by John Casey
Not today. Today was okay. Low end of well-being. Too cold for more.
She set off again, a few long strides in her own tracks, then had to break trail. She was grateful for this snowfall, not just for the pleasure of ski touring but for the benefit of other animals. A foot or so beneath the snow, voles were having a fine time in their grass-lined passages and rooms, insulated from the cold wind, hidden from foxes and feral cats. Their only alarm would be as they felt the vibrations of her skis across the top of their world.
By noon she reached the railroad embankment, which served as a windbreak for her when she turned northeast. No need to patrol the Great Swamp Fight site, somebody on duty there. Even from inside the building they could keep an eye on things.
At the northeast corner of the reservation there was a rise of open ground. It fell away more steeply to the east, enough shelter from the wind for a deer yard. The low ground was bordered by the Chipuxet River—shelter, water, enough vegetation by the stream for browsing. Elsie was of two minds about deer—admirable runners and astounding leapers, but now that there weren’t any natural predators, there were too many deer munching on young trees. She wouldn’t mind more guys like Eddie—like Eddie used to be—stalking the herd with his homemade crossbow. What she didn’t like were the guys spraying buckshot or slugs that could go through a car door, too wired with buck fever to wait for a sure kill and too ignorant or lazy to track a wounded deer. The only time she’d fired her own pistol had been to put down a cripple. She’d hauled the deer out and brought it to Eddie. He dug a trench with his backhoe and buried it. Explained that unless the deer was killed quick the meat was more than likely spoiled. “Adrenaline or something. You know how when you almost have a car accident your mouth tastes funny? Like zinc. A wounded deer tastes like that. If a deer doesn’t know what hit him—if it’s just lights out—then you get some sweet meat. Course you got to hoist him on the spot, gut him, and drain the blood.” He’d said “him,” but she knew he took a doe as often as a buck. Fine with her. Even a few surviving bucks could service the does. To reduce the herd you had to kill does.
Elsie slogged up the hill, the wind at her back. She crossed to a fringe of brush and picked her way to the edge of the eastern slope. She saw trampled snow in the dell, then fluffs of vapor farther back in the scrub, and then some movement.
She’d noticed on her own—and Eddie had confirmed—that the way deer spotted a human was primarily by the movement of arms and legs. They also seemed to see something alarming in a face. Maybe just the eyes. Most wild things were alert to eyes—butterflies and fish often displayed large eyelike patterns on their wings or flanks, just enough of a fake to make a predator hesitate. Was that bite-sized prey or the head of something big and dangerous?
Elsie pulled her wool cap over her eyes, stretched tight so that she could see through it. She pushed off downhill, then tucked her arms and poles behind her and squatted. She’d done this a couple of times before, got to within twenty feet of a deer before it bolted.
She was sliding fairly slowly, the powder snow pushing up around her ankles. Two or three deer lifted their heads. With their large sideways eyes they could see in a greater arc than a human—they could even see a bit behind them—but they had little depth perception unless they focused both eyes to the front.
When she’d first skied up to a deer herd, she’d pretended it was field research. Logged it in: deer, close observation of. Now she was having fun.
Halfway down the slope she heard a shot. She saw deer start to run, a stream of brown dotted with white tails. She heard another shot. Through the knit of her hat she saw with eerie clarity a white streak across the bark of a tree just ahead of her. She tossed herself sideways, slid on her hip and hand. She had to gasp a breath before she could shout. No idea what she said. Maybe just “Hey!” She pulled her hat up off her face. Another breath. She yelled, “Don’t shoot!” She didn’t lift her head. She was still uphill from where the shots came from. Somewhere off to her right. She pulled herself toward a tree trunk with her hands. The straps of the poles rode up her forearms, tugging her sleeves up. Her mouth tasted like zinc—Eddie was right about that. Her web belt had twisted so her holster was in the middle of her back. Her skis were anchored in the snow.
