Contagious

“Slow down, girl,” Donald hissed to himself. Betty couldn’t hear him or read his mind, obviously, because she poured on the speed. Donald tried to catch up and cut her off, but she had her throttle wide open.

The Winnebago started honking, but didn’t seem to slow. Betty apparently thought it would. Sick in his soul, Donald traced the two vehicles’ trajectories—she wouldn’t make it across in time.

Betty apparently saw the same thing. She locked up the brakes. The Cat’s back end fishtailed to the right, kicking up a wave of powder in front of it. The sled lost most of its speed but still tipped. Betty hopped off as the sled flopped onto its side and kept moving. She actually landed on her feet and slid for a few yards before she fell hard. The Cat skidded along the path for another ten feet, coming to rest right at the edge of the road.

The Winnebago roared by, trailing a cloud of powder. The big vehicle slowed down, working toward a full stop on the snowy road.

Donald skidded to a halt and hopped off his sled. Betty was already sitting up. Sitting up and laughing.

“Betty, are you all right?”

She took off her helmet, black hair spilling out across the shoulders of her white snowsuit. She laughed again, then winced.

“Owww,” she said through a grimacing smile. “Oh, Daddy, I think I hurt my boo-tay.”

He heard the Winnebago come to a stop and his brother’s sled approaching. Donald didn’t care about either; he was too angry.

“Betty Jean Jewell, what the h.e.l.l were you doing?”

“Trying to beat you, of course,” Betty said. “If I could have made it in front of that RV, you would have had to pull off, and I’d win.”

“You idiot. You could have been killed.”

Betty waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, re-lax. You taught me how to dump a sled, Dad, I’m fine.”

“You’re not going on a snowmobile again, and that’s that.”

Betty’s smile faded. “Dad, seriously, I’m fine. I think you’re getting a little fired up here.”

He was losing his temper again, the same temper that had f.u.c.ked up his entire life. He took a deep breath and started to get a hold of it.

And he would have succeeded, were it not for the driver of the Winnebago.

“You stupid little brat!” the man screamed. “What kind of a stupid f.u.c.king stunt was that?”

Donald looked up. The driver—a red-bearded fat man well past middle age—had gotten out of the Winnebago and walked over. He was only ten feet away. Donald’s temper shifted targets in an instant, fueled by the language directed against his daughter.

“Don’t you yell at her, Dale Junior, you’re the one tearing up the road.”

“I was going the speed limit, dips.h.i.t.”

“Daddy, please,” Betty said.

Donny didn’t hear her—he was already too far gone. “Dips.h.i.t? I’m a dips.h.i.t? You ever heard of a f.u.c.king brake pedal?”

Somewhere in the back of his head, Donald heard his brother’s snowmobile slow and stop.

The man pointed to the road. “You see the snow-covered pavement there, genius? You think you can stop a motor home on a dime on that?”

“Maybe you should take some driving lessons then, you p.r.i.c.k. You could have killed my daughter.”

“I could have killed her?”

“That’s what I said, numb-nuts.”

“Donny, Mark, stop it!” Bobby yelled, but neither man was paying attention.

“Well,” the man said, “if you’re her father, maybe running her over wouldn’t be so bad for the gene pool.”

That tore it. Donald threw down his helmet and stormed forward.

And found himself looking down the barrel of a gun.

“Daddy!” Betty screamed.

“Just hold your horses, pal,” the bearded man said. “I don’t really care for a fistfight today.”

“Oh, wow,” Bobby said. “Uh, Mark, could you put that down?”

The man looked to his right but kept the gun leveled at Donald. “You know this douchebag, Bobby?”

Donald didn’t move.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Bobby said. “This is my brother, Donny. Uh . . . Donny, this is my neighbor, Mark Jenkins.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Donald said. He kept himself very still while he said it.

The bearded man looked from Bobby to Donald, then back to Bobby again.

“Oh,” the man said, and lowered the gun. “Well, sorry about that, then.”

A huge breath slid out of Donald’s lungs.

“Bobby, sorry about drawing on your brother, but he was coming at me.” He clicked the safety on and slid the pistol somewhere in his ample back waistband. They all stood there in silence for a moment.

“This is just a bit uncomfortable,” Betty said.

“So, Mark,” Bobby said. “How was your hunting trip?”

“Pulled an oh-fer,” Mark said. “Got all new rifles, and the deer just didn’t show up. This might not be a good time for small talk, though, Bobby. How about you and the family come over for dinner? Next week.”

“Will do, Mark,” Bobby said. “Be seein’ ya.”

Mark nodded, turned and walked back to his Winnebago. The Jewells watched him get in and drive off.

“That gun legal?” Donald asked.

Bobby shrugged. “Probably. You know as well as I do you don’t ask around here. He moved in last year. Has a bit of a thing for Candice.”

“No s.h.i.t?”

“No s.h.i.t,” Bobby said. “He’s fairly open about it. Normally that would chap my a.s.s, but he can look all he wants. I don’t really make a big deal of it, for reasons I’m sure you can now appreciate.”

“Yeah,” Donald said. “I think I see where you’re coming from.”

“Gawd, Daddy,” Betty said. “You can be such an a.s.shole. Can you please pick up my sled so I can go back to Uncle Bobby’s house and die of embarra.s.sment?”

Donald did just that. She hopped on, then raced off down the trail. The Jewell brothers watched her go.