by test
"And can't do a thing about it, Bob, hey?" says Mr. Mac.
The other men and Mrs. Welch stand, and Bob Welch takes his wife's elbow. Halfway around the pool, he puts his arm around her waist.
At the gate, Mr. Welch turns and says toward the pool, "Hey Denny, come on little guy, let's hustle."
Den-den drops the tennis ball and runs toward his parents, then runs back to fetch his clothes and his sneakers with the socks tucked into them. His wet feet slap the concrete.
The chairs creak as Mr. Mac and Christine's father sit back down.
"Poor kid, I swear," Mrs. Mac says.
Pam and Suze are walking close together, their arms brushing, alongside the pool to the patio. Christine paddles around to watch them. They take a beer from the cooler and sit on the table, their legs crossed, their knees pointing at each other. Suze tugs at the straps over her shoulders. With the bottle opener in her hand, Pam scowls at Christine, and then turns to Suze and says something into her hair.
Christine lets the inner tube spin her around, away. Her hands and feet
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swing in the water She closes her eyes. The grown-ups murmur, and she catches fragments but cannot grasp whole sentences or even after a while distinguish the voices:
"it's beginning"
"must do somethingwhat's"
"and then the next"
"anybody, someone"
"we all know how difficult"
"but if one cares at all, if"
"to do nothing"
"but you know what's true too"
A buzzing and whispering from farther away joins the sighs and mutters, and she looks up, toward the house; the wavering glow of television shows through the screen door, and Jamey's sneakers rest crossed on the coffee table in the blurred and bright den.
Her mother calls, "Why don't you come in now, Christine? Why don't you go on indoors?"
Christine waves her hands and feet back and forth, and the water ripples between her fingers and toes. She takes a breath, rocks to one side and tips herself over, and for the moment before she surfaces, utter quiet envelops her.
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Sipsey's Woods
by Ronald Sielinski
Billy drove slow. Six inches of snow was nothing for his Blazer, which had four-wheel drive and a plow, but the window on his side was smashed. Dad put his fist through it back in Sipsey's woods. Now, the faster Billy drove, the harder cold and snow blew in. Even with the heater vents pointed directly at us, we couldn't get warm. Billy had one side of his coat pulled up over his nose and his hands tucked into his sleeves, but he didn't look so cold as me.
My feet hurt. My chest and stomach muscles ached from shivering. The wind had started soon as we left Sipsey's woods, and big gusts blew down the road, tugging at the trees. The sun was nearly gone, the snow was still falling, and the air was too cold to breathe, too cold to do anything but pull our shoulders in and shiver.
I said, ''What if Dad dies?"
Billy didn't answer.
"What if he passes out or falls through some ice?"
"Jeff," he said, high-pitched, like I'd said something stupid.
"But what if"
"Dad's not gonna die." He didn't want me thinking about it. But I already had: Dad lost in the woods, confused by the snow and the coming night, him lying down just to rest, then a drift covering his body.
"He's not dead, and he's not gonna die." Billy said, "We're not that lucky."
But nothing Billy said could change what would happen, what had happened. The glass had cut Dad bad: a hundred razor cuts from knuckles to elbow. He should have been howling Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph, but he was beyond mad. He could walk miles into the woods before he noticed the blood dripping from his hand, the little red icicles at his fingertips. By then he might not have any blood left to bleed.
"Maybe we should go back and check?"
Billy didn't answer.
"We could follow his tracks."
Billy sneered, "I didn't think we had time."
He was blaming me. Billy always blamed me. It wasn't my fault I had a scouts meeting; Mom's the one who said I had to go. She said she wasn't going to pay initiation and dues, buy a uniform and books, just so I could lose interest
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in three months. I had to eat, get cleaned up, and change into my uniform, all before six. Our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Henslow, was den mother; she'd probably make us decorate styrofoam place settings or memorize directions to the post office. Only once, we made tom-toms out of oatmeal tubes. I said, "I don't even want to go."
Billy said, "Yeah, right." Billy blamed me for everything. Even when the cat got chopped up by his engine fan, and I'd only let the cat outside like she wanted, he blamed me. What the hell d'you do that for?
I asked him, "What're we gonna tell Mom?"
"What happened."
"It's not my fault."
Billy took a loud, you're-trying-my-patience breath. We'd left Dad back in Sipsey's woods because Dad wanted to hunt a deer and Billy didn't. Billy wouldn't even let Dad use his rifle. But Dad broke into his Blazer and took the gun anyway.
