At least the food’s disappearing. What’s more, he’s been spotted twice in town.
“He’s alive,” says Beth. “I’m not worried.”
And should they suspend yoga? That’s another question. There are
DO NOT TRESPASS
signs up all along the boundary between this property and Ginny’s; bullets are not going to whiz past them as they cross the field to class. Still, the studio stands all of fifteen feet in from the property line, and some of the hunters are kids—twelve, thirteen, fourteen years old. There is reason for concern.
“I do not want to suspend,” says Jill Jenkins—at least waiting to speak until after class this time. “As it is, life revolves around hunting. Do you realize there are whole weeks we can’t teach a thing? The kids plain don’t show up. Do you realize? Our culture is as screwed up as anything in the Middle East. They’re not the only ones who can’t seem to do anything about their extremes. It’s us, too. It’s us.”
And in truth there is a kind of magnificence to her wide-flung arms. Probably she’d have confronted Guy LaPoint, too, once upon a time.
As Joe used to say,
A good indignation brings out all one’s powers
.
Still, the class sighs; and Carter is not inclined to continue, he says—his gaze fixed, as if he’s only just noticed them, on the covered forms at the back of the room. He pulls down the sleeves of his long-sleeved T-shirt; and people, of course, take their cue from him. They are not going to be able to concentrate, they say. Because shots are disturbing. They’re just a disturbing sound.
Jill strides out, her yoga mat rolled tight; Carter, head down, ties his red laces. Who knows what’s going on? Well, never mind. Hattie’s had enough of dog pose for the season.
Y
ou can’t see hunters from the trailer. The noise is hard to miss, though, as the mountain cul-de-sac gathers noise up; things resound, especially sounds like this—a perforating sound, like something a paper punch might make, if it had a setting for punching air. It’s disturbing, just as the yoga class said. A disturbing sound. Reveille and Annie have their neon orange bandannas on, to be sure they can be seen if they go out, and Hattie is keeping an eye on Chhung—watching him over there by the pit. He’s wearing his brace again, she sees, and though he still shouts most toward sundown, he’s shouting a lot in the daytime, too, now. PTSD, Greta says. He’s bound to have PTSD.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Hattie is keeping an eye out.
And so it is that she sees a cop show up at the trailer one morning. It’s just one cop, and a fairly small one, at that—a kid, really, a lot like the kids Hattie used to teach. A pointy-headed skinny thing, more like an asparagus than an agent of the law. No one would ever listen to him if he weren’t wearing a uniform. Is he there to question Sarun? Sarun is outside, digging, but no problem. He and Chhung come in. The cop sits with Sarun on the couch awhile. One on one end, the other on the other, as if on a first date. Sarun nods. Answers questions. Chhung watches. After all of five minutes, the cop stands and pulls his belt up. Tucks his shirt in. Mum offers him a snack, but he declines, shaking Mum’s hand instead. Chhung’s, too—insisting, you can see, that Chhung not get up out of his chair. He shakes Sarun’s hand last. Sarun bows a little, his arms at his sides.
Down the two crates, across the packed dirt. The cop starts his car, backs up, turns around, and heads up toward the road. The Chhungs watch from the doorway as if they’ve never seen anything like it—an asparagus with a car. Then the door closes. Sarun throws himself back on the couch—half sitting, half lying down in the eternal way of teenagers, as if the one thing they do not want to do is bend at the hips. He’s propped up on his elbows, remote control in hand, but Chhung has other plans. They head back outside. It is a breezy day, sunny, full of blowing leaves and wild turkeys. Hattie watches a flock cross her yard—jakes, she knows, by their size and by the way their mature middle tailfeathers jut out, longer than the rest. The turkeys step warily, young but canny—aware, it seems, there is danger everywhere. Hunters. Who knows what. Reasons to fly off.
B
anging. “Hattie!” In the middle of the night, banging. “Hattie!” Hattie comes up slowly, trying to kick off her covers, only to find that they include a lead apron. Which for a moment she almost can’t throw off, though it’s blocking her
qī
.
Someone banging at the slider.
“Hattie!”
“Sophy?” Suddenly Hattie’s up, the dogs are up, they’re all hurrying to the slider. “What’s the matter?”
“You have to come! Quick! Hurry!”
Sophy runs off, a dark figure in white T-shirt; Hattie grabs a flashlight. The dogs want to follow, but she says, Sit. Stay. Reveille obeys; Annie sits but does not stay. Both watch—alert as turkeys and missing Cato, Hattie knows. Cato! If Cato were still alive, she’d bring him for sure. Cato, Cato. Cato the Wise. Where is her robe? Why is she out without her robe? And why is she out in her slippers—she is slipping in her slippers—and what is that sound? Mum crying—wailing. Something Hattie’s never heard before. Mum wails in high-pitched waves—keening. That must be keening. The sound of a grief beyond grief. Does Hattie really want to know what caused it? Down through the ferns, half withered now. The trailer door is open. She climbs in carefully, not wanting to trip—why is she out in her slippers—but, there. She’s in. Alone. How bright it is. The living room is empty.
