Rifle was there on the scene. Put the barrel against her forehead, looks like. Oh, God. You knew her, he said,
surprised. I shook my head. It was my gun, I think. His eyebrows went up and he told me to wait a minute.
He went into an office behind his station. He returned with another man. The second guy was an Indian. I
guess he was the police chief. What’s your name, the white guy asked me. And what’s your relation to the
deceased? I told them what had happened.
You gave her your rifle? She took it out of my truck without my knowing. Then how do you know she did it
with your gun? How do you know it was her anyways? I shook my head. I don’t know. I’m not really sure. I
just have a feeling… Maybe it isn’t her. I found this couple. They had some kids with them. The old guy was
dead. Charlie Pine Marten. The cops looked at one another stonily and then back at me. I took the woman up
to Mr. Pine Marten’s place and the kids to the day care. I just thought… There’s nothing you can do, said the
police chief. You ought to just go on home. Was it her? It was, wasn’t it? And my rifle. If you could show
me the rifle. That’s not possible. Why? I have to know. The State Police has got it. It’s going to the crime lab
downstate. Was it her? I don’t even know her name. Go home, said the deputy. You heard him, said the chief.
Later, back at my house, I turned off the lights and sat looking out the kitchen window at the bird
feeder. Raccoons were ransacking it, spilling black sunflower seeds down on the white ground. I wondered
where Fox and Abel were, if they were warm, and whether they had somebody to care of them. Eat up, you
sonsofbitches, I said to the raccoons.
Brumous Delight by Kate Roling
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