Winter's Bone Read Online Free PDF Page B

white lather, rinsed with water poured from Mamaw’s ancient lemonade pitcher. Ree’s fingers were strong and drew blood tingling to the roots. The boys sat on the countertop close enough to be splashed, wrapped in quilts, watching her scrub, lather, rinse. Ree glanced their way frequently to keep their attention. She’d nod toward Mom’s head in a gesture that asked, Are you getting this?

    Harold said, “Some suds got missed.”

    “We’ll get ’em with the next rinse.”

    Sonny called forth a shallow cough and said, “Got’ny more of that syrup?”

    “Huh-uh. You two like it too much.”

    “It sure gets rid of that scratchy feelin’ good, though.”

    Ice hung from the roof eaves, catching dribbles of melt to become longer and stouter pickets of jagged freeze stretched across the window above the sink. The sun was weak in the west, a faint smudge behind middling clouds, and low. Soup stock from deer bones simmered on the stove and steamed a comforting scent.

    “Might could mix you some later—but now you watch this. Watch how to do her hair.”

    Harold said, “Got suds in her ear still.”

    “Forget them goddam suds—watch what I’m showin’ you. So, now, once the soap is good’n washed out you’re s’posed to dump conditioner on, but alls we got handy is vinegar. So we’ll use vinegar. Watch close how I measure this out.”

    The television competed for the boys’ attention. This deep in the valley reception was poor and they only received two channels, but the public channel from Arkansas came in best and the late-afternoon shows the boys loved were about to commence. The smiley dog that jumped around among time periods chasing adventure and historical insight came on the screen wearing a suit of shining armor. As the vinegar smell spread and Ree bent over Mom yet again, both boys quietly slid from the counter and made for the front room and the worldly dog.

    Ree watched them go.

    “You’re about to look peachy, Mom.”

    “Could I?”

    “Yup. So peachy you’ll be feelin’ all strutty, probly start dancin’, kick your toes to the ceilin’.”

    “Could I?”

    “You used to.”

    “That’s true, isn’t it? I did used to.”

    “Was special to see when you did, too.”

    Ree gripped Mom’s hind hair like a rope and squeezed, squeezed and twisted. The last free drops twisted loose to run down Ree’s hand and wrist and she dried on a towel. She then spread the towel over the pile of wet hair.

    “Sit by the stove so I can comb you out and get you dry.”

    There was a perimeter of warmth around the potbelly and Mom sat with her head held straight. Ree took a wide-tooth comb to the hair, raked it back into a jumbo sleekness, patted it with the towel, then slicked it again. When Dad was in the pen Mom’d dolled up a lot, every weekend night, dressed herself sparkly hot and let herself be taken places. Her eyes would shine and she’d act girlish while she waited, then a horn would honk and she’d say, “I’ll be back, babe. Have fun.”

    She’d be back for breakfast looking worn, jaded and uneasy. Shaking the ache of loneliness is what she slipped away into those smoky nights hoping to do, but she never could shake it from her trail. It was always back in her eyes by breakfast. Sometimes marks showed and Ree’d ask who did that and she’d answer, “A beau did, sayin’ good-bye.”

    “You smell nice, Mom.”

    “Like flowers?”

    “Some kind probly.”

    Came a time when Mom told Ree details about those nights out in roadhouse joints, or parties at the East Main Trailer Court, or how things got out of hand at the River Bluff Motel. The time of telling came when Mom sensed the smoky nights were done for her and she’d taken to fingering the memories of them from her rocking chair. She’d absorbed a few beatings for love in life and gotten over them, but it was those terrible ass-whippings she’d taken during one-night stands, motel quickies with fellas from the