She wriggled backward so she could reach the bindings, head down, ass in the air. She was pushed onto her side as if someone had kicked her. Her right buttock stung, then hurt like hell. She pulled herself to the tree trunk. Was she behind it? Where was the gun? She tried to yell. It came out a bleat. She took a breath and yelled, “No!” She took off her gloves, reached back where it hurt. The seat of her pants was shredded. Her hand was wet. She looked at it. A smear of blood. Goddamn fool shot her. Shot her in the ass. Okay, she wasn’t dying. But the dumb son of a bitch could have killed her. Still out there with his gun. She held her breath so she could hear. Nothing. Had he heard her yell? She felt her ass again. Touched her holster. She pulled out her revolver, fired a shot into the air.
A man’s voice shouted. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
She yelled, “Don’t you shoot!”
Now that she heard where he was, she pulled herself to her knees. She peered around the tree trunk. Whoever it was was lying in the snow, waving an orange glove. She holstered her revolver. Even that bit of twisting hurt. Trying to ski hurt. She put her weight on her left ski and poled herself toward the man. The more it hurt the angrier she got. The anger didn’t make it hurt less but helped her keep moving.
She stopped five feet away from him. She said, “You shot me.” The man lifted his head. He put his hand on his shotgun. Probably just trying to get to his feet. She didn’t care. She put her ski tip on his wrist. She said, “Don’t touch your gun.” She moved her ski. “Just get up.”
“All right, all right. Jesus.”
Her hat was leaking melted snow down her face. She took it off.
He said, “You’re a girl.”
“It gets better,” she said. “I’m a Natural Resources officer. That’s game warden to you.” She opened her jacket to show the badge on her shirt.
“I didn’t mean to … I saw deer.”
“Deer season’s over. I’m taking you in.” Where was this B-movie dialogue coming from?
He said, “Are you hurt? Where’d you get hit? Maybe you should get to a hospital.”
She picked up his shotgun. Pump-action. She ejected two rounds. Double-aught buckshot. When she picked them out of the snow she felt woozy. She rubbed snow on her face. She said, “You got a car? Where’s it at?” He pointed back along the trail of his boot prints. She said, “Any more shells? Turn your pockets inside out.” He held out a handful of shells. “Drop them.” He hesitated. She said, “Now.” She put her hand on her holster.
“Jesus, lady. I’m peaceful. I’m going peaceful.”
She gave him his empty shotgun and pointed with her ski pole.
It was slow going. Even stepping in his boot prints, he was slogging. She was barely keeping up. When they reached his pickup she told him to put the gun in the bed. She put her skis in, and one pole. She used the other pole to limp to the passenger door. The door was locked. She felt dizzy again, leaned her forehead on the window.
The next thing she knew she was blinking at the sky. She lifted her head. She wondered why she had a ski pole in her hand. Oh, yeah.
The truck was gone. She lay flat again until she felt how cold she was.
chapter twenty
Elsie limped to the hardtop in the tracks of the guy’s pickup. She was wet from the snow she’d lain in and melted. No cars for a long time. Then a pickup. Relief. Then fear that it was the guy coming back. She checked her holster. But maybe he’d gone for help. What color was his pickup? She couldn’t remember, she was useless, she hadn’t even asked for the guy’s ID. And the son of a bitch stole her skis.
It wasn’t the guy. This pickup had an ATV strapped down in the bed. It was the retired navy CPO and his two buddies, shoulder to s
houlder in the cab. She asked if he would drive her to her car. He asked what happened. “I got shot in the hip.”
“Then we’ll go to the hospital. You guys ride in the bed. First we help her in.”
When they got to South County Hospital he draped her arm around his shoulder and walked her to the front desk. He said, “Gunshot wound. Where do I put her?” He waved away a wheelchair. “She can’t sit down; look where she’s hit, for God’s sake. And get her warm.”
The front-desk nurse looked cross. Elsie said, “Hey, he’s been great.”
He said, “I’ll phone Natural Resources. Your boss’ll be wondering. I’ll give him my number so you can let me know how it goes.”
“Thanks, chief.”
The nurse took her ski pole and helped her to an examination room. Elsie felt light-headed but this time with an odd lilt of cheerfulness. She said, “He’s retired navy, used to giving orders. Something to be said for those old guys with their big solid bellies. Shall I take my pants off?”
“Wait for the doctor. Just lay down on your front. It’ll just be a minute.”
