Abstract
Cull, '27 Break Emily J. Stinson (bio) Four o'clock, opening day of dove season in the Mississippi Delta, and we haven't seen one bird. Even in a baited field, the birds aren't biting. "Must be on account of all the rain," I say, because I can't think of another reason. You nod, load the shotgun, aim at the open air, and send a shell flying for good measure. "Let's drive," you say. "Ride the river." Translation: We're not going to kill a damn thing, and our wives don't expect us home until after dark. Let's not disappoint them. We stop in Rosedale for a twelve-pack, head south on Highway 1, and sip our long-necks with the windows down. Thick bolls of cotton whitewash the fields on either side of the road. Every now and then a cotton picker, deserted and still, parked in a turn row. When we hit the crossroads, make a right onto the levee, you put in some Robert Johnson. The CD's scratched, so we listen to "Traveling Riverside Blues" on repeat, the only song that doesn't skip. "This is what happens when you have a two-year-old," you say. "They break everything. Can't listen to music for shit." Translation: You wish you'd waited longer to have kids. I think about my wife at home on bed-rest, eight months pregnant with our first child, and take a long pull off my beer. ________ We break down near Beulah, eight bottles in. The Buick's quick, huffing smoke, and we don't care. Half-lit, loose in our skin, we admit we both had a feeling something like this would happen. "Fan belt's busted," you say through a plume of smoke rising from under the hood. "Or maybe it's the radiator. Either way, this piece of junk car is a fucking casualty, man." It's the middle of nowhere, a dusty strip road near the '27 break where we used to bring girls back in high school, back when all we wanted [End Page 114] to do was make out, maybe get a hand under their shirts. Eighty years ago, this place put the Delta underwater and left stubborn farmers stranded and sucking for air. Our grandfathers still talk about it—the Great Flood of 1927—with such passion and zeal that we sometimes forget they weren't there, that they weren't even born yet. "Someone will find us," I say. "Somebody will show up eventually." You prod under the still-steaming hood. "Eventually is a long-ass time," you say. Translation: No one's coming. ________ We walk the levee, scuffing our boots on cow grates, the sound like the sharp slag of empty bottles. We wish we'd bought more beer. Above us, clouds and a waxy blue sky fall behind the top pines like some kind of stage backdrop that could be lifted with the pull of a string. "Look at that," you say when a rabbit jumps sideways in front of us, zigzags ahead, and scurries back into the brake. "Should've brought the shotgun." In the slough, unattended cattle groan and sleep in sinking mud. "Want to tip a cow?" I say in jest, but because we're bored and out of beer, you don't even have to think about it. "Watch out," you say, as we make our way down the grassy slope to the morass where the cows are standing at attention. "It's steep." At the bottom of the hill, we attempt to sneak up on a feeding Holstein—our knees bent, arms extended, ready to push her over. But we both know cow tipping is a myth, that if it could be done we would've done it already, so we aren't surprised when the cow lifts her head, turns toward us, and gives us a snort. "I dare you to try and pet her," you say. The ground is soft from three days' rain, and my boots sink and suck with every step. "Come here, girl," I say, arm outstretched, fist closed as if holding an apple...
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