A Wolf in the Fold

Supper was to be served at seven. I arrived at six in a buckboard I rented from the livery in Whiskey Flats. I had to be careful to keep my black coat buttoned. Otherwise, someone might wonder why a parson wore a shoulder holster. The Remington was the same model as my hip iron except I’d had the barrel sawed down to two inches and the ejector rod removed so it was less likely to snag.

Calista Modine wore a Sunday-go-to-meeting dress that clung to her in all the places a dress should cling. It was all I could do not to let my appreciation show. Fortunately, she didn’t notice me squirm and fidget. At least, I don’t think she did.

The buildings were in sight when she straightened and commented, “It was nice of Gerty to invite us, don’t you think?”

I forgot myself and grunted. Calista had not said much on the way out. Whether she was shy because I was supposed to be a parson or shy around men or just plain shy, I couldn’t say.

“Don’t let her manner put you off. She can be brusque, but deep down she has a heart of gold.”

I tried to imagine Gertrude Tanner as kindly and considerate. It was like trying to imagine a wolf on a leash.

“It hasn’t been easy for her,” Calista went on. “Running a ranch is hard work. And don’t let anyone tell you she doesn’t do her share. Fact is, I’d wager she does more of the actual running than her husband.”

“Lloyd is timid, is he?” I played my part.

“Gracious, no. He has enough sand for five men. But he doesn’t boss her around like some husbands do. He lets her have an equal say in everything.” Calista winked. “Or more than an equal say.”

“How is it there isn’t a man in your life?”

Calista flushed and looked away. “Some questions, Parson, are too personal. They should never be asked.”

“I was curious, is all,” I said, justifying the snooping.

Calista was quiet a while. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders, but she did not pull it back up. “Gertrude says I’m too finicky. That I’ll never meet the man of my dreams because I set my sights too high.”

“We are none of us perfect,” I remembered a real parson saying once.

“True. And if I have set my standards too high, it’s only because I’ve seen what happens to women who set their standards too low.”

Before I could stop myself, I heard my mouth spout, “My own ma set her sights too low. My pa was lazy and worthless and came home most nights drunk. On good nights he fell into bed and passed out. On bad nights he slapped her around. She would cry and beg him not to, but he would go on beating her anyway.”

“How terrible,” Calista said. “Did he beat you, too?”

“No. Only my ma. I almost wish he had, to spare her some misery. How she put up with it, I will never know.”

“Are they still together?”

“My pa died when I was twelve. He was on his way home one night, drunk as usual, and someone stabbed him to death in the alley behind our house. Stabbed him twenty-seven times.”

“Mercy me. Did they catch who did it?”

“No.” If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting there. I’d warned him to leave Ma lone. I’d told him that I could not stand him hurting her. And what did he do? Pa had ruffled my hair and said I had it backwards, that kids did not tell their parents what to do, that the parents tell the kids. He went on and on about how I was too young to understand, and how I should not meddle in what grown-ups did. The very next night, he beat her. The worst beating ever. He split her ear and broke her nose and knocked a tooth out. Afterward, I could hear him snore, and her cry and cry and cry until she cried herself to sleep. I made myself a promise it would never happen again.

Pa always came by the alley. His favorite watering hole was at the end of the block, and he would cut through to our back door. I had taken the big carving knife from our kitchen and waited for him behind some barrels. He came staggering along, muttering to himself. When I jumped out, it startled him. “I don’t have any money!” he cried. Then he saw it was me.

“What the hell are you doing out here, boy?”

“You’re not to hurt Ma anymore” was my reply. I can still remember the smooth feel of the knife handle, and how the blood roared in my veins.

“We’ve been all through that. Get home.” Pa lumbered forward and swatted at me with the back of his hand.

Skipping aside, I crouched and held the knife out. “Stop where you are, Pa.”

“What’s that you’ve got there?” he demanded. In his befuddled state it was a few seconds before he swore and snarled, “You dare pull a knife on me? On your own flesh and blood?”

“One of these days you could kill her.”

Pa’s cheeks puffed out and he sputtered, “She put you up to this, didn’t she? Sending my own son against me.”

“It was my idea, not hers.”

But Pa was not listening. He was working himself into a rage. “It’s just like her. The bitch! I try and try, but all she does is nag and gripe and wear me down. But even that’s not enough.”

“She didn’t send me, Pa.”

“Don’t lie. It won’t do any good trying to protect her. You think I’ve hurt her before? You haven’t seen nothing yet.”