Free The Risen by Ron Rash Page B

people,” she said, getting up. “This is our secret.”
    When we walked upstream, Bill smiled but didn’t say anything.
    â€œCan I take the rest of the wine?” Ligeia asked. “I can stash it behind my uncle’s shed.”
    â€œSure,” Bill said.
    â€œAnd next Sunday, how about bringing some cigarettes? Aunt Cazzie and Uncle Hiram would flip out completely if I asked for some.”
    â€œWhat kind of cigarettes?” I asked.
    â€œVirginia Slims. I’ll pay you back.”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    â€œI’d better split or they’ll think I drowned,” Ligeia said.
    I found the wine-bottle cap and handed it to her.
    â€œThanks,” she said, kissing my cheek before she turned to Bill. “Your brother’s a quick learner.”
    As she crossed the stream, Bill pulled the stringer from the water; three trout dangled from it now instead of two.
    â€œThis will be enough to keep on the old man’s good side,” he said, freeing the smallest fish and reaching for the Ka-Bar knife he sharpened after every fishing trip before pocketing it. The blade tip settled on the trout’s abdomen and in one quick motion the flesh opened like scissored silk. I turned away, feeling queasy again.
    â€œI’ll load the truck while you clean them,” I said.
    I finished before Bill and waited inside the cab. A dull pain settled in the back of my head. Maybe just twonext time, I told myself. I heard Bill tramping through the laurel, then a rattling thunk when he threw the stringer into the truck bed.
    â€œYou okay?” Bill asked. “You look a bit green around the gills. You guzzled those beers and that’s not smart. You didn’t puke while you were with Ligeia, did you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou’re lucky. The first time I drank beer I did three and hugged a commode for an hour.”
    Maybe I can hold my alcohol better than you , I thought, smiling to myself as Bill cranked the engine.
    The bumpy drive up the logging road unsettled my stomach, but once on the four-lane I rolled my window down and felt better. The cool wind seemed to lessen my headache too. I turned on the radio.
    â€œSo how was it?” Bill asked as I searched through the static for a station.
    â€œThe beer tasted good.”
    â€œI could tell that by how much you drank,” Bill snorted. “I meant the other thing.”
    I twisted the dial and finally found a clear station, but it was playing Merle Haggard.
    â€œAssuming it happened,” Bill added.
    â€œIt happened,” I answered, then more sharply, “andit was damn good for me and for her. I was every bit as good as you were, probably better. She told me so.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I believe you,” Bill said. “Damn, you don’t have to get on your high horse about it.”
    I’d found another station and turned up the volume. I didn’t recognize the song, but it wasn’t country. Then “Good Lovin’” came on and I sang along. Baby please squeeze me tight . Yeah, I know what that’s about, I thought, and sang louder. I’ve done what they’re singing about . Did it damn well too.

CHAPTER NINE
    I t was almost noon on the following Wednesday when Ligeia’s uncle Hiram came through the office’s front door.
    â€œOh, shit,” Bill whispered as Mr. Mosely stepped up to Shirley’s window and asked to see Grandfather.
    Like sprinters ready to bolt, we both leaned forward, eyes lowered. Then Mr. Mosely raised a hand wrapped in a bloody handkerchief. Shirley told him to have a seat. He turned and saw me and nodded. I returned the nod and picked up a magazine, relieved when he sat near the door. Soon a patient came out and Shirley told Mr. Mosely he could go on back. A few minutes later Grandfather called Bill to join them.
    â€œIt’s not about her,” Bill said, but looked uneasy as he stood.
    I followed Bill but stopped in