Page 35 of Small Town Hunter

He needs money, clearly. I look at the raggedy hat he has on. His clothes aren’t new. The nicest thing he owns is this car, which is actually fast as a bullet, though it’s not the new model. It’s also a manual.

I don’t know if Crash has noticed the hole in his jeans or the fraying on his trucker hat. He loves those clothes overmuch, Mamie would say.

Thanks to him, my clothes are new. But I don’t love them. I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt and sweatpants like I’m going to the most boring pajama party ever.

Last night we drove three hours east into Guymon, which Crash said has the only Walmart for a hundred and seventy-five miles. I asked him how he knew that and he said he knows where every Walmart is. I asked him why that would be something to know and he said lots of people sleep in Walmart parking lots. I said so what, and then he told me stop asking questions.

Mama would be dead in her grave before she ever saw me in Walmart clothes, which are for poor people. I gently suggested stopping at The Gap or perhaps Ann Taylor. A vein jumped up in his neck and he said this wasn’t New York Fashion Week. I promised him that Mamie would reimburse whatever he spent on my clothes, and he said he doubted it. So I entered Walmart for the first time in my life.

It was spectacular. So manythings.Crash ruined this novel experience by refusing to get me any clothes that weren’t three sizes too big. He ground his teeth when I insisted on hand cream and normal cream, as if they’re the same. Concealer was out of the question and I didn’t dare ask for a hair straightener.

I was afraid to mention hair products at all, but to my surprise, he brought it up first.

He walked close to me the whole time, glaring at anybody who looked our way. Mostly other men. When we passed the Hair Care isle he suddenly asked, “Do you need any of this stuff?”

“Just some oil and a little leave-in,” I replied, surprised. “I don’t like chemical treatments and I’m funny about smells. That’s why my hair is a mess.”

“A mess?” He repeated.

“Yeah. You know, all over the place.” I pulled on a curl and his eyes followed my finger.

“So your hair does that…naturally?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay.” His gaze stayed on me a little longer than usual and he said, “Get whatever you want.”

He bought random things. A charger, some apples, and a book, which he was all secretive about for some reason. Then we drove all the way back out to Cimarron.

I stareat the deserted road, the sagebrush and tumbleweed rolling on endlessly. All my life I lived knowing exactly what the next day would bring. Now the future is a big wide mystery.

This species is sexually dimorphic, with males being larger than the females. Their breeding cycles affect migration patterns, with some traveling as far as Mongolia —

“How long is this book?” I ask Crash irritably. Instead of the gospel radio like I suggested, he’s playing some boring audiobook about pelicans. If that’s the type of stuff he likes, I don’t know why he was all shady about the other book from Walmart.

“Nineteen hours,” he replies. “We’re just getting to the good part. Is it bothering you?”

“No,” I lie. “I just love pelicans. My favorite bird, in fact.”

He shuts the audiobook off. “Well, how about we play a game. It’s called Questions.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Question One: is your family gonna come looking for you? Call the police on me?”

I scowl. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I left. And you don’t leave our church.”

“Sounds like a cult.”

“It’s not a cult,” I snap.

“Give up the corn. I want the whole story.”

“Mama said I had to marry Reverend Wilson. His family has a big name in our town.”

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