Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [66]
“Later,” says Georgeann. “I have to go pick up the kids.”
Before leaving, she goes to check on the chickens. A neighbor has been feeding them. The sick chicken is still alive, but it doesn’t move from a corner under the roost. Its eyelids are half shut, and its comb is dark and crusty. The henhouse still smells of roost paint. Georgeann gathers eggs and takes them to the kitchen. Then, without stopping to reflect, she gets the ax from the shed and returns to the henhouse. She picks up the sick chicken and takes it outside to a stump behind the henhouse. She sets the chicken on the stump and examines its feathers. She doesn’t see any mites on it now. Taking the hen by the feet, she lays it on its side, its head pointing away from her. She holds its body down, pressing its wings. The chicken doesn’t struggle. When the ax crashes down blindly on its neck, Georgeann feels nothing, only that she has done her duty.
THE OCEAN
The interstate highway was like the ocean. It seemed to go on forever and was a similar color. Mirages of heat were shining in the distance like whitecaps, and now and then Bill lost himself in his memories of the sea. He hummed happily. Driving the fancy camper made Bill feel like a big shot.
Finding the interstate had been a problem for Bill and Imogene Crittendon. Not trusting the toll roads, they had blazed a trail to Nashville. They figured it was a three-hour drive to Nashville, but it took five, including the time they spent getting lost in the city. After driving past the tall buildings downtown and through the poor areas on the outskirts, Bill finally pulled over to the curb and Imogene called “Hey!” to a man in a straw hat who was walking along thoughtfully.
“Which way’s 65!” she yelled.
The entrance to it turned out to be around the corner. The man’s eyes roved over the big camper cruiser as if in disbelief.
“We’re going to Florida,” Bill said, more to himself than to the man.
The man told them I-65 wasn’t the best way to go. It wasn’t the most direct.
“He’s not in any hurry,” Imogene said.
“Yes, I am,” said Bill. “Going through Alaska to get there wasn’t my idea.”
Imogene hit him with the map.
“I didn’t recognize a thing in Nashville,” Bill said a little later, as they sailed down the vast highway.
“It’s been thirty-five years,” said Imogene. “Hey, watch where you’re going.”
“You can’t talk about all the wrecks there’s been out here. You don’t know the history.”
Imogene had a habit of telling the history of the wrecks on any given stretch of road. There was one long hill east of town, and whenever they drove down it she would tell about the group of women who hit a bump there and scattered all over the highway. They were all killed except one woman, who insisted on going to work anyway, but she was in such a state later that they had to take her home.
“That happened twenty years ago,” Bill would say when Imogene told the story. “I remember her. She was the one that prayed. How do you know the others didn’t pray too?”
“Well, that’s what they always said. Of course, she’s dead now too,” Imogene had said.
Bill was getting the hang of interstate driving. He hummed awhile, then burst loudly into an old song he remembered.
Don’t go walking down lovers’ lane
With anyone else but me
Till I come marching home
The song made him feel young and hopeful. He pictured himself with his hands in his pockets, whistling and walking along. He couldn’t wait to be walking along the beach.
“He’ll never do it,” Imogene had always told all the kinfolks. “He won’t set foot off this place for the rest of his born days. He’s growed to it.”
But he had. He had shown everybody. He had fifteen hundred dollars in his billfold right this minute and more in the bank. All the big money made him delirious. He spent hours adding figures, paying this, paying that. He had always carried a wad of bills with him, but not to spend. He just had them handy. Now he was spending right and left. The figures danced in his head.
Bill