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Authors: William Kowalski
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the business end of the shotgun, which he found aimed at his mouth. At the other end of it was Marly Musgrove, preg nant then for the eighth and final time.
“Turn about, McNally,” she said. “March.”
McNally smirked. The sun glinted off his hair as though it was spun gold. “What are yeh goin’ to do, missy?” he asked, raising his hands slowly. “Does yer mister know yer playin’ with his scatter- gun?”
“The Captain doesn’t know his own name, hardly,” said Marly. “Now get moving.”
She marched the salesman across the road to the river and down behind the trees, where no one would see or hear them. She made him take off his clothes and throw them in the water, along with his traveling suitcase. By this time, McNally’s smirk had dis appeared, and he had developed a bad feeling about his future, for it appeared the woman was serious. Though naked, he kept his hat on out of modesty. His quivering hands were raised high above his head.
The Good Neighbor 57
“Look here at me,” said Marly.
McNally did so. When he saw the expression on Marly’s face, he began to cry, because he knew she was going to kill him.
“What’s the cure?” she asked him.
“There ain’t no cure, lady,” said McNally, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his sobs. “You got to lock him in a room till he gets over it. There ain’t no other way.”
“Will he die of it?” Marly asked.
“I don’t know,” sobbed McNally. “Maybe.”
That was all Marly needed to hear. She pulled both triggers si multaneously, knocking herself onto her back. When she managed to sit up again, the salesman had already floated a hundred feet down the river, amid a great red, blue, and green slick of blood and entrails.
Marly got to her feet and went back into the house, gun still smoking, shoulder aching. She could not bring herself to look at him. Her children would have heard the blast; she would tell them she’d shot at a fox. The Captain would be upstairs in bed, three days into his enforced drying-out period. She wouldn’t tell him anything, because he would think he’d dreamed the noise. She would have to hope that the body would never be found, though there was a good chance that it would be. If so, she knew, she her self would be among the least likely suspects. She was the Cap tain’s wife, after all. And without clothes, the man might be anybody: a gambler, a convict, a bank robber, a gypsy. He would be buried in a paupers’ cemetery, and she was hopeful it would be assumed that someone had merely given him his just desserts.
Which, of course, someone had.
A couple of weeks later, when the Captain was finally starting to feel like himself again, he said: “If that damned salesman ever dares to show his face around here again, I’ll blast him with the shotgun.”
“I guess he won’t,” said Marly quietly. “Likely someone else’ll get him first.”
58 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
“What was his name again?” asked the Captain. “I forget.” But Marly wouldn’t say it.
❚ ❚ ❚
Two years later, the Civil War erupted, and the Captain decided he was going to war for the third time in his life. To tell the truth, he’d been praying for something like this. He could barely contain his ex citement. His body may have been largely useless by then, his breath nothing more than a feeble butterfly-wing breeze, but he could, by God, still command. The battlefield was where he was most at home, anyway. Domestic life drove him crazy, mostly be cause he had to deal with so many women—he understood women far less than men or horses, and he didn’t particularly like horses.
Before marrying his cousin, the Captain had never experienced the peace and quiet of a farm. Not as a grown man, that is. He’d entered the Army at fourteen, and had hoped, even at that tender age, to die in its service. While the virtues of home life had been extolled by the older soldiers in the form of songs and stories around the campfire, he
“Turn about, McNally,” she said. “March.”
McNally smirked. The sun glinted off his hair as though it was spun gold. “What are yeh goin’ to do, missy?” he asked, raising his hands slowly. “Does yer mister know yer playin’ with his scatter- gun?”
“The Captain doesn’t know his own name, hardly,” said Marly. “Now get moving.”
She marched the salesman across the road to the river and down behind the trees, where no one would see or hear them. She made him take off his clothes and throw them in the water, along with his traveling suitcase. By this time, McNally’s smirk had dis appeared, and he had developed a bad feeling about his future, for it appeared the woman was serious. Though naked, he kept his hat on out of modesty. His quivering hands were raised high above his head.
The Good Neighbor 57
“Look here at me,” said Marly.
McNally did so. When he saw the expression on Marly’s face, he began to cry, because he knew she was going to kill him.
“What’s the cure?” she asked him.
“There ain’t no cure, lady,” said McNally, trying unsuccessfully to stifle his sobs. “You got to lock him in a room till he gets over it. There ain’t no other way.”
“Will he die of it?” Marly asked.
“I don’t know,” sobbed McNally. “Maybe.”
That was all Marly needed to hear. She pulled both triggers si multaneously, knocking herself onto her back. When she managed to sit up again, the salesman had already floated a hundred feet down the river, amid a great red, blue, and green slick of blood and entrails.
Marly got to her feet and went back into the house, gun still smoking, shoulder aching. She could not bring herself to look at him. Her children would have heard the blast; she would tell them she’d shot at a fox. The Captain would be upstairs in bed, three days into his enforced drying-out period. She wouldn’t tell him anything, because he would think he’d dreamed the noise. She would have to hope that the body would never be found, though there was a good chance that it would be. If so, she knew, she her self would be among the least likely suspects. She was the Cap tain’s wife, after all. And without clothes, the man might be anybody: a gambler, a convict, a bank robber, a gypsy. He would be buried in a paupers’ cemetery, and she was hopeful it would be assumed that someone had merely given him his just desserts.
Which, of course, someone had.
A couple of weeks later, when the Captain was finally starting to feel like himself again, he said: “If that damned salesman ever dares to show his face around here again, I’ll blast him with the shotgun.”
“I guess he won’t,” said Marly quietly. “Likely someone else’ll get him first.”
58 W ILLIAM K OWALSKI
“What was his name again?” asked the Captain. “I forget.” But Marly wouldn’t say it.
❚ ❚ ❚
Two years later, the Civil War erupted, and the Captain decided he was going to war for the third time in his life. To tell the truth, he’d been praying for something like this. He could barely contain his ex citement. His body may have been largely useless by then, his breath nothing more than a feeble butterfly-wing breeze, but he could, by God, still command. The battlefield was where he was most at home, anyway. Domestic life drove him crazy, mostly be cause he had to deal with so many women—he understood women far less than men or horses, and he didn’t particularly like horses.
Before marrying his cousin, the Captain had never experienced the peace and quiet of a farm. Not as a grown man, that is. He’d entered the Army at fourteen, and had hoped, even at that tender age, to die in its service. While the virtues of home life had been extolled by the older soldiers in the form of songs and stories around the campfire, he
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