Wesley Weyandt's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

By the time Wesley got the wolf home, the sun was low and his shoulders ached. He and the shepherd had hauled the body in the old wagon, the dog pulling steady in the harness like it had been born to it. Wesley left the wolf in the barn on a tarp. He washed his hands at the pump and went inside to write the letter he had been dreading since the shot. He sat at the kitchen table with a pencil and a sheet of lined paper. The house was quiet around him. The maroon shutters knocked once in the wind. He wrote, Katie, and stopped. He tried, I killed the wolf and the bounty will cover the tax. He crossed it out. It sounded like a ledger. He tried, I want you to see this place. He crossed that out too. It sounded like he was asking her to decide something before he had. He wrote a third version. He listed the broken window and the sagging rail. He wrote that the money would not stretch as far as he had promised her it would. He read it back and saw a man handing her a bill. He set the pencil down. The shepherd came in and sat by the table. It watched him with that pale eye. Wesley looked at the dog and then at the paper. "I don't know how to tell her without making it sound worse than it is," he said. "Or better than it is. I keep picking one." The dog did not move. Wesley thought about the break room two towns over. He thought about the paper towel and how she had not made a thing of it either. He thought about how she talked. Short. Plain. No speeches. He turned the paper over and started again. Katie. I got the wolf. Tax is covered. House needs work I didn't plan for. Porch is still standing. I want you on it. Come see it when your shift ends Friday. I'll pick you up. Wesley. He read it twice. It was not clever. It did not promise anything he could not do. It asked her one question and told her one true thing. He folded it before he could rewrite it again. He walked it out to the box at the road while there was still light. He set the flag up. He stood there a minute with his hand on the post. When he came back, a jar sat on the porch step that had not been there before. Wildflowers, cut rough, stems uneven, the kind someone grabs from a ditch on the way over. A folded note was tucked under the jar. The handwriting was hers. Was in the area. Friday works. Bring coffee. — K. Wesley sat down on the top step. The shepherd sat beside him. He laughed once, quiet, and did not get up for a while.