***
Carl Nichols stood alone under the oak tree on a small island of unplowed land. John Something would return later to drive him back to the Greyhound bus station in time to get back to Lonesome Pines before the staff missed him.
He knelt by the tree and pulled moss and dead, matted grass off a fallen tombstone with his leathery, wrinkled right hand. He stroked it lovingly, feeling the now faint letters and numbers. He slid his reading glasses from his sweater pocket and made out the words: Jesse and Bertha Nichols… April 23, 1914. He removed rocks from the weed covered mound, and for several minutes just sat there silently and motionlessly. He touched the tombstone again.
"Hi, Daddy. I'm sorry I stayed out all day hunting when that—that terrible thing happened to you and Momma. When I come back, you were already dead. I'm sorry I took so long to come home."
A whisper of wind rattled dead leaves along the distant fence line and set the weeds before him to nodding.
"Momma, I'm sorry I took so long. I always wished I’d come home in time because things would have been different. I just know it. Can you forgive me?"
The wind gusted, and leaves around the gravesite rustled. He felt its coldness through his thin clothing.
"Bout time you got back, Carl.”
It was his mother’s voice.
“Your father's just sittin' down to the table. Where were you?"
"In the woods. I got two squirrels."
"Don't bring that gun in here! Well, wash your hands and come in and eat. But comb your hair ‘cause we got company."
Fifteen year old Carl Nichols took his 22 rifle into the mud room. He ran into the kitchen and worked the pump handle several times, splashed gushing water onto his long, tanned face. He rubbed his hands together under the dwindling water stream and dried them on the feed cloth dishrag. He took his accustomed place at the dining table, with his father at the right end, his mother at the left. The stranger sat across from him.
His father, a thin man with dark hair and a bent nose, frowned at him and continued talking to the stranger. Mrs. Nichols heaped Carl's plate with mashed potatoes, fried salt pork, and beans canned the season before.
"We do have a nice farm here," Jesse Nichols said. "Ninety-two acres, part of it good bottomland."
"Looked awful good to me," the stranger said. "I seen your plow horses outside. Looked like a good team."
Jesse Nichols nodded. He chewed on a piece of pork and glanced at Carl.
"This here's Peter." He pointed at the man with his fork. "He come looking for work. Just passing through, you say?"
"That's right."
Suspenders stretched over a bulging, tattered plaid shirt, to hold his wrinkled pants. His dirty gray union suit peeped out the holes and at the neck and cuffs, and where the shirt buttons stretched too tight. Yellowed, broken teeth showed through a rough black beard as they tore off a piece of bread.
Jesse Nichols took another bite. "Well, sorry you made the trip for nothing. We got everything well in hand."
The stranger stopped chewing. "But I thought I already had the job."
"Well, sorry you thought that. But the plowing's done, an' me and Carl here can handle the plantin' fine."
"Now that ain't right," the man said, louder. He pushed away from the table, his dirty fingers gripping its edge. "You make me sit here while you brag about your goddamned farm, then tell me I ain't even hired? I ain't some lackey you can treat like dirt!"
Bertha Nichols' hand went to her throat. "Goodness, we were just sharing the Lord's bounty with you. As the Lord said, 'What you do unto others, you do unto me,' and—"
"Don't give me no goddamned Sunday school talk!" The stranger jumped up, almost spilling his milk. "I need a job and some money. If you ain't goin' to give me the job, you're sure as hell goin' to come up with the money."
He stomped over to Jesse Nichols and smashed his right fist into his face. The old man's chair slammed back and his head crunched against the wall before he hit the floor. His body lay still in the overturned chair, its bloody head bent at a grotesque angle.
Bertha screamed and jumped up. The stranger touched the dead man's body with his toe. "It's your own damned fault." He turned to Bertha. "And you stop that screaming!"
"You've—you've killed him! Oh, my Lord—"
Carl jumped up and stared down at his dead father, and vomit erupted to choke him. The stranger stormed around the table to his mother.
"Stop that goddamned caterwauling!" He backhanded her with his right fist, and she slammed into the wall and slid down it. She screamed and covered her eyes.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" the stranger yelled. Each time he said it, he kicked her face. Carl heard crunches, saw blood and tissue explode onto the floor and wall. He vomited again as he crawfished back toward the door. The stranger, face flushed dark red, spun around. "You stay there!"
Carl ran into the kitchen, and the mashed potatoes bowl crashed against the wall by his head. He ran into the mud room, grabbed his rifle leaning against the jam, and sprang out the door toward the freshly plowed field. The earth shook as the man got closer.
Carl tripped in the plowed furrows and fell onto the cold earth. He rolled sideways as the stranger lunged at him and fell face first into the soil beside him. The man grunted, looked dazed.
Carl jumped up and ran across the mushy fresh earth toward the trees where he'd earlier shot the squirrels. He worked a 22 long bullet from his shirt pocket and fumbled to open the rifle's breach. The panting behind him grew closer and louder. Carl tripped again in the furrow where the plowed field stopped. He rolled onto the unplowed ground and forced the bullet into the tight chamber. The stranger picked up a large rock in both hands and arced it down toward Carl's face with all the force of his heavy body. The rifle made a small spitting noise.
The farm was silent.