if the pulley that lowered his heart into his stomach had gotten out of slack, with Cy standing over him now and straining to push the bag into the big, old man's arms. He caught the boy's swimming eyes for a second, full of hurt by means of perceived betrayal. To avoid reacting, he turned his eyes upward as if examining the heavens.
The sky threatened rain, bone colored in the distance, but black overhead. A memory of the dog itched its way into Cy's head as he passed again by the trashcan, where two-day old coon tracks could still be seen if one had the heart to look for them. Cy did not. It had been his fault, his responsibility to keep the trashcan covered, his failure to do so.
As the screen door squealed shut on rusted hinges, the boy smelled the rain before it hit the ground, and he turned in time to see the old man scramble out of the rough little grave. He limped a little under the weight of the lime bag as he made his way to the little lean-to on the side of the shed that had once served as a makeshift lawnmower garage. Once under the extended board-and-batten overhang, he turned around. The grave lay directly between them, the boy and the man. Had they looked up they would have caught each other's eyes again, but neither of them wanted to do that. Instead they looked down, watching the rain dilute the dead dog's pool of rabid blood around the two spent shotgun shells.
There was no sign of the rain letting up any sooner than a couple of days: the bone color had withdrawn to a thin strip on the horizon and black filled the rest of the sky. The piles of dirt turned into mud and began to wash back into the grave. The old man lowered his eyes from the hazy shape of the boy, and said under his breath, "Damn." |
