Will lay on his canvas cot, listening. Across the dark room, his older brother Tad shifted on his bed. Probably midnight already. Is Mama home? Nope. Ain’t back yet, I guess.

Will always heard her come in, maybe two o’clock, maybe three, when her flapper friends would drop her off over yonder at the dirt drive, all laughing and talking, stone drunk from that goddamn speakeasy, and she’d stagger to her room and collapse on her squeaky bed till late morning… if she made it that far. Always the same story, ever since Dad disappeared. And good riddance, the bastard. Will forced a firm exhale. Hope he’s riding the rails in some hard, cold country, learnin’ how them Yankees’ll treat a backwoods, son-of-a-bitch, used-to-be-a-dad drifter from way down south.

Will sighed and nestled into his pillow. The room ached with silence. Another shifting sound ruffled. Tad sat up. The metal bed frame creaked. Moonlight sliced through the broken blinds and cut across Tad’s gray pajamas. Something fresh was in the air. Will could feel it—something wicked, some kind of thrill.

“Tad,” Will whispered. “What are ya—?”

“Hell. Go back to sleep.”

“Ya going to one of them meetings? Them secret meetings in the woods?”

“None of your beeswax.” Tad was big—nearly out of school. And he knew all the big, sharp, burning words—like beeswax… naked… and nigger.

“Why can’t I come?”

“You’re too young,” Tad said. “Those boys would roast you alive.”

“I’m nearly thirteen. That ain’t young.” Will cringed at his emerging man-voice breaking high.

Tad stepped into his overalls and black boots, the stripes of the dim rays dancing. “Besides, you’d have to prove yourself.”

Will sat up and hugged his knees. “Hey, I’m brave. I can do anything. I even got me a weapon—that old ax.”

“You’d have to use that ax, for real.”

“I can.” Will lifted a shoulder like it was no big deal.

“Hmph.” Tad stood tall in the near-dark a long moment, the thin beams flitting across his crew cut. “Say,” he said, finally, “you love rabbits.”

Will felt a chill.

“We’ll see.” Tad clicked open the bedroom door. “Get up. Let’s go.” He stepped out and disappeared.

“Wait.” Will pulled on his overalls and boots. “Wait for me.” He went out to the porch and blinked at the daunting line of dark, swaying trees—the cedar, the dogwood and pine. The yard’s blanket of sod glimmered bright and mottled under a strong moon. A handful of dead leaves lifted in a sudden breeze at his feet. Their dad’s rusty, old Model-T truck sat staring through its cracked headlights. He skirted around the weed-choked pickup and tiptoed into the tool shed.

A tall figure loomed at the shed door. “Hurry,” Tad called in his deep man-voice. The figure moved away, his boots crunching twigs, till his footsteps faded into the night.

Will grabbed the ax off the high nail. As he turned to leave, he halted at the rabbit hutch by the wall. In the hazy glow, he could barely make out Pearl’s white form on the musty straw, her pink nose twitching. “It’s okay, girl,” he whispered. “I’ll be back soon.” He opened the cage door and stroked her soft, feathery fur. “You go back to sleep, and tomorrow I’ll bring you some—”

“Come on, sissy.” Tad stood at the shed door again, on silent feet. He rushed over and yanked Will’s arm.

Will’s throat clenched. Ow. Stop it. He shook his arm free. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.” And he joined Tad outside.

They ran a long way into the piney woods, breathing in the dewy scent of cedar leaves.

After what seemed an hour, they came to a clearing with a spitting camp fire. Will looked around. Shh. Don’t tell Tad… but I been here. Alone. Will followed Tad to the flame. The fingery smoke rose and shifted to his face.

Will stood still, holding his breath.

Two dark figures stood off in the shadows, whispering in a huddle—Tad’s friends, no doubt, their backs speckled by moon beams breaking through the black branches. That tall one, that must be Luther. Flunked out of school, I think. Works at the gas station. And the short one? His other friend, Leo, maybe? Yeah, Leo, the burglar. But he got off, didn’t he? On some kind of a… what’s that thing called? On a techni—

Will heard a scraping to his right. His gaze swung down to a small, metal live-trap near the fire. Something murky moved inside, scrambling and scratching.

“Dang.” Will leaned forward, one hand on his knee. “Where’d y’all get that rabbit?”

“That’s no rabbit. That’s a hare.” Tad stood tall and crossed his arms. “And you’re gonna skin it.”

