VIII
Katie Delacroix hitched up her britches and crouched low when she spotted the jackrabbit over by the barn. All winter she had been itching to try out the slingshot she had made from a stout oak branch and two pieces of rubber she had found in town behind the wagoner’s shop. It had taken her some time and trial to get the bands just right, strong enough to put some good zing on a pebble, but stretchable enough that her almost-nine-year-old arms could pull them.
There it was with its big old ears and big, lopey back feet, sniffing around the corner of the granary. The granary section of the barn was mostly empty now after the long winter, but there were still a few dusty kernels of corn and wheat that might keep a rabbit occupied, while she got herself into a good shooting range.
Reaching into her pocket, she felt for a stone of a good size and shape, one that would fit nicely in the slingshot leather, one that was round and smooth and would not curve much in flight.
Slipping an acceptable stone into the leather pad, she crept along the corral fence, slow and quiet, using Bessie the sow to screen her from her prey’s vision. Jackrabbits didn’t miss much, and once they got spooked, they were nothing but ears, feet, and a cloud of dust.
She was mighty tired of gristly pickled pig’s feet and corn dodgers. Ma had been using the same ham bone to make soup for a week. Katie did not have to ask why. Pa never let them forget. The Delacroix family had homesteaded this plot of ground when Katie was five, and for last two years their crop and their garden had turned to dust by harvest time. A scant few onions, a handful of leathery potatoes, some twiggy carrots, and a corn crop “not worth a Pharisee’s word.” All they had to do was pray harder for rain, and the Lord would turn their place and the whole countryside into a new Eden, bursting over with fruit and grain. But that apple tree Pa had planted looked a little peaked.
Emily had said to Ma just last week, in a long, yearning talk about sweet, juicy apples, that she would be bearing her own fruit before that tree ever did. Ma had shushed her.
Katie’s mouth watered, and her belly growled. The taste of a good rabbit stew—Ma made good rabbit stew—formed on Katie’s tongue as she watched the rabbit sniffing, nibbling, its long ears bobbing. Then quick as a flash it was standing on its hindquarters, motionless, alert for danger. Katie froze, holding her breath.
She had been practicing with the slingshot for weeks for just this moment, until she could plink a tin can off a fence rail nine times out of ten. Yesterday, she had spotted rabbit tracks over by the barn, so earlier this morning, she borrowed a few of handfuls of corn from the granary to scatter outside, hoping to lure something in. The jackrabbit went back to sniffing for corn kernels.
Here was her chance. Her heart thundered, and each of her careful footsteps sounded like a stampede, as if her own ears were as big as a jackrabbit’s. A quick glance between the corral boards told her the jackrabbit was nosing close to the foundation of the barn.
Reaching the corner of the corral, Katie gauged the distance. The shot would be a long one, but if luck and Jesus were with her, they’d be having rabbit stew for supper. She braced the slingshot against the corral post to steady her arm, drew back on the stone, closed one eye, and drew careful aim.
Hold still, critter.
Release.
The stone flew straight and true and struck the jackrabbit on the side of the head. Instantly it flopped onto its side, legs flopping and thrashing like it was trying to run away, but it didn’t know it wasn’t on its feet.
A thrill of victory shot through her, and she ran toward it, jumping with delight. It was a big one, stretched out as long as her leg. Its skull cracked open, droplets of scarlet bubbled at its nose, in its ear, and one eye bugged from the socket. A pang of remorse shot through her, a lump of sadness shooting into her throat. She hoped it wasn’t a mama rabbit with babies.
For long transfixed moments, she watched its death throes subside. It had spun itself on its side through two complete circles.
She sniffled, sickened at the smell of blood, sad at the way that bugged out eye seemed to stare at her with accusation.
Nevertheless, the thought of rabbit stew with carrots and onions and potatoes made her mouth water. She grabbed the jackrabbit by the back foot. It was warm and soft and wiry, and the whole animal was almost too heavy for her to lift off the ground without using both hands.
Now to find Pa, so he could skin it. Had she seen him going into the barn? Their homestead was not much—just a sod house, a wooden barn with a granary attached, a corral, and a chicken coop—so he should not be hard to turn up.
Dragging the jackrabbit by the foot, she circled the barn, her smile returning with the thrill of success, and a skip found its way into her feet. She imagined Pa giving her a good pat on the back for putting food on the family table, and Ma cooking it up, and even Emily would have to say Katie done a good thing. Of course, in that special I’m-so-much-better-than-you way Emily had, she would accuse Katie of being too much like a boy, and Katie would wonder again if all older sisters everywhere were as annoying as hers.
She caught Pa’s voice echoing in the barn and followed the sound, practically bouncing higher with each step. Who was he talking to? Emily? Ma was out back of the house washing clothes.
“Papa, what—? No, don’t!” came Emily’s half whisper. “Please.”
“You’ll do as I say, missy, or you’ll like to get switched.” Pa’s voice sounded strange, thick.
“Ow! Please, I didn’t do nothing!”
Katie leaped out to surprise them, a huge grin on her face, jackrabbit foot held aloft. “Hey, look what I got!”
Pa had Emily by the wrist. Emily’s face turned the color of fresh cream, and Pa’s turned the color of a roasted beet. Emily stood against the wall like she was trying to shrink plumb away from him. He leaned toward her, other hand on the wall.
Both of them looked fit to jump out of their britches. Emily’s eyes bulged in horror, but she was not looking at the rabbit. She pried her wrist out of his grip.
Pa’s eyes were cold and flinty in his narrow face. “That’s real nice, Katie Jane. Now you run off now and give that to your ma. You hear?”
“But, Pa, I—” The excitement that had been surging through her turned cold and sour.
“You hear me, girl?” He glanced back at Emily, who had slipped under his arm and darted for the opposite door. As he watched her go, his jaw clenched over and over like he was chewing on something.
What was Emily running off so quick for? She liked rabbit stew.
Katie felt her eyes starting to tear up, but she bit those tears back, squeezing her hurt into the rabbit’s foot. She threw the rabbit down at her father’s feet. “I got us a rabbit, Pa.” The cold and sour inside turned hotter with each word. “All by myself! But I ain’t gonna clean it alone!”
Pa cast one last look at Emily’s disappearing skirts, put his hand in his pocket to adjust his trousers, then turned back to Katie with a sigh. “That’s real nice, Katie Jane. Come on, I’ll show you how to clean it.” His voice was almost back to normal, without that huskiness. “I got a new knife from the heathens I been hankering to try out. It’s powerful sharp. The more I think about it, the more the sight of that rabbit is making me hungry.”
The anger in her simmered off then, but the cold sourness came back, and it would not go away.