The Round House - By Louise Erdrich Page 0,126

got close enough. How close he came would depend on where he hit the ball and which way it rolled, where he stood to putt, and other things. There were many variables. So many that I was still weighing possibilities when the sun got so high I knew I’d been sitting there for hours. Once the regular stream of golfers began, I got up and unloaded the rifle. I packed it in its bag, rolled the other bag around it, reburied it, and scattered the leaves and twigs over the ground. On the way home, I ate the candy bar and put the wrapper in my pocket. My stomach had stopped jumping. Done for the day, I felt almost euphoric. I drank the last of the water and carried the empty jar along and didn’t think. I looked at every tree I passed and it amazed me with its detail and life. I stopped and watched two horses browse in the weedy pasture. Born graceful. When I got home, I was so cheerful that my mother asked what had got into me. I made her laugh. I ate and ate. Then I went upstairs and fell asleep for an hour and woke into the same great wash of dread I began with every time I woke up. I’d have to do the same thing tomorrow morning. And I did. As I sat against the oak tree there were moments I forgot why I was there. I would get up to leave, thinking I was crazy. Then I remembered my mother stunned and bleeding in the backseat of the car. My hand on her hair. Or how she had stared from her bedcovers as if from a black cave. I thought of my father helpless on the linoleum floor of the grocery. I thought of the gas can in the lake, on the hardware store shelf. I thought of other things. Then I was ready. But he did not show up that Tuesday. He did not show up on Wednesday either. On Thursday rain was forecast, so I thought maybe I’d stay home.

I went anyway. Once I got to the overlook, I went through all of the actions that had become routine by now. I sat under the oak tree with the rifle, safety on. The water beside me. There was low cloud cover and the air smelled like rain. I had been there for maybe an hour, waiting for the clouds to break, when Lark walked onto the tee dragging his clubs in a stained old canvas wheeled cart. He disappeared behind the planted pines. Cradling the rifle the way Cappy had taught me, I stepped down the hill. I’d told myself exactly what to do so often that at first I thought I’d be all right. I found the spot marked out just at the edge of the bushes where I could stand, nearly hidden. From there I could sight and aim just about any place Lark might be on the green. I thumbed off safety. I gulped in air and let it out explosively. I held the rifle gently the way I’d practiced, and tried to control my breathing. But each breath got stuck. And there was Lark. He hit from a low rise near the pine trees. The ball arced and landed at the edge of the clipped circle with a bounce that took it another yard toward the hole. Lark walked down quickly. The scent of minerals began to seep out of the earth. I brought the rifle to my shoulder and followed him with the barrel. He stood sideways, staring down at his golf ball, squinting his eyes, opening them, squinting again, completely absorbed. He wore tan pants, golf shoes, a gray cap, and a brown short-sleeved T-shirt. He was so close I could read the logo of his defunct grocery store. Vinland. The golf ball rolled to a spot half a foot from the hole. He’d tap it in, I thought. He’d bend over to scoop it out. When he straightened up I’d shoot.

Lark walked forward and before he could tap it in I shot at the logo over his heart. I hit him someplace else, maybe in the stomach, and he collapsed. There was a loud silence. I lowered the rifle. Lark rolled over on his knees, staggered to his feet, found his balance, and began to scream. The sound was a high squeal like nothing I’d ever heard. I got the rifle

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