WILDWOOD

Her daddy made her wear long skirts and bobby socks, even in the sticky August heat. Never felt a dollar bill or nickel in her pocket, and supposed her momma hadn’t either, not since daddy married her. But the woods were full of who-knows-what, and there wasn’t much to do. So daddy taught her to pack shotgun shells just how he liked, and let her learn to shoot.

He loved making momma cry. He’d ramble on about her crooked hems and burnt bread and fat waist and thinning hair until she’d screech and throw her bible at his head, grab the shotgun off the wall and wade out into the dark. Sometimes she’d see momma from the bedroom window, a smear way out on the knoll. Apron aflutter, a big long rifle, calm and still as the stars. She’d watch her momma shoot and shoot and shoot and shoot, but she’d come back with none but empty shells, no meat. She wasn’t out for animals. 

When she was old enough, her momma let her come along. She watched momma take off her boots and hitch her hem with a rubber band. Without daddy, they could let the sun see skin, delicate and soft as petals and worms. Her momma wrapped her arm like ivy round the barrel, and tucked the shotgun below her chin. She closed both eyes, sucked the air in low, and shot deep into the thicket. Then she cocked the gun and kept fire and fire til the shells ran out. When she was done, she smiled and sighed, cheeks flushed with a feeling she didn’t dare name.  

But when she went out on her own, momma and daddy skinning rabbits back at home, the shotgun bruised her collar bad. Momma made it look so easy, but she could barely tame the trigger. Got her fingers shaking red. Kicked her breast like a mule. Made her sweat so hard her skin got raw beneath her blouse.  

And when she went to meet the neighbor girl, somewhere in the grove between their homes, the girl asked how come her chest was speckled ruby, like a vulture’s egg. The girl touched her skin, tender and unbuttoned, and let her touch her too, cool and sweet in the shade of ash and ironwood. 

She was young but wasn’t dumb. Her daddy may say grace at dinner but he didn’t dole it out in droves. So when he asked what she was doing with the neighbor girl behind the bramble, she knew he didn’t want an answer. He just liked to say it, hang it heavy, twitching on a butcher hook: cut it up for meat, or let it rot.  

When her daddy fell asleep in his chair, she grabbed the gun and slipped out into the ryegrass. From way out here, she saw her momma watching from the window. A little fly smashed on the windshield, a firefly caught in a jar. She dropped her gaze and loaded up the chamber. The butt dug deep into her chest this time, past the bruised and spangled skin, until the sharp pain became an ache. She closed both eyes and pulled. The pellets spat hot rain on pinebark, burned like embers quick to ash. 

She loaded another. Bang, sizzle, quiet. 

Then another. Sweat, pulse, swell.

Each shot a warning, each shell a prayer. Let it crack something loose. Let it squirm and writhe and shred. Let it buck and bray and thunder. Let it tear through the tangle, let it land somewhere new. Let it fly until it finds whatever lies just beyond the wildwood.