"If Dad's dead," I said, "you killed him."
"Jeff. Shut up."
"I'm gonna tell Mom it's your fault."
"I said shut up."
"I'll tell her you killed him."
"Nobody dies from a cut hand. Now would you just shut up?"
But I knew. I'd already earned my first-aid achievement. Without a tourniquet, you bleed to death. If Dad could just find a sturdy branch and narrow strip of cloth. But after that they'd have to cut off his arm because gangrene would set in. If the poison spread to his heart, he'd die. Same with frostbite. Scouts had taught me one thing, at least: there's lots of ways to die. "Maybe he'll freeze?"
"Good."
Billy hated Dad. They used to get along okay, before Billy was old enough to drive. But now they couldn't talk without ending up shouting. Lots of times I hated him myself. I even wished him dead. But Dad could be all right. He taught me things. He showed me the right way to use a screwdriver, to let a screw work itself into wood. And when we watched football on TV, Dad knew if a team would run or pass as soon as the ball was snapped. Sometimes he'd take me to the Army Surplus. We'd shoot expensive bows on the practice range and look at pictures of bucks in magazines.
Mom said he liked hunting deer better than he liked her. Really, she didn't like the killing. I was on her side about that. Once, I'd shot a waxwing with my pellet gun, and I felt so bad, I went crying to Mom. I can't imagine what it'd be like to kill a deer.
But Billy hated Dad. Last Friday, Dad caught him with a pack of cigarettes. Dad hates cigarettes. So he taped the pack to the front door, so Billy would remember not to smoke as long as he lived in Dad's house. They got in a big fight,
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a real one. Billy finally dared Dad to hit him, C'mon, old man. You know you want to. So Dad hit him. I didn't see itI was in the kitchenbut I heard the thwack of flesh. Billy stomped out of the house and didn't come home till two-thirty, drunk. Dad's been real friendly ever since, but Billy stayed mad.
You could see the mad in him as he drove: We slid to stops, spun to starts, and fishtailed around corners. I knew better than to say anything. And he didn't say anything either for a long while. Then the wind got louder And when the wind got louder, it got colder I rubbed my arms and legs and jiggled, and that helped a little, but my feet still hurt.
"Stop it," Billy said.
"I'm cold."
"Stop it."
"I'm cold."
"Would you just stop it."
I said, "You want me to freeze, don't you?"
Billy bit down on nothing.
"You killed Dad, now you want to kill me."
"All right!"
"Then you could say it's all my fault. Then"
"Shut up!"
"You could kill us both, that'd make you happy"
My head rang, and I remembered see
ing Billy's big brown glove come away from the steering wheel, toward me. I could feel where each knuckle hit. My skin was so cold it felt like whole chunks had been torn from my cheek and nose. My neck hurt in a line from ear to shoulder from twisting so hard. My lip felt warm. I touched it with my mitt and watched the red blood freeze. I looked at Billy.
He looked back. "I said shut up."
I wanted to open the door and jump out and run, but there was nowhere to run. And Billy would stop and catch me, then he'd hit me again because I ran. I hated Billy. "All right," I said, "Dad."
"Listen, you little shit, I saved you from Dad."
Maybe I'd thought that, too, when Dad was walking toward us with Billy's thirty-ought-six, but that was just me thinking. "Nuh-uh," I said, "Dad wouldn't shoot us."
"What?"
"Dad wouldn't shoot me," I said.
"Are you that stupid? I'm talking about the cold and your stupid scouts meeting."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm talking about having to follow Dad all through the woods, chasing some stupid deer, when you'd rather be anywhere in the world than with him.
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Having to put up with his shit because you're not having as much fun as he thinks you should."
Billy was right. When Dad was pissed, he'd holler and gripe so much you felt embarrassed to be yourself. He'd make you feel ashamed because you'd somehow caused all the trouble in his life, because you couldn't do anything to help him. If Dad lived, I was glad we'd be gone when the pain in his hand woke up. Except our leaving would really piss him off. He'd come back to the road, still bleeding, angry about not getting a deer, and find us gone. He'd shoot trees then, and kick snow, and shout our fucking names at the sky. And if he ever made it home, he'd be even more pissed because he'd had to walk fifteen miles through the cold and night.
"Maybe we should go back?" I said.
"You got scouts. Remember?"
I told him again that I didn't have to go.
Billy punched the roof, "Goddammit!"
I didn't want him to hit me again.
"You're going!"
