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On the back road to Westminster West-at the foot of his former lover’s driveway-the writer Da
It was then that the writer was aware of what he was listening for: nothing. It was nothing that he hoped he would hear. It was the no-shot that might mean his dad would be safe-that the cowboy, like Paul Polcari, might never pull the trigger.
Da
“I hate to tell you this, Da
Was Da
Now the rain had blotted out what little moonlight there was; the rain was coming in the open windows of Da
Surely, the state trooper had already arrived in Drake’s junkyard of a driveway. And what would Jimmy do then? Da
At that thought came a knocking on the passenger-side door of Da
“You’re up late, aren’t you?” Da
“About an hour ago, I had to put one of my horses down-it was too late to call the bloody vet,” Barrett told him. She sat like a man, with her knees spread apart; the carbine, with the barrel pointed to the floor, rested between her pretty dancer’s legs. It was an old bolt-action Remington-a.30-06 Springfield, she’d explained to him, some years ago, when she’d shown up on his Putney property, where she was hunting deer. Barrett still hunted deer there; there was an untended apple orchard on the land, and Barrett had shot more than one deer in that orchard. (What had the cook called her-a “selective” animal lover, was it? Da
“I’m sorry about your horse,” he told her.
“I’m sorry about the gun-I know you don’t like guns,” she said. “But I didn’t recognize your car-it’s new, I guess-and one should take some precaution when there are strange men parked in one’s driveway.”
“Yes, I was missing you,” Da
“You’re leaving?” Barrett asked him. “Why? I thought you liked it here-your dad loves his place in Brattleboro, doesn’t he?”
“We’re both leaving. We’re… lonely, I guess,” Da
“Tell me about it,” Barrett said; she let the butt of the gun rest against her thigh while she took one of Da
“I must have wanted to say good-bye,” Da
“You’re sweet,” Barrett said to him. “You’re much too sad for my taste, but you’re very sweet.”
Da
How long did it take to deliver a dead dog to the animal’s owner, and to deliver whatever lecture Jimmy had in mind for the asshole hippie? Da
“Let’s go up to my house,” Barrett murmured to him, breaking away from the kiss. “I just shot my horse-I want to take a bath.”
“Sure,” Da
The writer tried to imagine them-Jimmy and the writer carpenter. Maybe the trooper and Roland Drake, that trust-fund fuck, were sitting at the hippie’s kitchen table. Da
“What is it?” Barrett asked him.
The shot was louder than he’d expected; though Drake’s driveway was two or three miles away, Da
“Some bloody poacher-I’ll give Jimmy a call in the morning,” Barrett said; she had relaxed again in his arms.
“Why call Jimmy?” Da