Cress

Jimmy wiped the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a trail of sweat-darkened dust above his eyes. Then he lifted the shovel toward me, handle first, waiting until I had grabbed it before he placed his hands flat at the edge of the hole and hauled himself up to sit on the ground next to where I stood.

He was quiet for a moment, catching his breath. Then he glanced up at me.

We didn't have to speak. I just nodded slightly, and he got to his feet, following me to the roughsawn wood box resting beside the long edge of the hole.

We both grabbed the loops of rope that stuck out of the head and foot of the box.

"One, two, three," I murmured, and we hauled the box up off the ground, straining to lift the large body inside it.

Jimmy grunted as we staggered sideways, positioning the box over the hole. We got it halfway down before we just couldn't hold it anymore, and had to let go.

The casket landed with a dull, wooden thud in the loose dirt at the bottom of the grave.

I grabbed the other shovel and stabbed it into the mound of freshly dug earth. That had been the agreement. Jimmy dug the hole, I filled it.

I hesitated, staring down at the lid. There was a crack in it where the boards didn't meet, and I could see a swatch of blue denim beneath it. But there was nothing to say. So I tossed the first scoop of dirt into the hole.

Jimmy watched for a few moments, leaning wearily on his shovel. Then, without a word, he started working at his end of the mound. I might have told him he deserved a break, but I knew the grim determination in his face mirrored my own. So I let him be, and after a moment we hit a rhythm, the steady clatter of pebbles and the 'whish' of falling sand our only goodbye song to the man who was our father. I had to admit, the finality of it was fitting. It was over.

Six Hours Earlier

"No! Kill it! Kill it!" I shouted, lifting the hoe.

"I can't! It's movin' too fast!"

"Well then chase it over here so I can get it," I cried, sidestepping in the direction the chaghara seemed to be heading.

Beckett rolled his shoulders and gathered his courage. Then he charged, waving the hay rake and screaming.

The chaghara changed course, veering away from its hole beneath the henhouse and toward the open hen yard gate.

Where I was waiting.

It saw me. I know it did. It reared its head as it raced at me on its many-jointed legs, and opened its jaws, revealing that telltale orange throat and the rows of deadly, needle-sharp fangs that lined its gullet. But I was already bringing the sharp end of the hoe down in a swift arc, and the next instant the chaghara's headless body was looping and twisting in the hen yard, legs crumpling and twitching, thick blue blood spurting from the raw stump of its neck.

I bent and put my hands on my knees, all the excitement leaving me in a rush, taking my strength with it.

"Boy, that was a big'n," Beckett called. "What d'you think? Six footer?"

I smiled a little, but couldn't hold onto it. I had just let my twelve-year-old little brother chase one of the most deadly critters this side of the desert, armed with nothing but a rake and his own gumption.

I took a slow breath. I hadn't had a choice. Daddy was still sleeping off his hangover, and Jimmy was out in the south field. I couldn't have saved the henhouse without help, and we needed those dratted birds. So I had done what I had to do: I gave my little brother a rake, and together we faced down one of the most freakish animals to walk the earth.

To save a few chickens.

That was the arithmetic of life in the mountains.

I groaned. It didn't do any good to worry about things that hadn't happened.

The chaghara's severed head was still trying to snap and bite at the hoe blade, its movements growing sluggish and clumsy.     

I pursed my lips and squinted. Doc paid ten lyr apiece for chaghara sheddings. What would he give me for a whole chaghara? Abruptly, I straightened and started for the house.

The kitchen was quiet when I pushed the screen door open. I stuck my head in first, glancing furtively around. Daddy wasn't in there. If he was, he'd have been stumping about, swearing about having to fix himself breakfast in his own house. But the kitchen was silent.

I glanced at the timekeeper as I stepped all the way into the mudroom. Daddy really was sleeping later than usual, even for him. No sense tempting the bear, though. I tiptoed past the sink and into the kitchen, moving quietly. I didn't want him catching me if I could help it, especially since I was going to steal his precious beer cooler.

It didn't take long to grab the red metal insulabox from its spot under the counter, unload all the jars of beer, close the box back up, and hurry back out with it, ice and all.

Beckett gave me a worried glance when he saw the cooler, but I ignored him.

"Dad in't gonna like it, Cressy," he said quietly.

"I know," I said, nodding a little. "But I gotta keep this thing from spoiling. I'm gonna take it in to town with me tomorrow. I bet I can get good money for a fresh one... do me a favor, yeah?"

Beckett grinned, his green eyes sparking with his usual impish humor. "Go stand lookout?"

I chuckled. "You know me so well."

"You're gonna owe me big for today," Beckett called as he jogged off toward the house. "So big, Cress!"

"Yeah, yeah, just do it," I shot back. Then I took another look at the chaghara's corpse, dragged in a breath, let it out, and waded in.

It felt like I was holding onto a huge insect – each pair of legs sprouted from a hard segment joined to the next by the flexible hide beneath it. My fingers slipped over blood-slimed scutes and caught on bumps and spines, and it took several tries to grab onto it.

I had just wrestled the chaghara's slowly coiling six-foot long body into the ice, tossed in the now-limp head, and slammed the lid down over it, when Beckett came thundering back out onto the porch, his young voice cracking as he screamed, "Cressy! It's Dad! I think he's dead!"

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"How'd it happen?" Jimmy asked, staring down at our parents' bed.

I swallowed. It stank in that room. When Momma had been there, it never stank. She aired it out, kept their linens and clothes clean, the bureau dusted. When she died, Daddy wouldn't let me anywhere near anything. Wanted everything just the way it used to be.

So it stank. Six months of unwashed man, drunk-sweat and drool was now layered under the reek of bowels and bladder that had loosened as my father's soul left his body. The combination of death and useless living was so thick in the air it felt like an oily blanket. I coughed, turning to stumble from the room.

Jimmy followed me out into the hallway a moment later. "Cressy," he murmured.

I glanced at him.

He looked so serious for his sixteen years. Old as dirt.

He was holding a folded sheet of paper.

I knew before I took the paper from him what I would find scrawled on it. Two words. I'm sorry. Two words Daddy never said while he was alive.

I stared at those wobbly letters for a minute. Then, slowly, I crumpled the paper.

"There's something else. This was under the note," Jimmy said quietly as he held up an official-looking envelope.

I caught sight of the embossment on the corner and frowned. It was from the bank. "What's it say?"

"It says Dad took out a mortgage on the farm... and Caulley and Shust are calling in the loan."

Stunned, I sagged against the wall. I finally felt something. Dread. Cold, icy dread.

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