scale, sighed, then ran a finger gently along the
barrel to brush away grains of salt.
“don’t you, nor nobody else, neither, ever
go down around Hawkfall askin’ them people
shit about stuff they ain’t offerin’ to talk about.
That’s a real good way to end up et by hogs, or
wishin’ you was. you ain’t no silly-assed town
girl. you know better’n that foolishness.”
“But we’re all related, ain’t we?”
“Our relations get watered kinda thin be-
tween this valley here and Hawkfall. it’s better’n
bein’ a foreigner or town people, but it ain’t no-
where near the same as bein’ from Hawkfall.”
Victoria said, “you know all those people
down there, teardrop. you could ask.”
“Shut up.”
“i just mean, none of them’s goin’ to be in
a great big hurry to tangle with you, neither. if
A little more than kin, and less than kind.
—William Shakespeare, 1601
Jessup’s over there, Ree needs to see him. Bad.”
“i said shut up once already, with my
mouth.”
Ree felt bogged and forlorn, doomed to a
spreading swamp of hateful obligations. There
would be no ready fix or answer or help. She felt
like crying but wouldn’t. She could be beat with
a garden rake and never cry and had proved that
twice before mamaw saw an unsmiling angel
pointing from the treetops at dusk and quit
the bottle. She would never cry where her tears
might be seen and counted against her. “Jesus
fuckin’ Christ, dad’s your only little brother!”
“you think i forgot that?” He grabbed the
clip and slammed it into the pistol, then ejected
it and tossed pistol and clip back into the nut
bowl. He made a fist with his right hand and
rubbed it with his left. “Jessup’n me run together
for nigh on forty years—but i don’t know where
he’s at, and i ain’t goin’ to go around askin’ after
him, neither.”
Ree knew better than to say another
word but was going to anyhow, when Victoria
grabbed her hand and held it, squeezed, then
said, “now, when is it you was tellin’ me you’ll
be old enough to join the army?”
“next birthday.”
“Then you’ll be off from here?”
“i hope.”
“Good for you. Good deal. But, what’ll the
boys and—”
“teardrop says you best keep your ass real
close to the willows, dear.” She dropped fifty
dollars in tens on the tabletop and fanned the
bills. “He hopes this helps. Want me to roll a
doobie for your walk?”
teardrop lurched from his chair and
snatched Ree by the hair and pulled her head
hard his way and yanked back so her throat was
bared and her face pointed up. He ran his eyes
into her like a serpent down a hole, made her
feel his slither in her heart and guts, made her
tremble. He jerked her head one way and another, then pressed a hand around her windpipe and
held her still. He leaned his face to hers from
above and nuzzled his melt against her cheek,
nuzzled up and down, then slid his lips to her
forehead, kissed her once and let go. He picked
up the crank bag from the lazy Susan. He held
it toward the skylight and shook the bag while
looking closely at the shifting powder. He carried the bag toward the bedroom and Victoria
motioned Ree to sit still, then slowly followed
him. She pulled the door shut and whispered
something. a talk with two voices started low
and calm but soon one voice raised alone and
spoke several tart muffled sentences. Ree could
not follow any words through the wall. There was
a lull of silence more uncomfortable than the tart
sentences had been. Victoria came back, head
lowered, blowing her nose into a pale blue tissue.
From Winter’s Bone. A native of Springfield,
Missouri, Woodrell attended the University of Kansas
and the Iowa Writer’s Workshop before publishing
his first novel, Under the Bright lights, in 1986.
Two of his eight books have been made into films:
his second novel, Woe to live On, was adapted
into Ride with the devil by Ang Lee in 1999
and Winter’s Bone, his latest novel, was adapted
by Debra Granik in 2010. The latter received four
Academy Award nominations, among them Best
Picture and Best Adapted Screenplay.
