It didn’t matter I was only fifteen years old. What mattered was that Buck Walsh needed killing and I was the only one with guts enough to do it.
———
That evening after I replaced the shotgun, eased up on my fit of shaking enough to hurriedly cook supper, Dad said to me, “Ivy, what in this world’s wrong with you? You scorched these biscuits.â€
“Sorry,†I told him. “I got the stove a little too hot.†My voice sounded almost normal. Let Dad think I was upset by his criticism of the biscuits.
“Don’t let it happen again, girl. I like my biscuits.â€
“They’re not scorched bad. Just really brown on the bottom. Put some more squirrel gravy on them. You won’t know the difference.â€
“Where did you get squirrel from?†Dad asked with a slight frown on his weathered face as he scraped at the black crust with his thumbnail.
“From Pride Willis. He passed by while I was milking yesterday evening. Had four or five of em and gave me two for your supper.†I had kept the squirrels in salt water overnight in the springhouse to draw out the wild flavor, and then started them cooking this morning when I built a fire for breakfast. Squirrel took a while to cook tender, but the flavor of its gravy was worth the time.
Dad lifted his head from looking at his biscuits to see my face, but I pretended to be busy with our supper. I didn’t want him to see I’d been crying. I feared my horror might show on my face. The reflection of an evil committed.
“You ought not to be taking things from Pride Willis,†he told me.
“Why not?†I asked.
“He’s got an eye on you.â€