“Sophy?”
The wailing.
“Mum?”
The kitchen is empty. Sophy and Mum’s room is empty. But then there they are. Mum and Gift huddling in the corner of Chhung and Sarun’s dark room; and before them, huge Sarun, sprawling. He’s on his back, his arms and legs akimbo, taking up the whole carpet—a giant with giant amounts of blood. Hattie puts a hand to her mouth and nose; she can feel the rise of retch. The stench of blood is everywhere, that metallic smell, mixed in with the cigarette smoke—what happened? There’s so much blood it is hard to know what happened, where the wounds are. Hard, in the low light, to see—how slow her retinas are to adjust. Slow. Don’t they have another lamp? But no. There is just this one lamp, a desk lamp, really, on a low table. Hattie draws her nightgown in, kneeling—thank goodness she can still kneel—because, well, first Cato, and now this. This. She tries to breathe. To think. Not to retch. A gash in the arm—the head, too. A gash in the back of his head. A pool of dark blood. His hair is matted.
“Sarun?” She slaps his face a little. Gently. His cheek cool and wet, his skin soft and smooth, like Joe’s when he died. Though warm, still—at least his skin is still warm. He’s not cold like Joe and Cato; he’s warm. Warm.
“Sarun.”
He’s breathing, but his breaths are shallow and his eyes half shut.
Mum wails. Gift, too, is crying and hitting his mother.
The smell.
Hattie nods at Mum reassuringly, then turns, relieved; Sophy’s appeared. “Call 911,” Hattie tells her.
“Will the police come?”
“You have to call, Sophy. Your brother’s unconscious.”
Sophy looks at Sarun, then at Mum.
“My dad will kill me.”
“Now. You have to call now. Now.” Hattie speaks slowly and clearly, as if they’re having a lesson; Mum, though still crying, looks up and nods. Sophy goes. Is their phone working? Hattie tries to listen; Sophy is talking, good.
Good. Head injury, better not to move him. Hattie checks his pulse. Okay. His heart is working. Okay. But how to stop the bleeding? Should she press something to his head? To stop the bleeding? Or not? Infection, the blood-brain barrier.
“Sarun?”
Bleeding to death. He’s bleeding to death.
She presses a corner of the sheet to his skull, but where there should be bone there is mush; she can’t press.
I’ll but lie and bleed awhile
.
Mum is wailing again. Wailing, wailing. Stop, Hattie wants to say. Just stop! Gift, too, is still whimpering, his arms around Mum’s neck, but his body craned around. He’s chewing on a plastic figure—blue and red, a superhero. She’s holding him with her knees and arms. His diaper is turgid.
“Sophy!” calls Hattie. “Ask if we should try to stop the bleeding! Tell them his skull is smashed!”
But Sophy is talking to an operator, not a doctor. Germs.
“Sophy! Put some water on to boil!”
What if there’s an unstable piece of something? A piece of skull. She doesn’t want to dislodge anything. But bleed to death—he could bleed to death. And so she finally just grabs the sheet again, and moves his wet hair out of the way. Then, there. She presses gently. The blood soaks through to her fingertips, warm and sticky. She should really press harder, but it’s squishy—the spot’s squishy. Harder. She stares at the gold earring there by her thumb; it’s mottled with blood. A lacy pattern like a cell structure revealed by a Golgi stain. The links of his necklace, too, are all caked. But his scar, the round one Sophy said was made by a bullet in his last life, is here, now, in this life, blood-free.
“Sarun? Sarun?” Still nothing. Pale—even in the low light, she can see that he’s pale.
Pale as Lee, when she was dying. But not raving, as she was. Lee raved and raved before she stopped.
“Do you need a whole pot?” yells Sophy.
“No. Just be quick.”
Press harder.
“A half-pot okay?” calls Sophy.
“Do two half-pots. Use two burners. Hurry up.”
Bleeding. Blood in his ear but not coming out of it, she doesn’t think.
