Stark Weather

. . . and it seem as though I could see my heart before my eyes, turning dark black with hate of rages, or harhequinade, stripped from that munner life leaving only naked being-hate. —Charles Starkweather On the Great Plains in March, the wind blows for days. Gutter pipes vibrate, shingles flap; things begin to come loose. Once they found old Miss Purdy wandering at midnight on U.S. 40, her dainty-laced nightgown billowing over her spindly, blue-gray thighs. It took three deputies to hold her down till the doctor arrived. On the Great Plains in March the dry elm scrapes at an upstairs window, dust devils swirl and disperse across the wide, empty fields, and a pistol shot sounds no louder than a screen door slapping on a porch.