Chapter 7 - The Blue Ribbon
The air I forced into the dog’s throat smelled of dry grain and stale saliva.
I blew three times, then pressed my thumbs into the narrow space behind his forelegs, feeling for the tiny, bird-like flutter of his heart. The ribs were cold, hard as frozen lard, but beneath the third intercostal space, three inches from the sternum, there was a tiny, irregular twitch—like a watch ticking under a feather pillow.
"Gidley," I gasped, my own chest burning from the sprint through the drifts. "The cruiser. The defroster. Get him into the front seat."
The trooper didn't hesitate. He stripped his own leather gloves off, scooped the yellow dog into his arms along with the wool blanket, and sprinted back through the barn door, his long legs tearing three-foot ruts through the snow toward the road.
I stayed on my knees in the chaff.
The silence came back into the barn, heavy and dark. The smell of the kerosene from the well-house seemed to linger on my skin, but beneath it was something older—the dry, sweet smell of the clover my father had cut in the summer of ninety-six, the last summer his knees were good enough to ride the rake.
I looked at my hands. The blood on my knuckles was freezing into dark, purple rime.
From the lane came the sound of Vance’s radio—the sharp, electronic squawk of the dispatcher in High Crossing, her voice metallic and distant:
"Car four-twelve... judge is at the substation. Warrants are signed. Two counts attempted aggravated murder, one count tampering with physical evidence, one count reckless endangerment... bail is set at five hundred thousand cash on the female, no ten-percent allowed."
Vance’s voice answered, short and flat: "Copy that. We have the husband in custody. Send the county wrecker for the tractor. We’ve got a blocked right-of-way."
I stood up, using the edge of the grain bin to steady my legs.
The red breadbox was still lying in the drift by the pump-house where I had dropped it. The snow had begun to sift into the open lid, dusting the blue cotton tape of the third bundle with fine, sugar-like crystals.
I walked back out, knelt in the white powder, and lifted the third parcel.
It wasn't a deed. It was an account book—a narrow, leather-bound ledger with marbled paper boards, the kind my father had bought at the stationer’s in Goshen every January to track the milk checks and the lime purchases.
On the first page, under the year 1991, my father had written three columns in his neat, schoolmaster’s cursive:
Brooke’s tuition (Vassar College): $14,200. Paid from the timber on the north hollow.Brooke’s car (Buick LeSabre): $8,400. Paid from the south pasture sale.Brooke’s wedding (to R. Miller): $11,000. Paid from the farm equity loan.
Below the last entry, in blue ink that had faded to the color of skim milk, was a single sentence:
Total given to the older girl: $33,600. She has had her portion of the estate in full before the death of the father.
Beneath that, on the following page, was a single entry under my name:
Clare: One pair of sheep shears ($14.00). One pair of rubber boots ($18.50). Three milk cows (heifers) to be chosen by her from the spring calves.
Note: She stayed for the second cutting when the help walked.
I held the book against my ribs. The leather was cold, stiff as dried tripe, but the smell of the paper was the same as the desk in the parlor where he used to sit on Sunday mornings with his spectacles tied to his ears with black thread.
Brooke hadn't hidden the box to keep the land from me. She had hidden it because she knew that if any judge with a third-grade education read the ledger, she wouldn't just lose the deed—she would have to pay back thirty-three thousand dollars to the estate before she could claim a single silver spoon from the sideboard.
"Clare," Vance called from the gate.
He had Richard handcuffed now, his hands behind his yellow flannel back, sitting on the running board of the cruiser with his head between his knees.
"The dog’s up," Vance said. "He’s puking oats on Gidley’s floor-mats, but his tail moved when Gidley turned the heater to high."
I walked down the driveway, the snow crunching under my boots with a clean, dry screak-screak.
"Take Richard down to the station, Tommy," I said. "I’m going back to the hospital."
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"You want a ride?"
"No," I said, looking down the three-mile road where the county plow was finally coming up from the hollow, its big V-blade throwing a ten-foot wave of yellow-lit snow into the hemlocks. "I’ll take the truck. Richard left the keys in the Dodge by the silo."
