42
2018
NORTH CAROLINA L I T E R A R Y RE V I E W
making ready for winter, stashing most of his nuts and treats in the woodpile. Larry muttered to the squirrel as it scurried. It should have been hiding its food elsewhere; the woodpile was a bad spot, a temporary structure. Soon the boomer would lose his stores to Larry’s woodstove. Better to bury in the ground, little buddy, he said. Better to keep up in the trees. He stayed on the porch and watched afternoon light glow through the hickory trees while May thundered inside the house. The television stayed on, pundits on low boil. He checked his phone for updates, texted colleagues. He’d have to go back out soon; smoke reports were coming faster, and yellow bubbles of text popped brightly on his screen. Tellico. Ferebee. High spots, far from each other. National forest, too. Nantahala was smoldering. May burst out of the front door holding a purple end table. She’d painted it in a crafting class at the Folk Center a couple years back. COURTESY OF THE ARTIST
give. He was a Helm County native. His grandfather built this place, and Larry had whitewashed its sides, cut the grass since he was nine. May’s name wasn’t on the deed. I’ll get a job, May said. Larry shook a crust of mud off his left boot and told her that was good. I wouldn’t be doing it for you, May said. She crossed her arms and stared at him as he screwed open the tube and put the cap on the railing. Her body was elfin, her jaw a triangle. She tilted her head sideways until her chin pointed towards Larry’s socks. The cock of her head lowered a shiny blue glass earring out from behind her hair. She didn’t ask about the fire. May stood between the screen door and the oak front door, head to the side, blue glass catching light, and watched him work salve into his arms. The television bickered in the living room – one of the news channels. Her body blocked some of the arguments that roiled out of the speakers, but the voices still carried and rattled Larry’s teeth. He’s gonna win, May said, closing her eyes. That pig. Listen to him. Larry told her to turn it off. May flitted into the house and slammed the front door so hard the screen sang like a wire. He pulled a towel off the plastic laundry rack at the edge of the porch. He wiped his face, sank into a deck chair, and let his arms hang limp. The Ben Gay’s mentholated tang seeped into his muscles while he stared at the woodpile under the carport. A flick of russet darted across the top of the woodpile and wiggled between two hunks of pine. Larry leaned forward. A few seconds later the red flicker appeared again. Boomer squirrel. He was little and twitchy, all red fur, with short tufts sprouting from each ear. Larry liked red squirrels. They weren’t fat or mean like greys. Boomers had spirit, and he could swear they winked at you sometimes. The boomer flashed around some more, then darted up the hickory near the mailbox. He was
Smoke Rings, 12 Nov. 2001 (inkjet, 22.5x22.5, edition of 75) by Donald Sultan
A few seconds later the red flicker appeared again. Boomer squirrel . . . little and twitchy, all red fur, with short tufts sprouting from each ear. Larry liked red squirrels. . . . Boomers had spirit, and he could swear they winked at you sometimes.