“Boy, you killed that squirrel,” Jack Gacy stated matter-of-factly out as soon as we started driving again. “Yup,” I said, and we started laughing. Earlier, when we were passing through Culpeper, I’d swerved a little too late and knocked all hell out of some poor little critter. Gacy’s girlfriend got real upset though, couldn’t stand the thought of the thing being dead. Kept on asking about it, too. “Is he all right?” she kept saying with that Yankee accent of hers. Well, never have I seen a squirrel taste the bottom of a Firestone tire and live, but she seemed set on the thing being all right and I felt bad letting her down. Twyman’s Mill isn’t the easiest place to get to, especially when you're coming down from somewhere like Boston, and I wasn’t about to be the one to ruin her visit. I shut up and let Jack do the talking.
“Naw, honey, he missed it,” he’d said and put his arm around her. “Are you sure, dear?” she answered. “I could have sworn I felt a thump. Oh, that poor little creature, I feel terrible.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he’d said. “Just a hump in the road, that’s all. He got away.” I did my best to keep my face solemn as the grave. I was trying my best not to smile. Poor girl had probably never seen a thing killed before. Don’t imagine they done much hunting up in Massachusetts. “Ain’t that right, Jimbo?” All I could do was nod – I knew if I opened my mouth I'd start laughing.
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