A car motor. Doors. EMTs. Thank god! Hattie hesitates to let go of the sticky sheet, but here comes a purple-gloved hand holding a surreally white pad. She almost falls as she stands—suddenly lightheaded—but is caught by other hands, three large bodies taking up the airspace now. Thank god, thank god. Mum abruptly stops crying—Gift, too—as if they don’t want to cry in front of strangers, or as if they are just plain shocked: What beings are these, in fluorescent yellow vests? They have walkie-talkies in their pockets; they’re wearing purple gloves. The woman’s hair is clamped up. No one blanches. They simply press, replace, wrap. Remove his earrings, hand them to Hattie. The gauze goes over his forehead to the back of his head; around his chin, too; he looks like a mummy. They cut and tape even as they check his temperature, his blood pressure, his pulse, his breathing rate. His pupil size, but not to see if he is high—to see if he is reacting. Shining their light in his eyes. What’s his name? asks the woman. Sarun, says Sophy. His name is Sarun. She doesn’t roll the
r—
making it easier for the EMTs to pronounce. How’re you doing, Saroon, says the woman loudly. Can you hear me, Saroon? How’re you doing? Can you hear me? Sarun’s eyes flutter. Good boy! says the woman. Now we’re going to put this collar on you. We’re going to lift up your head and slide it right under you. Ready? There you go. Now we’re strapping it up. That’s going to stabilize your neck. Now we are going to move you—ready? She looks at her partners. One-two-three! Sarun groans as they lift him in one sure movement onto a blue trauma board. They strap him down with straps. He stops groaning. Saroon! Are you there? Saroon! Saroon! Ah, there you are. Good boy! says the woman again. What happened? An attacker, says Hattie instantly. Exhausted but not batty. A stranger. Just walked on in. No one they know, they don’t think. Any sign of the attack weapon? No. And no one saw anyone? A rise of suspicion just as Sophy appears—do they still need the water? Hattie speaks clearly, not looking at Sophy but aiming her story toward her. They just came home and found him like that. Hattie shakes her head. Terrible. Has she volunteered too much? Should she say something about Chhung? Give him an alibi? Never mind. Suspicious or not, the EMTs are moving Sarun and the board—one-two-three!—onto the stretcher; they’re covering him with a sheet. A blanket. Strapping him down again with what look to be seat belts from an airplane. When did all these things become blue?—the stretcher, the sheet, the blanket. Didn’t they all use to be white? Never mind. What do you think? asks Hattie—almost asking, Is it serious?
Hattie gone batty!
Well, they’ll do a scan at the hospital, says the woman, but she’s guessing depressed occipital skull fracture. Is he going to die? asks Sophy. And the woman looks at her then with her kindly eyes; she has eyes like Cato’s, a little rheumy, with a dip to their lower edge. We’re doing our level best, she says. But if you want to do something, you could say a prayer. He could probably use some prayers.
And so Sophy prays, her eyes closed and her lips moving; Mum prays, too. And Hattie prays as well, though she does not believe in instrumental prayer. Her prayer is more like meditation, usually, a way of expressing wonder. Gratitude. Perplexity. Grief. She does not expect results, especially as she is not even sure who she’s addressing. But today, she just puts in her wish list. Please, dear God. Please. A few last flies buzz around—flies, this time of year!—a few survivors. May Sarun survive, too, she prays. May Sarun survive, too. And as she prays, it suddenly comes to her; as she prays, she suddenly knows—the shovel. Not the knife, in the end. It was the shovel.
The shovel.
Hattie blind as a batty
.
Her nightgown is heavy and soaked—the lead apron of her dreams.
The EMTs are moving Sarun out of the trailer. Out through the living room, out through the front door. Down the crate steps. Can Mum and Sophy and Gift and Hattie all ride in the ambulance, too? Debbie—the woman’s name is Debbie—shakes her head no as the men pop the stretcher wheels down. No. Hattie gestures then at Mum. Go, she says. Take Gift. Go. We’ll follow. Mum nods, understanding. Hattie smiles. The EMTs align the stretcher with the ambulance. Then, there: Up go the wheels and in slides Sarun like a baguette. Sophy helps Mum in next, then starts to hand Gift up but Debbie says sorry, no babies. We’ll follow you, says Hattie again. Mum nods. She says something to Sophy in Khmer, her voice urgent and alive. Her face, though, is like plastic. A green dolphin air freshener dangles from a grab bar in the ceiling.
Back up to Hattie’s house. How can she still be holding Sarun’s earrings? Anyway, out of that nightgown, where are her shoes? If only they had a diaper for Gift; they take off his dirty one and hold him over the toilet. Where, to their surprise, he pees. Good boy! Though what diaper rash—the poor thing. It’s raised and patchy, a yeast rash. They dab him with Vaseline and wrap him in a towel; the hospital will have diapers. Her keys on the red hook. Sophy kisses Annie’s nose through the screen Hattie should really have replaced with a storm door by now—Sophy pinning her hair back with both hands. She looks to be putting her ears on. Then the engine, the headlights. Hattie’s distance glasses. And there, as she turns the car around: Chhung, sitting in the guard chair in the moonlight. The trees behind him glint as if with frost; his white brace, too, glows dully. His cigarette flares orange. He himself is more shadow than substance, though, like the shovel Hattie can barely make out. It grows out of the dirt beside him like a plant. He is going to go to hell! says Sophy, beside her. He is! He is going to go to hell!