“Don’t you ‘Aunt Cici’ me,” she said, moving toward us fast enough that the tails of her robe and sash flared up on the air behind her. “Get that piece of shit off of my property.”

“Calm down, Aunt Cici,” Arch said.

“Shut your smug little mouth.”

Arch held his hands up as if she were robbing him at gunpoint. Her eyes narrowed.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she said.

Arch looked at me.

Mr. Haltom came out of the carriage house, his face a grimace of fury. “Nancy!”

“Is your whore still in there?” Mrs. Haltom said.

That was the last I heard. As we turned sharply onto the Boulevard, my head began to spin as if the Earth were tilting off its axis.

“Pull over,” I said.

I had just enough time to get the door open before I retched. When I caught my breath, I sat up, leaned back, and rolled my head toward Arch.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No worries, bud,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

Arch drove us out to the hunting camp. When we arrived, I went straight into one of the guest bedrooms and fell into a deep, troubled sleep. When I awoke, I had a terrible headache. My mouth tasted of bile. I walked to the kitchen and drank a glass of water in one long gulp. The water spread across my gut like ink on blotter paper.

The sun was bright but on the wane. The clock on the stove read 2:06. I called through the house for Arch but heard no answer.

I walked into the clearing and found him lying down, stretched out on top of his father’s grave. It was a soft spot, thick with pine needles. Arch’s hands were tucked into his armpits, his feet crossed at the ankles, his eyes closed. A shotgun leaned up against the tree behind the headstone. I sat down on the bench. His eyes opened slowly. He tilted his head toward me but did not lift it from the ground.

“Hey, bud,” he said.

“What’s the gun for?” I asked.

“Snakes,” he said. “It’s that time of year. How long have you been up?”

“Not long.”

“You were pretty hammered,” he said.

Arch lifted himself onto his elbow and rolled into a sitting position, wrapping his arms around his knees.

“Did you know?” I asked.

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

Arch looked up as the wind rushed through the high branches of the poplars, scattering the rays of light through the canopy.

“I talked to Uncle Jim while you were sleeping,” he said. “He and your mom are going to live at the farm in Leiper’s Fork for now. Maybe for good.”