do. The dry
soil crumbled under his boots; sweat boiled out of him. He
stopped. Dropped the legs. The flies swarmed to the
body. Walt turned his head and backed away.
He set the tools on their pegs in the garage, hung the
bloodstained gloves above the bench, next to the pliers
and the useless wire cutters, and went inside. No sign of
Patsy yet. He washed up, drank another Coke, eyed Patsy’
s bottle of whiskey, lay on the sofa.
* * *
First one, circling high, gliding like a kid’s kite until it sees
the doe on the hillside, or smells her, swoops down for a
clumsy landing, waddles over, hunched wings nearly hiding
the small poppy skull, and pecks at the deer, rips away a
bit of hide with the black hook of its beak. Then it
launches and soars, drifts over the hillside and disappears.
Later, letting the flesh melt in the sun, the vulture comes
back with another, and a few more follow, and then the
sky is full of them, wafting toward the doe. One lands and
makes for the carrion, then another. A pair roosts in the
walnut tree, peering down, waiting their turn. Then the
ground is covered with the birds, wrestling over the
corpse, stripping meat from the skeleton, spreading their
wings in mutual reproach. They’ll be silent, for the most
part, a whine or a hiss to stake a claim, but the sounds
are the ripping and tearing of the hide and flesh, the
clattering of bones. It’ll take a day, maybe two, to pick her
clean.
* * *
The sun dropped behind the pines on Bald Rock Hill,
spilled pinks and oranges over the ridge, left the sky violet
black. Walt sat on the porch, watched the swallows until
they became invisible, swatted at the mosquitoes, listened
for the growl of Molly’s Grand Am. Darryl’s Grand Am.
Nothing. He gave it another hour.
Inside he found a backpack he used sometimes, on hikes
up in the Blue Ridge, or when he was out in the field on
long summer days. When he picked it up he knew it still
had a water bottle from the last trip. Loose change clinked
in the side pocket. It wouldn’t hold much, but it wouldn’t
need to. He pulled briefs out of the bureau, socks, a few t-
shirts, just enough to get by for a few days, a week. He’d
get the rest later, after he found a place. He went out to
the garage. He ran his hand over the glossy white of the
crib, the pink and blue trim, traced the stenciled flowers
with his finger. Then he tossed the pack into the truck
bed, next to his toolbox and a pair of muddy boots, and
climbed in.
Gravel spun under the tires, headlights washed over the
vacant fence, and Walt pulled the Ford onto the dark road.
The front legs stirred up even more dirt and that white tail
flew, her head high, like she was just now starting her
jump over the fence, and dropped fast when she came up
short. The hind legs banged against the barbed wire and
he could hear the twang even inside the house. And then
she was still.
He didn’t blink for fear of missing any twitch of movement.
But there was nothing. The hooves were planted,
motionless. The wires settled. The neck hung, snout
drooping close to the ground. The eyes stared. The
rabbits ran back into sight. The birds forgot about him
and returned to feed.
Now he had a different problem, but at least he knew what
to do. There was no hurry. Walt showered and dressed,
ready for chores. There was a fallen tree to clear down by
the creek, the garden needed attention, he’d let the grass
get higher than he should and it would be sluggish
mowing.
He took a break around three. Careful to slip off his boots
before he traipsed dirt into the house, Walt filled a glass
with ice and poured warm Coke. He felt cooler already,
just listening to the ice crackle and feeling the Coke spit
on his hand. He peeled off his sweaty t-shirt and traded it
for a dry one, held the glass to his forehead, ducked down
again to see the deer. Still dead, he thought, and shook
his head. Not funny, not . . . respectful. The cold Coke
burned his throat, hammered his head just behind his
eyes.
Out back now, it couldn’t be avoided any longer. He took a
few steps toward the deer and stopped. Took a few more.
Flies hummed in a chorus like they enjoyed their work,
swarming on the doe’s eyes, the nostrils, the trail of blood
on her legs. He took a few more steps and the swarm
lifted and settled again, and he wondered if all those
thousands of flies had gone back to their own spot on the
carcass or if maybe they’d taken that opportunity to
change places. Now the stench was noticeable. The doe
had been straddled there for hours in the sun, baking,
rotting, and it didn’t take long for the smell to start. But
he was close enough to see what he needed to see. She’d
managed to get a hind leg over one wire and twisted
under the next and it was squeezed around her like a
paper clip; barbs had sliced through the hide in a couple of
places and he could almost picture the wire sawing her in
half. A saw. He might need a saw, but didn’t relish having
to cut through bone just to get the deer off the damn
fence.
