Lindy smiled at Sally, wagged at the sound of Buddy's footsteps from the bedroom and down the hall. Sally walked away from the door window and set the plates by the stove.
"Estep's stoppin' 'round eight," Buddy said, frowning at the turnips and beans beneath the pot-lids of supper. "No meat?"
Sally said nothing, but took up her plate and dolloped out her food, leaving the sidemeat for Buddy. She watched him serve himself and found herself staring at the freckles of black dust embedded in his face. A dog bark broke her stare, and she went to the table. She could hear them sniffing under the floor.
"They bother hell outa me," she said when Buddy sat.
"Well, she stays in. I don't need no litter of mutts." Buddy mashed fat between his fork prongs, fishing the lean from the mess and watched Sally eat. "They're gonna be money, Sal."
"Don't startup. They're al's gonna, but they ain't never any."
"This time's for sure. Estep an' me, we worked that stuff today. A D-9 dozer an' steamshovel'd a-fixed us real quick. Curt's got the deed an' all."
"Thought yer folks settled these here ridges."
He remembered standing in the sun at a funeral—he could not say whose, but the scent of Vitalis from his father's hands had turned his stomach, and his new shoes pinched his feet.
"Never had a pot to piss in, neither. Stick 'round, Sal."
With her fork, Sally drew lazy curves in her bean-soup, and shook her head. "Na I'm tired of livin' on talk."
"This ain't talk. What made ya stay with me this long?"
"Talk."
"Love? Love ain't talk."
"Whore's talk," she said.
His hand flashed across the table, knocking her head askance, and she flushed. She got up slowly, put her plate in the sink, and walked down the hall to the bedroom. Buddy heard her turn on the TV, but the sound died down, leaving only the whimper of the dogs. He watched his plate turn cold, grease crusting the edges.
Getting bourbon for his coffee, he set his plate on the floor for the bitch and went to the window. With lamplight shining green in their eyes, the pack circled the trailer, talking, waiting. He turned off the lamp and looked for the thing Sally stared after, but only the light-gray sky and the near-black ghost of the road touched the hollow.
In the darkness, he found his 30-30 rifle and his flashlight, opened the slatted window, and shoved them out. Passing over two strong-boned hounds, his light landed on a ragged spitz and he fired, the shot singing through the washes and gullies.
The dogs scattered into the brush beyond the road, leaving the thrashing spitz to die in the yard. Lindy paced the trailer's length to the sound of the whines, but, when they stopped, she leaped up and lay on the couch, her tail flapping each time Buddy moved.
The shot jerked Sally from her half-sleep, but she settled back again, watching the blue TV light play against the rusty flowers of ceiling leaks as the last grains of cocaine soaked into her head. She stretched, felt afloat in an ocean of blue light rippling around her body, and relaxed. She knew she was prettier than the girls in the Thunderball Club, or the girl on the TV, and lots more fun.
"Lotsss," she whispered, over and over.
Buddy's silhouette appeared in the doorway. "They won't be back," he said.
"Who?" Sally sat up, letting the sheets slide away from her breasts.
"The dogs."
"Oh, yeah."
"Ya can't make any money at it, Sal. Too much free stuff floatin' 'round."
"Yeah? An' all this money yer makin's gonna keep me here?"
He turned back down the hall.
"Buddy," she said and heard him stop. "C'mon."
As he shed his shoes, she noticed the slope in his back more than usual, but when he turned to her, his chest swelled as he unbuttoned his shirt. From where he stood, the hail light mixed with the TV, flashing her eyes white and pink as she moved in the blanket-wave to make room for him.
He climbed in, and his cold hands stroked her waist, and she felt the little tremors in his muscles. She dragged a single finger down his spine to make him shiver.
"When ya leavin?"
"Pretty soon," she said, pulling him closer.
YOU ARE READING
The Hollow
Teen Fiction"Hunched on his knees in front of the three-foot coal seam, Buddy was lost in the back-and-forth rhythm of the truck mine's relay: the glitter of coal and sandstone in his cap light, the setting and lifting and pouring into the cart that carried the...
