Moleskin (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jenna Clark Embrey

things are to mark his grave, ” he said, standing up.

Carlson got out of his truck, and his dog waddled over to my boot.

“You about finished, Will?” I said.

“No. Why ’d they leave? They were supposed to stay for the whole funeral. ”

Angela and Brian sat beside the creek, talking. Brian bent to the mud, pulled something out, and swished it back and forth in the water.

“Well, I’ m not sure they understood exactly what you ’ re doing here, Willard. When you ’ re the master of ceremonies, it’ s important you explain to folks what’ s going on, so they don ’t nod off during the service. ”

He swept his hand. “These things are to mark its grave, ” he said again.

Carlson opened his wallet and unfolded a little green award ribbon. “You can put that on there, too. ”

“What’ s it for?”

“That’ s its tag, ” Carlson said.

Will flattened it in his palm and tried to read the gold lettering—maybe Smiley could teach him—then he just put it with the rest.

“They all mark his grave, ” Will was saying. “Especially this one. ” He picked up a sparkwheel and pulled its trigger. “I should keep this one, to remember. ”

“I think you better leave it. ”

His eyes clouded. “Goon!”

“What?”

“Mommy says you ’ re a goon, Daddy says you ’ re a goon. Everybody thinks you ’ re a goon. ” He pulled the trigger and turned away to watch it spin in private.

“Aw, that’ s not true, Will, ” I said.

Carlson waved and went down slowly to introduce himself to Angela.

“What else she say, Will?”

“We ’ re moving to another place. And you ’ re going somewhere else. End of story. ”

Angela shook Carlson ’ s hand, and he walked off like he had business to do, check his fence, maybe. Brian called out and come running past Angela up toward Will and me. He held out his hand when he reached us. They huddled close, like kids will when they ’ ve got something new to show. Will took a step back.

“To mark the grave!” Brian grinned. He laid it with the other things. Some blanched bone. It looked like something washed up from the sea.

“No!” said Will. “It’ s not part of it!”

“Yes, ” Brian said.

“No! Mom!” Willard flew down the hill, sticks kicking. She sat on an old stump, smoking a cigarette, keeping her distance. He was waving his arms, trying to explain the situation before he even got there. He clutched her belt loops. The wind blew her hair. The ground went lighter, then darker. Then lighter.

“She said I could ride back to the house with you, ” Brian told me.

“Then what?” We stood there. “Okay, let’ s go. ”

We left without waving. The dog come running down the hill. It shot out of the weeds when we turned the bend and chased us down the lane. When I hit the brakes it come out in front of us and stood with its paws out flat and lowered its head. It fell in to chasing us along the passenger side, barking wild again. Brian watched it beneath the window. I slowed a little so it could keep up. Once it popped up high enough where I could actually see its ears, and Brian called it a name. I put my right arm out to hold him as I put on the brakes. My broken finger throbbed on his chest.

There was a yelp.

The wheels skidded in the dust and gravel.

“Oh mother, ” Brian said. He looked over at me. “We hit it!” he said. “You hit it. ”

I could see the highway.

He opened his door and leaned to look, then hopped out. The dog limped off into the high weeds. He didn ’t call to it. The weeds were still. He leaned back in the door. “He be alright?” he asked.

“He ’ s still walking, ” I said.

Brian stepped away from the cab. He looked down the road. Angela ’ s car was coming way behind us. She stopped before they got any closer. I made out the shape of her head over the steering wheel way back there. We were staring at each other, backwards and forwards. Just get it over with. I could still hear the way he said it. I said it myself.

“What?” Brian asked.

“You go with her now. Tell her about the dog. ”

“But she said“

“Go with her, I said. ” I opened the glove box, and brushed the napkins onto the floor. “Here. ”

“What?”

“Here. Take these. ”

“Why?”

“You give them to her. ” The bundle felt stiff in my hand. “Just like this. ” I wrapped his hand around the straws. He shut the door and backed away as I pulled onto the highway.

Chad Willenborg' s stories have appeared in First City Review, Fugue, and McSweeney ' s. He is working on a novel set in Philadelphia and a collection of " cover versions " of James Joyce ' s Dubliners.