Billy waited with his arms loose at his sides, smiling placidly until the boy stopped and stood facing him.

“Well?” said Billy.

“Are you going to move that car?”

“Sure I am.”

The boy waited.

“You mean now? This second? No, I don’t believe I can do that.”

The boy walked on toward the car.

“Where you going?” said Billy, following.

The boy stepped to the driver’s side and reached for the handle.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

He lifted the handle and opened the door, and Billy stepped up and kicked the door with the heel of his boot, wrenching the door from the boy’s

grip and slamming it shut again. The sound echoed down the canyon of pines, and both horses reared and Carmen held on and said Easy, easy. She watched and the mares watched wild-eyed as Billy took the boy by his jacket and spun him around and pinned him against the fender and brought his face close to the boy’s and said, “Like father like son. What is it with you people? Don’t you know any better than to touch another man’s vehicle?”

The boy had not resisted being spun around and pinned to the car. Now with Billy’s face in his face and the feel of his spittle landing on his skin, he reached up and filled his hands with the leather lapels and shoved off against the car and spun around and pinned Billy, in turn, to the car.

“Stop it,” called Carmen. “Sean, stop it.”

“Best listen to her,” Billy said. “How you gonna tap that little brown ass if you can’t even walk?”

The boy let go of one lapel and swung but Billy turned his head and the blow only grazed his chin, and before the boy could swing again Billy pulled him close and fitted his head alongside the boy’s head jaw to jaw as if he wished to say something into his ear, and the boy tried to separate but Billy held him and said into his ear: “Too bad you weren’t so tough when you lost your sister.” And he drew back and head-butted the boy’s nose. There was a brittle sound and the boy felt the blood flow hot over his lips and Billy slipped away and stepped around him and punched him once, deeply, in the back, and of some command not his own the boy dropped to his knees in the snow.

Carmen tried to turn the horse again but it would not turn, and at last

she dug in her heels and the horse burst forward at a gallop and she looked back once to see that the other mare followed, and then she released the horse to its own desperate heart and it fled up the narrow way, the huge body rocking under her and her hat whipped from her head in the wind and lost behind her.

Watching her go, Billy did not see the boy get to his feet, or the swing that caught him in the temple and sent him stilt-legged toward the trees. He planted one hand in the snow, saving himself in this tripod fashion from a knockdown, and when the boy stepped forward to kick, Billy caught his swinging boot and held on to it and the boy went down and Billy let go and stepped away with a hand to his head. The boy scrabbled to his feet and turned to him again, came forward swinging poorly with his left. Billy sidestepped and shoved him away and said, “You dumb fuck, you broke your wrist on my head.”

The boy turned and came back, the left fist raised.

“Quit now.”

He swung and Billy deflected the swing and shoved him to the car facefirst, held him there squirming and spitting blood on the windshield.

“I said quit now, for fuck’s sake. She’s gone.”

The boy tried to pivot and Billy seized the injured hand in some extraordinary way and the boy pitched forward again, his lips peeled in a red grin of pain.

“I mean it,” Billy said.

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? Really?” He torqued the boy’s wrist. “You gonna quit?”

The boy turned his face and shaped his lips and sent a mouthful of blood spraying over the windshield, and without another word Billy wrenched on the hand and he felt the bones give way like twigs and they each heard the snapping of the bones.

The boy relaxed and Billy let go and stepped away. The boy turned and slid slowly to his haunches, then sat hard on the snow, holding his right hand in his left.

Billy stood over him, panting. He spat into the snow and wiped his mouth. He looked up the path where the girl had gone and there was no sign of her or the horses other than the fresh hoofprints and the dark shape of hat in the snow.

He looked back to the county road and he looked at the boy again heaped against his car, blood running from his nose in a dark ooze.

Billy shook his head. “A man gets out of bed in the morning and he has no idea. Just no idea.” He looked up at the high teeth of the pines, the darkening lane of sky.

The boy sat coddling his arm. Before him at Billy’s waist was a silver oval with two ruby eyes and a red enamel fork of tongue. It was the bejeweled belt of the pugilist, and staring from its polished surface was his own bloodied, distorted face in miniature.

Looking good, Dudley.

Billy took out his phone and held it loosely in his palm, as if it were a stone he might sling.

“Fuck it,” he said finally, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He bent to grab the boy by the jacket but the boy pushed his hands away and climbed to his feet on his own. They walked to the passenger’s side and Billy opened the door and waited for the boy to get in.

“Keep your head back.” He found him a mechanic’s rag already red to press to his face and he shut the door and walked around and swung in behind the wheel. He got a cigarette in his lips and tapped up another and looked at the boy with the rag pressed to his face and put the pack away. He lit the cigarette and looked at the boy again. Then he leaned to grope under the seat and he found the bottle by feel and brought it up and unscrewed the cap and held it out.

“Here,” he said, and the boy lifted the rag to look. It was a fifth of Jack Daniel’s, half gone. He took the bottle and tipped it up and the whiskey splashed cold into his mouth washing away the copper taste of blood and running down his throat in a cold burn. He handed the bottle back, shuddering, his eyes weeping and a great hot snake uncoiling in his gut.

Billy checked the bottle for blood and tilted down a deep swallow and restashed the bottle under the seat and turned the key. Electric guitar burst forth and he snapped it off. He sat a long moment looking at his windshield, shaking his head. At last he flipped the wiper lever and they both watched as the blood spread across the glass, smearing away the world in bright arcs of gore.

45

As Grant stepped out of the truck, the red door opened and the old dog hobbled out to greet him, her wrappings gray in the dusk. He walked up to the stoop and halted. Maria stood in the partial opening, one hand on the door and one on the jamb, as if the matter of his admittance were still in question.

“I’m late,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

She made him stand a moment longer, the canvas tool bag in his grip like an overnight bag, and then smiled and swung open the door. “Don’t be,” she said. “We’re not on any kind of schedule here.”

He pawed at the welcome mat with his boots and stepped in, passing near her and into the scent of her, a brief miscellany of perfume and cooking

and wine.

“Do you want to give me your coat?”

He glanced down at the old canvas jacket and brushed at it.

“The only other jacket I have makes me feel like I’m going to my own funeral.”

“I love this jacket. But you’ll get hot if you keep it on.”

“Maybe I’d better see about that door first. Unless dinner is ready.”

“There’s time. But Grant, honestly, I’ll feed you either way, you have