The rim of the sun began to bite into the ridge.
“There now,” Edith said. “Sun’s made it to the ridge, and I’m a woman of my word. Time to roll me on back in there.”
Sandy stood and gripped the handles of Edith’s wheelchair.
“Besides, if I know you,” Edith said, “you’re on your way to get a little fishing in before the day’s all gone.”
“Hope to,” Sandy said. Keefe might be expecting her, and if she wasn’t too long in getting there, she might make it while the yellow stoneflies were still hatching on the upper Ripshin.
“It’s been such a lovely day, dear. Thank you for indulging me.”
“Of course, Edith.”
“Well, come on now. I’ve held you up long enough. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Sandy turned the wheelchair toward the glass doors and rolled Edith across the courtyard.
“One thing, dear,” Edith said as they came to the doors. “I’m afraid I’ve made a goodly mess in my drawers. Guess you’ll need to get someone in to clean me up a bit. Pitiful being this helpless.”
“I’ll take care of you, Edith.”
With all of her professional precision and efficiency, Sandy settled Edith back into the bed in her room. She cleaned her, changed the soiled pants, and propped Edith comfortably up in bed. She took a hairbrush from the drawer in the bedside table, brushed the old woman’s thin, wind-tousled gray hair, and reaffixed the clip that held it in place.
“Thank you, dear,” Edith said. “Now, you shoo and go catch some fish.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Sandy leaned over and pressed her lips to Edith’s forehead. The old woman’s eyes closed, and the grin eased back onto her face under the younger woman’s kiss.
2
STINK SAT BESIDE HER IN THE TRUCK CAB, GAZING PENSIVELY out the rear window, his muzzle resting on the back of the seat near Sandy’s shoulder. She’d lived with this dog for five years now but didn’t know exactly how old he was. She guessed about twelve or thirteen years, and the veterinarian in Sherwood had said that, given his history, he was in pretty good shape for a dog his age. He’d walked with a slight limp since before Sandy came to Willard Road, when Stink was still the devoted sidekick of Calvin Linkous, but that was the result of a barrel full of birdshot Sandy’s neighbor Tommy Akers had put in the “damn dog’s butt” one time for running Tommy’s small herd of black Angus down the road. “He was still a pretty young pup then,” Tommy had told her. The cyst around the bit of birdshot still in one of his rear legs had grown to the size of a golf ball, though the vet said not to worry about it, and a little arthritis had added to his limp, but he still managed to waddle around pretty well, all in all. The odd mixture of tawny hues that composed Stink’s coat shifted with changes in the light. Sandy still couldn’t decide what color he was.
Sandy had stopped at her house after work to pick up her dog and gear before heading up to Keefe’s. There were still a few hours of daylight left, and if she was lucky, she might yet be able to get in on the tail end of the yellow stonefly hatch. Stink wobbled a bit on the seat as they bumped their way up the fire road, but he kept his chin firmly on the back of the seat.
“Looking very thoughtful today, darling.” Sandy reached over and scratched briefly behind his ears. Stink’s eyes shifted slowly to Sandy. He took her in for a moment, then drew in a long breath and expelled a deep, wistful sigh that made his jowls flap slightly. His eyes returned to the rear window.
“Weight of the world, buddy. Weight of the world.” Sandy’s nose wrinkled a bit. She rolled her window down a few inches further and waved her hand in front of her face.
For most of his life, Stink’s primary mission had apparently been to kill every skunk in his part of the Ripshin River Valley. Thus the name Calvin Linkous had given him. It seemed too appropriate not to keep. His gait was too shaky now for him to be much of a hunter, but every once in a while an unsuspecting skunk would wander too close to the dog for its own good. No matter the various mixtures of soda water, peroxide, and unscented douche that Sandy applied to neutralize the stench, a certain whiff of the acrid smell would linger. Not even time and the sloughing off of old skin and hair ever made the dog fully free of the aroma. Stink’s most recent slaughter had been only about a month ago. A young skunk, newly emerged into the world from its den, had made the deadly mistake of carelessly waddling by the old tractor tire behind Sandy’s house where Stink often curled up.
“A little ripe today, you old killer.”
They appeared suddenly, leaping up the bank from the stream below and pausing, startled for a moment, in the middle of the road. Sandy, however, had been driving slowly up the rough fire road and was easily able to stop a good thirty feet from the doe and her fawn standing in front of the truck. The fawn’s white spots stood out clear and distinct on its sorrel flanks. The doe’s ears were erect and alert, her deep brown eyes locked on the threatening vehicle. Sandy could see the muscles in the doe’s tensed thigh twitching. Stink turned to look for the reason for stopping and spotted the two deer. His bent tail thumped slightly against the seat back, and his mouth cracked open, exposing his pink and purple tongue. Sandy looked at her dog, then back to the deer, cupping her hand over the dog’s neck.
“On a good day, you couldn’t catch them. You’ll have to stick to skunks.”
The doe whistled a snort, and she and her fawn fled up the slope. They disappeared through the dense growth of rhododendron lining the fire road as easily as if they were taking flight across open prairie. Sandy lifted her foot from the brake and continued up the road to Keefe’s bungalow.
She pulled her pickup in beside Keefe’s on the fan of gravel at the end of the cottage and let Stink out. He toddled to the wooden steps leading up to the plank porch of the bungalow, sniffed around for a moment, lifted his leg on the bottom step, then walked up to the front door and waited for Sandy.
Set at the back edge of the clearing that opened down to the stream, Keefe’s bungalow fit the space it occupied. Rather than an attempt to force some preconceived structure into the space, it had been built in keeping with the small clearing, the modest Appalachian trout stream pitching down the slope before it, and the forest surrounding it. The bungalow was a decidedly humble affair, a small rectangular structure of well-weathered cedar planks with a mossy cedar-shake roof extending over the wooden porch that ran the short length of the front of the cottage. The porch, where Stink now waited, was enclosed by a railing and the posts that supported the roof canopy. It could not have been more architecturally ordinary, yet each time Sandy looked at it, she couldn’t imagine it actually being constructed. For her, it inhabited the clearing like a creature that had emanated from the soil beneath it, the forest around it.
Stink’s bent tail wagged as Sandy carried her gear up the steps and tried the doorknob. Locked. Keefe wasn’t there. She dug into her little canvas purse, extracted her keys, and unlocked Keefe’s door with her own key. Inside, the bungalow was a two-room affair, the interior space given over to the living area Sandy and her dog entered, with a kitchenette at one end of the open room and a river-stone fireplace at the other. The fireplace was open through to a small, sparsely furnished bedroom on the other side of the chimney stone. A nondescript bathroom opened off of the tiny hallway passage between the main living area and the sleeping quarters.
Sandy dropped her gear on the floor and went to the
