Full Dark, No Stars

“But you don’t have to worry about me, Poppa. I know you think I’l slip—probably to Shannon. Or I might get feeling guilty enough to just go into Hemingford and confess to that Sheriff.”

Of course these thoughts had crossed my mind.

Henry shook his head, slowly and emphatical y. “That Sheriff—did you see the way he looked at everything? Did you see his eyes?”

“Yes.”

“He’d try to put us both in the ’lectric chair, that’s what I think, and never mind me not fifteen until August. He’d be there, too, lookin’ at us with those hard eyes of his when they strapped us in and—”

“Stop it, Hank. That’s enough.”

It wasn’t, though; not for him. “—and pul ed the switch. I ain’t never letting that happen, if I can help it. Those eyes aren’t never going to be the last thing I see.” He thought over what he’d just said. “Ever, I mean. Aren’t ever.”

“Go to bed, Henry.”

“Hank.”

“Hank. Go to bed. I love you.”

He smiled. “I know, but I don’t much deserve it.” He shuffled off before I could reply.

And so to bed, as Mr. Pepys says. We slept while the owls hunted and Arlette sat in her deeper darkness with the lower part of her hoof-kicked face swung off to one side. The next day the sun came

up, it was a good day for corn, and we did chores.

When I came in hot and tired to fix us a noon meal, there was a covered casserole dish sitting on the porch. There was a note fluttering beneath one edge. It said: Wilf—We are so sorry for your

trouble and will help any way we can. Harlan says dont worry about paying for the harvister this summer. Please if you hear from your wife let us know. Love, Sallie Cotterie. PS: If Henry comes callingon Shan, I will send back a blueberry cake.

I stuck the note in the front pocket of my overal s with a smile. Our life after Arlette had begun.

If God rewards us on earth for good deeds—the Old Testament suggests it’s so, and the Puritans certainly believed it—then maybe Satan rewards us for evil ones. I can’t say for sure, but I can say

that was a good summer, with plenty of heat and sun for the corn and just enough rain to keep our acre of vegetable garden refreshed. There was thunder and lightning some afternoons, but never one of

those crop-crippling winds Midwestern farmers fear. Harlan Cotterie came with his Harris Giant and it never broke down a single time. I had worried that the Farrington Company might meddle in my

business, but it didn’t. I got my loan from the bank with no trouble, and paid back the note in ful by October, because that year corn prices were sky-high and the Great Western’s freight fees were at rock bottom. If you know your history, you know that those two things—the price of produce and the price of shippage—had changed places by ’23, and have stayed changed ever since. For farmers out in the

middle, the Great Depression started when the Chicago Agricultural Exchange crashed the fol owing summer. But the summer of 1922 was as perfect as any farmer could hope for. Only one incident

marred it, having to do with another of our bovine goddesses, and that I wil tel you about soon.

Mr. Lester came out twice. He tried to badger us, but he had nothing to badger with, and he must have known it, because he was looking pretty harried that July. I imagine his bosses were badgering

him, and he was only passing it along. Or trying to. The first time, he asked a lot of questions that real y weren’t questions at al , but insinuations. Did I think my wife had had an accident? She must have, didn’t I think, or she would either have contacted him in order to make a cash settlement on those 100 acres or just crept back to the farm with her (metaphorical) tail between her legs. Or did I think she had fal en afoul of some bad actor while on the road? Such things did happen, didn’t they, from time to time? And it would certainly be convenient for me, wouldn’t it?

The second time he showed up, he looked desperate as wel as harried, and came right out with it: had my wife had an accident right there on the farm? Was that what had happened? Was it why she

hadn’t turned up either alive or dead?

“Mr. Lester, if you’re asking me if I murdered my wife, the answer is no.”

“Wel of course you’d say so, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s your last question to me, sir. Get in yonder truck, drive away, and don’t come back here. If you do, I’l take an axe-handle to you.”

“You’d go to jail for assault!” He was wearing a cel uloid col ar that day, and it had come al askew. It was almost possible to feel sorry for him as he stood there with that col ar poking into the

underside of his chin and sweat cutting lines through the dust on his chubby face, his lips twitching and his eyes bulging.