In the garage, he settled on the tools for the job: gloves,
a hoe, a trowel in case the hoe didn’t work. The flies
buzzed off when he came back, sounding angry, mad to
get to their prize. Holding his breath and gripping the deer’
s front legs, he lifted. Heavier than he’d expected, and he
couldn’t do it—she didn’t look that big with her head
down—and they were on an incline so lifting from the front
was moving her uphill, the lift harder. But the leg was
stuck in the wires anyway, and just lifting wouldn’t have
done the trick. He tried to pry the leg loose with the hoe,
but that was no good. With his boot he jammed the lower
wire down and pulled up with his hand, finally managed to
untwist that leg and let it spring free. Then he vaulted the
fence and came at her from behind. He wasn’t holding his
breath anymore, just working fast to get it over with. The
smell was bad, but the flies were worse. It seemed like
they were after his eyes, his nostrils now. He tried to shoo
them away, but there were too damn many.
One, two, three, lift, and she was off the fence, on the
ground, neck twisted and ugly like a train wreck, open
black eyes unforgiving. Her brown hair coated the top wire
where the body had creased, and blood in the dust
darkened and seeped into the rocky soil. Walt crouched,
grabbed the hind legs just above the hooves, and pulled
the doe under the fence. He dragged her through the tall
weeds, the thistle and wild roses, apologized for the
thorns that added insult to injury. The abandoned pasture
parted, and they left a trail of crushed grass and shivering
Queen Anne’s lace. He pulled, his breath coming hard as
he tugged the weight uphill, not from the exertion so
much, but just the sadness of what he had to do. The dry
soil crumbled under his boots; sweat boiled out of him. He
stopped. Dropped the legs. The flies swarmed to the
body. Walt turned his head and backed away.
He set the tools on their pegs in the garage, hung the
bloodstained gloves above the bench, next to the pliers
and the useless wire cutters, and went inside. No sign of
Patsy yet. He washed up, drank another Coke, eyed Patsy’
s bottle of whiskey, lay on the sofa.
* * *
First one, circling high, gliding like a kid’s kite until it sees
the doe on the hillside, or smells her, swoops down for a
clumsy landing, waddles over, hunched wings nearly hiding
the small poppy skull, and pecks at the deer, rips away a
bit of hide with the black hook of its beak. Then it
launches and soars, drifts over the hillside and disappears.
Later, letting the flesh melt in the sun, the vulture comes
back with another, and a few more follow, and then the
sky is full of them, wafting toward the doe. One lands and
makes for the carrion, then another. A pair roosts in the
walnut tree, peering down, waiting their turn. Then the
ground is covered with the birds, wrestling over the
corpse, stripping meat from the skeleton, spreading their
wings in mutual reproach. They’ll be silent, for the most
part, a whine or a hiss to stake a claim, but the sounds
are the ripping and tearing of the hide and flesh, the
clattering of bones. It’ll take a day, maybe two, to pick her
clean.
* * *
The sun dropped behind the pines on Bald Rock Hill,
spilled pinks and oranges over the ridge, left the sky violet
black. Walt sat on the porch, watched the swallows until
they became invisible, swatted at the mosquitoes, listened
for the growl of Molly’s Grand Am. Darryl’s Grand Am.
Nothing. He gave it another hour.
Inside he found a backpack he used sometimes, on hikes
up in the Blue Ridge, or when he was out in the field on
long summer days. When he picked it up he knew it still
had a water bottle from the last trip. Loose change clinked
in the side pocket. It wouldn’t hold much, but it wouldn’t
need to. He pulled briefs out of the bureau, socks, a few t-
shirts, just enough to get by for a few days, a week. He’d
get the rest later, after he found a place. He went out to
the garage. He ran his hand over the glossy white of the
crib, the pink and blue trim, traced the stenciled flowers
with his finger. Then he tossed the pack into the truck
bed, next to his toolbox and a pair of muddy boots, and
climbed in.
Gravel spun under the tires, headlights washed over the
vacant fence, and Walt pulled the Ford onto the dark road.