"You're not Dad," I said, "You can't tell me what to do."
"Would you just shut up."
"Or what? You'll hit me?"
"Listen, all this started because of you and scouts."
"You're the one who started it, not me. I never would've left Dad."
"Oh, really?" he said. "What are you doing in this truck then? Huh, Jeff? Tell me, why didn't you just stay behind?"
I hated Billy. The whole way home he'd been trying to make me feel bad. I hadn't done anything wrong. I stood as best I could.
"Sit down," he said. I turned and stepped on the seat, then climbed into the back, away from Billy. "Dammit, Jeff." The seat springs were stiff with cold. "Look what you did to my fucking seat."
I lay with my back to the wind, a seat belt in my face. "Jeff," he said, "get back up here."
The vinyl had frost growing in the hollows of its grain.
"I'm warning you, get back up here and clean this mess."
It wasn't my fault that I had a scouts meeting. It wasn't my fault that I'd seen a deer. Billy was the one who pissed Dad off. "It's all your fault," I said, not loud enough for him to hear.
We'd been carrying carrots out to the bait pile. Dad had started the pile about a month ago in the flats where, every spring, old trees pulled themselves up from the ground, and the big rings of roots and dirt made natural blinds. About a quarter-mile shy of Dad's blind, we heard something in the trees, the kush of pine needles. I saw him first, a huge buck, with at least a ten-point rack, only fifty feet away. He struggled to get up, slow and awkward. I pointed, and
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the buck ran. He jumped through the woods, dodging trees and scrub, still graceful despite the stripe of blood down his thigh.
Dad wanted Billy to run get his gun. Billy said, He's already gone. Dad said, Not with that leg, he's not. Then Billy said we didn't have time, we had to get back for my scouts meeting. Dad looked playful, It'll be Jeff's first deer. Then he looked at me, What d'you say, Jeff? Eh? Getting too old for that scout shit?
I didn't much care for scouts, but I was cold, deep-down, painful cold. I wanted to go home, take my boots off and stand on the hot air duct in the kitchen. I didn't want to shoot a deer. I didn't want to kill anything. But I was afraid to tell Dad no.
Dad gave up on me and looked at Billy, C'mon, he said. Billy tried again, Jeff? But I didn't answer. Billy looked at Dad, said we should get back. I was happy to hear him say that. Dad wasn't. The two of them went back and forth, Dad about the first kill of the season and venison steaks, Billy about the lack of time. You could see their arguing in the air, frozen puffs of breath, bigger and bigger, till they pissed each other off. I thought Billy was going to challenge Dad to another fight, but he didn't. All he said was, It's my gun, and Dad lost control. Don't hand me that shit! Billy said that he'd drive Dad home and Dad could get his own gun. Dad threw his sack of carrots at Billy's feet, and Billy sidestepped. Dad stomped off down the trail. Billy waited till Dad disappeared around a bend before he said, Don't forget the keys.
Billy picked up Dad's sack, and we went on ahead to the bait pile. We met up with him on our way back. He was walking toward us, Billy's gun cradled under one arm, both hands tucked in his pockets. Blood soaked his jacket from his elbow to wrist; he looked ready to kill us both. Billy put an arm down to stop me. He stood in front of me. That's my gun, he said. But Dad just kept coming. Billy said, How'd you get in? Dad kept coming.
Last summer I shot Dad with my pellet gun. Not once, but a bunch of times. I don't know, I kind of went crazy. I just kept shooting. Back then I really hated Dad, not for any one reason, just for who he was. So when I saw Dad coming down that trail, I knew he was mad enough. I imagined him lifting that gun to shoot, a bullet going through Billy's stomach and hitting me in the chest or shoulder, spinning me in a circle to the ground. I would've looked over at Billy and mouthed the words This is all your fault! blood coming up from my throat the instant before I died.
Dad passed us, instead, and Billy started to follow, Hey, he said. Dad whirled around, Don't push it! They stared at each other, and if Billy so much as opened his mouth, I know Dad would have shot. But Billy didn't say anything. Dad turned and walked away. Billy grabbed my shoulder and said, Come on.
Back at the road, I saw nothing but blood; there was a red hole melted into the snow and a red hand-print on the side of the Blazer, like on an Indian's
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horse. Billy probably only saw the thousand safety glass pebbles scattered across the snow. Son of a bitch, he said. And we left.
The Blazer lurched and I looked up. I saw the tall tangle of our oak's black branches. The branches disappeared. The Blazer stopped.