“Wait,” Elsie said. “Could you call my sister? Ask her to pick up Rose. Don’t say I’ve been shot. Just a little accident. Rose gets frantic about now and Mary gets too busy. Wait. I know I’m babbling. Okay. My sister Sally. Sally Aldrich. I’ll write her number on your clipboard.” The nurse looked cross again. Elsie said, “I’m sorry. Okay. There is one other thing. Please ask Sally not to tell Jack.”
“Jack Aldrich?”
“Yes,” Elsie said. “He’s the one not to tell. Sally’s the one to tell.”
“I’ll call Mrs. Aldrich for you.”
“Thank you, thank you. Jack gets into everything.”
“We see something of Mr. Aldrich here,” the nurse said, sounding much more sympathetic. “He’s on our hospital board.”
The doctor came in with a different nurse, who helped Elsie get her wet clothes off. “Not the pants,” the doctor said. “I’ll cut the pants. Looks like there’s some shreds in the wounds.” He began to cut her pants away, saying to himself, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay.” He ran warm water onto her buttocks. It felt good for a second, then stung. She winced. “Saline solution,” he said. “Clean things up so I can see.” He gave her a shot. There was a series of wheelings here and there, perhaps another shot, or was he just poking? She heard the doctor talking to the nurse or to himself. She heard him say, “… subcutaneous adipose tissue,” and she heard herself say, “That’s fat. Are you saying I have a fat ass?” She laughed to show there were no hard feelings.
She heard a chime. She asked what it was. He said, “I’m dropping the pellets into a bowl. You’re doing great. Not long now.”
She asked or perhaps thought to ask where the navy chief was. She did ask, because the nurse shushed her. She waited for a long time and then asked if Sally had picked Rose up. “Yes,” the nurse said. “Everything’s fine.”
The doctor said, “Just one more. Can you lie real still for one more? I can numb you a bit more if you like.”
“It’s funny,” Elsie said. “It hurts, but the pain is sort of off to the side.” She pointed. “Maybe over there.”
“Good. Now put your hand back where it was, take a deep breath, and relax, and we’ll just …”
The pain came out of the corner and shot from her ass to her right foot, from her ass to her skull.
“Squeeze her hand,” the doctor said. “I’ve almost got it.”
Elsie said, “Oh, fuck!” The nurse said, “Ow!” The doctor said, “There!” He said, “Listen,” and Elsie heard the last pellet chime and then roll into the others. The nurse massaged her own hand.
“Sorry,” the doctor said. “That last one was in there pretty far. Sort of shrink-wrapped. How do you feel now?”
“I’d like some more of that first stuff, whatever it was that put me on cloud nine. But first I want to be sure Sally’s taking care of my daughter. And how soon can I go home?”
“We’ll keep you overnight. I want to keep an eye on you, just a precaution.” He said to the nurse, “Could you go see about a bed?”
When the nurse came back, she said, “Mr. Aldrich has arranged for a private room. He says to tell you he gave Mary Scanlon the night off and that she’s taken Rose home.”
The front-desk nurse came in. She said, “I’m sorry. I called your sister. When I said you were here at the hospital she gave a shriek and then Mr. Aldrich got on the phone.”
Elsie sighed and said, “Oh, God.” Then she said, “Just don’t tell him where I got shot or he’ll make dumb jokes for the next ten years.”
The doctor said, “When he calls again, you can say the hip. Lacerations and contusions to the hip. She’s resting comfortably, but we’re still in a sterile field here. Visitors in the morning. Assure him nothing grave, best of care and so forth. Oh—aware of and grateful for his interest.”
“Thank you,” Elsie said. “I think I’m ready for bed. What about another shot of cloud nine?”
“We’ll see. Your pulse is still too low. That’s why I didn’t put you under.”
“My resting pulse is forty-eight. Because I exercise. Okay … I was a little fuzzy, but I’m all the way back now. I’m not in shock, I’m in pain. My right butt feels like a hamburger in a hot frying pan. It feels like it’s been jumped on by someone wearing track spikes.”
