Once Upon a River Page 0,70
Murray house, by the shed, and snuck up close enough to lie on her belly and spy. She saw Joanna at the window over the kitchen sink. After about twenty minutes, Joanna stepped outside, wiped her hands on her apron, and searched the horizon. Margo was happy to know that Joanna was looking for her. Soon she would stand up, walk to the house, and rest the Annie Oakley Marlin in the rack on the porch, but for just a little longer she needed to observe this place, to let it sink in that she was returning home, at least for a visit. Joanna tilted her head as though hearing something, the baby crying perhaps, and she hurried back inside. Margo knew how badly Joanna needed her help, so maybe she would find a way to bring Margo back to the family. After school, Margo would come home to babysit and care for the Down’s baby. Margo would help cook bread and pies for the Murray men and boys, and Joanna could teach her to cook soups and stews this winter, ones Margo hadn’t yet attempted. Joanna knew how to cook everything. Maybe Margo could learn from Uncle Hank how to smoke pork and make bacon.
She lay for a long time in the cool, damp grass, waiting for another glimpse of Joanna. If Joanna went out to the overgrown garden to pick tomatoes, Margo would join her there and pick beside her. After a while Margo noticed the front of her shirt was soaked from the grass. She sat up and aimed her rifle at the kitchen door. She thought she smelled cinnamon across the distance, maybe from a pie or tomorrow’s cinnamon bread. She let her rifle lie in her lap. This was the time of year Joanna might be making more peach jam. Apples would be ripe soon, the golden delicious for eating and the tart Jonathans for making pies. Some years Joanna made apple butter, cooking the fruits down until they had a smoky, caramel flavor and then adding spices. Margo had never tired of peeling apples in the Murray kitchen.
Margo would always have enough to eat if she could return to the Murrays’, and she would not be lonely for people. Too bad there would be no Junior to crack jokes and commiserate with, no dogs to pet. Probably she would not have a rifle of her own. Still Margo’s mouth watered for all the delicious foods she would cook and eat, and she would have Joanna’s companionship in the kitchen. Margo looked forward to the rowdy dinner conversation she had always loved listening to.
“Nympho!” shouted a voice from the river, a man’s voice.
Margo stayed low as she moved toward the shed and her boat. There, standing at the prow of The River Rose, gripping some kind of long gun in one hand, was Billy. Joanna was right that he’d grown taller than Junior. He froze as he listened for a response, but didn’t see Margo twenty-some yards away. She flattened herself on the ground the way the Indian hunter did when stalking. As she took aim at Billy, her breathing slowed. She could shoot Billy through the back of his neck, sever his spine without his ever seeing her. She knew it must be river fog or her hunger for bread and jam making her hallucinate, but she thought she saw several other Murrays standing alongside Billy. Real Murrays were never truly alone, she thought.
“Bang,” she whispered to herself, to release a little of what was pent up inside her. She had been so distracted and in such a hurry to see Joanna this morning that she had left the oars in the oarlocks, left the oar blades resting on the back seat, flanking her backpack, which sat so that the stenciled name CRANE faced up. She hadn’t even placed a branch over the boat to camouflage it.
Billy squatted at the river’s edge. He touched the prow, pressed his hand where The River Rose was burned into the wood. People considered .22 rifles to be squirrel guns, but a .22 bullet in the temple at this range would penetrate Billy’s skull, bounce around and scramble his brain, and he wouldn’t make any more trouble for anyone. Something scratched her throat. She had to resist coughing with such effort that her eyes watered.
Billy looked on the other side of the prow and probably saw the discoloration where the registration numbers were before she pried them off—a