“What? But it ain’t dead.” Will stared at the hare again, at the pooched-out sides. It’s a mama. It’s got babies in her tummy. He clutched the ax tighter and backed off. “I can’t skin a critter that ain’t dead.”

Tad snickered, and hissed. “That’s your job.” He turned to survey his friends.

Will glanced at Tad’s back. And he flung the ax in a high arc toward the trees.

Tad jerked around as the ax landed with a thud among the pine needles. “Hey. What ya do that that for, stupid?” He gripped Will’s arm in a death hold. “And you said you ain’t young.”

“Ow.” Will tugged at his elbow.

Tad tightened his grip.

“So?” Will murmured through clamped teeth.

“So, you’re gonna skin it.” Tad tossed him a pinched smile in the glow of the flickering fire. A laugh floated across the clearing from the friend huddle.

Will’s chest tightened. I don’t wanna. I can’t. I… He met Tad’s piercing gaze and dropped his eyes. “Uh… okay.”

Tad loosened his grip.

Will snapped his arm to his side. He traipsed into the tree shadows and poked around till he found the ax. Dang. Too damn quick. Sucking in a long breath, he brought the ax back to the trap and knelt down.

The hare slammed and scurried, gnawing and biting at the metal mesh, her feet bloodied, an iron scent in the air. She froze. Her black eyes darted to Will.

He looked away. His eyes moistened. No. He blinked hard. Be brave. Don’t let Tad see.

“Go on.” Tad moved closer. More laughter drifted from the two-friend huddle.

Will raised the ax. He stilled his lungs. The ax flew down and clanked on the top of the trap, on the steel wire mesh. The hare jerked and tumbled inside. He raised the ax again. It sliced the air. It hit the dirt. Missed.

“You’re hittin’ the trap, you idiot.” That was Tad’s voice nearby.

Will kept his eyes on the hare. “Tryin’ to stun it, is all.” He wiped at the sweat dribbling down his temple. Okay, little mama. He sprang the latch. The door flew open and the hare dashed out. She spun. She flipped. She twisted. And, as the ax came down again, she dodged the blade and was gone.

Will let out a long exhale. He got to his feet and glanced at Tad, at his wide eyes and slacked jaw. And he dropped the ax at his feet.

“Dang!” Tad laughed. “You can’t even kill a hare!”

Will gave a shrug. He kicked a pile of pine cones and hickory sticks. “It warn’t my fault.” He grabbed a rock and heaved it at a tree—whack.

Tad heaped a pile of dirt with his boot to smother the dying fire. “Now.” He waved to his friends. The boys waved back and started down the dim trail. “Come on, Will.” Tad motioned him along, and they entered the path. As the moon edged higher, Will could see the older boys better—tall Luther in the lead, his dark shirt flecked by the bright beams cutting through the branches, and Leo, his pale shirt glowing like a ghost.

Finally, Luther halted. “Shush,” came the signal.

Way ahead, a cabin stood in a clearing. Will knew this shack—it was that nigger family that lived off possums and squirrels, and their garden out back. He’d discovered the place way last summer.

* * *

A whole year back, on a hot, muggy afternoon, Will had been wandering in the dappled woods when he’d heard voices. He crept forward on the path, real soft and silent, and saw the shack. He’d ducked behind some bushes to spy. Five furry rodents hung on a line, and zucchinis and collards lay out on a rough-board table. A short, wiry black man came onto the porch, limped over to the table, and gathered up an armful of greens.

A boy about Will’s age stepped from an outhouse over yonder by the tree line. His faded blue overalls hung loose; his bare brown feet stuck out from his rolled-up pants. A scratchy woman’s voice called from a window: “Curtis!” As the boy headed toward the house, he caught sight of Will crouching in the brush. The boy stopped and stared.

Will got to his feet slowly, bluffing, with a bravery he didn’t feel.

The boy froze like a black-eyed doe.

Will cleared his throat. He waved. And he threw out a soft “Hey.”

The boy watched Will a long minute, blinking in the stark sunlight. He took a step closer and said, “Hey,” back.

Will thought he was a right nice-looking boy, with big, dark eyes and long lashes, and an almost-smile. The mom called him again—“Curtis!” The boy nodded toward Will. Then he turned and hurried to the shack.

On that bright afternoon, Will had run home, holding his secret—this place—like a trembling dove in his hand: Cross my heart and hope to die, I’ll never tell anybody, not even Tad. Especially not Tad.