“You don’t want to get too vivid. It’ll just make you—”
“Right. So give me a little something to make me less vivid.”
chapter twenty-one
May let Charlie take her Dodge Dart to Wakefield so he and Tom could buy some things, go to an afternoon movie. She put off Phoebe, who wanted to have lunch. She wasn’t sure what to do about Dick. He’d said he was going to look in on the Tran boy, then maybe do a thing or two on the boat. Part of her wanted him to show up, find her and Mary Scanlon and Rose. Another part was afraid he’d get angry, and she wasn’t sure she had the energy to rise to that, or that her sense of right, strong enough when she’d gone to see Elsie, would hold up.
Mary Scanlon had made it sound easy. “Sure. I’m free when we stop serving lunch. I can let this crew out of my sight for an hour. It’ll be a breath of fresh air. For Rose, too. Better put your good china out of reach; she’s crawling and clambering to beat the band.”
May had felt a note of pleasure. Rose crawling and clambering—what else? Was she learning to stand up? May remembered holding Charlie’s hands, Tom’s hands, helping them take a step, admiring the swell of their small, perfect calf muscles.
When Mary Scanlon’s pickup pulled into the driveway, May went out to meet them, watched with interest the elaborate unbuckling from the baby seat. “Is that the best kind?”
“I’m sure it is,” Mary said. “It’s a hand-me-down from his nibs.” May must have looked blank. “Jack Aldrich himself, the squireen of Sawtooth Point,” Mary said as she lifted Rose and set her on her hip. Mary tilted her face toward Rose. “I’m not speaking ill of your uncle Jack, mind.”
Rose looked at Mary’s face. May could swear Rose understood every word. She didn’t dare to ask to hold her yet, but she offered her hand and smiled at her. Rose touched her hand and studied her.
May said, “I forgot to ask what she likes to eat.”
“She had her lunch, but she wouldn’t say no to a snack. Elsie’s strict about sweets, maybe a bit of toast …”
“I’ve made biscuits. And there’s jelly. There’s very little sugar in my jelly.” May led the way in, fluttered around the kitchen. She knew she’d do better to calm down. She thought the way Mary pulled Rose out of her snowsuit was too rough-and-tumble, but Rose plainly liked Mary’s touch. May split a biscuit open. Still too hot for a baby. She got the paper bag in which she’d hidden the teddy bear she’d bought. She was pleased she remembered that plastic bags were dangerous. “Can she get it out by herself?”
“Oh, yes, she’s a great explorer of bags. Aren’t you, Rose? Just hold it o
ut to her. Rosie, look. She understands if you say ‘It’s for you.’ ”
May was tongue-tied. She finally managed to say “Rose.” Rose looked up at the sound of her name but sat still in the middle of the floor. May knelt and held the bag out. Rose stared at May’s face, and May wished herself pure of any harm she’d ever wished on Elsie. She leaned forward, elbows on the floor, until the bag was at Rose’s feet.
Rose touched the bag and looked at Mary. “Aw, go on, Rosie. Don’t be such a tease.” Mary’s voice sounded like a roar to May, but Rose smiled.
“It’s for you,” May said. “For you.” Rose picked it up and put the top edge of the bag in her mouth. She chewed on it without taking her eyes off May’s face. May felt dizzy. It was all more than she’d bargained for. She was relieved when Mary laughed.
As if Mary’s laugh set her off, Rose grabbed the bag with both hands and swung it up and down, thumping it on the ground. Mary laughed again and said, “A good thing you didn’t give her a teacup.” The top began to tear, and Rose saw the teddy bear. She pulled at it, got it half out, and looked sideways at May, a sly smile that took May by surprise. It was devilish and pleased and, it seemed to May, meant that Rose knew that May was part of her pleasure. Rose got hold of the bear’s ear. May put a finger on the bottom of the bag and the bear popped out. Rose found the face and began poking at an eye.
May was exhausted.
She got back in her chair, and it was a minute before she remembered her manners and offered Mary a cup of tea.
“If it’s no trouble,” Mary said. “I think we’ve got a quiet moment while Rose tortures her new bear. And I have to say I’m glad you didn’t get her a squeaky toy. Eddie, God love him, got her a rubber duck that quacks, sounds just like the real thing, I’m expecting mallards to be flying into the house any minute.”