***

Will froze on the moonlit path, his eyes fixed on the shack sitting silent and serene in the open clearing. Damn. Not here. Any place but here. Luther stood a few yards ahead on the path. Leo joined him. Tad halted behind Will on the path, his breathing audible.

“Willie,” Luther whispered, and waved him over. “Get Willie up here.”

“My name ain’t Willie,” he mumbled. “It’s Will.” Stupid.

“Who cares?” Tad shoved him forward. “Go on, your turn.”

Will moved next to Luther. The two of them crept toward the shack and stopped at a rear window. The sound of crunching leaves mixed with the rustling pines.

Luther reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of wooden matches. “Here.” He struck a match and handed the flaming stick to Will. “Go, now.”

Will’s chest felt like that rabbit in the trap, all fluttery. His jaw tightened.

“W-Wait. Not here.” Think, think. Will killed the withering flame with his fingers. “I-I’ll go ’round to the porch.” He snatched the matchbox from Luther and circled to the front, alone. Passing the rough table, he waited at the porch steps, the matchbox clenched in his fist, his heart hammering up his throat. “C-Curtis,” he stammered, “boy… boy. Wake up.”

Will sucked in his breath and wheezed out. Now, now. Do it now. He lifted a boot and brought it down, solid and loud, stomping the bottom step. And he collapsed, his elbows and knees all sprawled across the stoop. “Damn!” Will cried. He kicked and slammed the boards. “Ow. Ow. Ow!” he shouted, grabbing his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them wide, to see a dark man-face at a front window. And Curtis’s face appeared beside his dad. “Ow, my knee!” Will screamed. “Sheee-ut!”

The door flew open. The short, wiry man stood clutching a broom, his black eyes round and white-rimmed in the moon rays. Curtis joined him at the door. Then the mom. “Go on back!” the man hissed at them. The two withdrew into the shadowy room. The little man flipped the broom around and crashed the handle hard against the floorboards, the side boards, the porch—whack, whack, whack!

Will rolled backward off the stoop and onto the dirt.

“Go on, you varmints!” the man bellowed. “Y’all git.” The broomstick swung down on the porch again—crack!

Will jumped to his feet. He threw the matchbox toward the man and dashed around the corner of the cabin. Tad and the others waited in a huddle down the trail. “Run! Run!” Will yelled.

Crash. Bang. The clatter echoed from the porch, from the commotion out of sight.

“He’s got a gun, he’s got a gun!” Will lied.

Luther and Leo whirled and ran. Then Tad.

Will watched them disappear down the dark trail. The moment fell silent. A fluttering of wings broke the stillness. A breeze blew through the woods, ruffling needles and pine cones, and quivering plants.

Will headed toward home on the path. When he came to the open clearing, he stopped at the campfire and stared down at the dying embers. He nudged the empty trap with his boot. And the ax. Hmm. Maybe I should… He picked up the ax, his growing hands strong on the handle. Tad’ll need it for the wood pile. His tongue gave a clicking sound. Nope. Goddamn ax. Tad don’t hardly use it anyhow. He lifted his arm and pitched the ax into the trees. Let him come find it, the lazy bastard. And, turning away, he took the tardy way home, his bootsteps breezing along under the canopy of pines.

Finally, Will left the woods and walked into his own spacious yard. The night air hovered, speckled black and silver and silent. He entered the shed and tapped the hutch. “Psst. Hey, girl.” Reaching into the cage, he fingered Pearl’s ears and her soft, thick fur.

After Will left the shed, he slipped into the house and peeked inside his mama’s room. Her bed lay empty, the covers crumpled. Of course. Still out. He tiptoed to his own shared bedroom and stretched out on his cot, listening for his mom. Might need to help her stumble on in, soon. A muffled breathing drew his attention.

Tad lay in bed, still in his overalls, his back turned.

Will knew he was fake snoring, pretending to sleep. Coward. Will nestled into his pillow, raised his arms and locked his hands behind his head. A long breath escaped his lungs as he closed his eyes. Behind his lids, images danced—a mama hare, the black boy, and a broom.

“So,” Will whispered into the darkness. “Ya see, Tad? I’m nearly thirteen. And that ain’t so young.”

# # #

Casey Robb’s careers have included physical therapy and civil engineering. Her poetry has won awards and been published in multiple journals, and her short stories have appeared in “Menda City Review,” “Foliate Oak,” “Foundling Review,” “Kaleidoscope,” and “Literary Nest.” Casey is a Texan who lives in Northern California with her two adopted daughters. Her website is at: www.pikapawpress.com.

Photo: Gary Bendig