Rusty Summer

by Mary McKinley

  I want to e-mail them and ask how to cope with so much nothing from my dad. It’s weird to even be thinking and worrying about him.

  I had kind of settled with him in my mind, after so much time.

  He just isn’t that into us.

  We stand by a cow pasture in the early, pinkish light and The Bomb stares at the cattle. There are calves, tiny and still a little wobbly. The Bomb looks at me like, “what are they?”

  We loiter, because we know the other two won’t be awake yet. When it gets to about nine in the morning we go back. They will sleep till noon if I don’t yell real loud.

  “MOR-NING!” I yell real loud. I pull open the curtains.

  “STOP!” They screech in sleep-synchronized unison. “GO AWAY!!”

  So not morning people. They cough and groan.

  “Bommy! On the bed! Up! Give ’em some wake-up love! Here, girl!! Smooch ’em!”

  She jumps on them. They wail. She doesn’t care. She smooches away. I pull away their pillows. They rise and gimbal and become, if not cheerful, at least vertical.

  It’s terrible, horrible work waking this crew up but someone has to do it. We begin our preps for the day, showering and e-mails. We’re on the road quickly, after I make (crappy) coffee in the room and microwave mush. Leo just has the crappy coffee.

  We head northwest, deeper into British Columbia.

  Beautiful British Columbia, as we are reminded frequently. (It’s their slogan.) And it is beautiful—it’s so big. Deep woods, then farmland, then woods, then a tiny town or two, then deep woods, then farmland. I start to feel like those old cartoons where the background is on an endless loop.

  As we drive I see there are all these old gnarled apple trees in the different orchards and pastures, which reminds me of this story I heard on NPR about how there used to be thousands of different varieties of apples—one per orchard, pretty much. I start to tell Beau and Lee about it and I look in the rearview at them and they are so not paying attention, their eyes glazing over.

  “You are totally not listening to one word I say! How can this not be interesting for you guys?!”

  They both snort because they are busted. The Bomb yawns.

  “It’s so not.” This from Leo in the rearview. Beau just snickers and looks out the window.

  “Dudes! The apples will be lost forever! How can that not fail to be important?” Even as I say it, I realize I do sound kinda nuts.

  “I know, and I’m pretty sure that’s a drag; but you know so many things and you give us so many lectures and, no offense, Rusty, but most of it is sooooo boring! Seriously! You just know too much stuff that no one cares about! You should be a guy on TV people ask about things, or in a court of law, or something. Or like a preacher. No offense.” She stretches as she looks out the window, rolling her eyes.

  I monitor her by way of the mirror.

  “Thank you, Leo . . . none taken. The reason I tell you these things is to make up for the giant gaps in your education. I’m helping you and you’re very welcome. Your gratitude nearly overwhelms!”

  However, I reflect that I am trying lately to not be such a colossal know-it-all. It’s hard. When I read some of my old blogs from our first trip, they’re so conceited and overwrought that I sort of just snort and face-palm. I’m hoping that someday I’ll think it’s cute. (Though “omg/gawd” for “God” remains handy, until I resolve my conflicted opinions about capitalization.)

  That’s the thing about the Internet, all your old childish stuff is up there to see forever: the way you talked and thought and looked; everything. It’s like a time capsule. And all I got in my own defense is I was SO isolated. I didn’t really have friends; I just sat in my room and watched the world being horrifying, and then made scandalized pronouncements. It’s easy to judge from that safe distance, and I was pretty brutal. But things changed. I get out more now and that lets me see things more clearly, and I’m trying to be less judgy. Though mostly I fail—everyone’s still doing it wrong. But now I kind of realize when I’m being annoying . . . eventually. So yeah, if anyone needs me I’ll be in my room, editing my epistle to the Ephesians.

  I stick my tongue out at Lee in the mirror and turn the music up. We drive in silence for a while.

  Farmland prevails. Then hella trees. Vietnam War tunes loom like the dark woodland. We traverse the wilderness.

  After a couple of cloudy hours of moody landscape we stop and let Bommy out.

  She sniffs the air in a nervous way that is unusual for her. She is, as a rule, just glad to be with us and never minds the wildlife, but this time she stops and looks around and then sniffs again. I watch worriedly. I have no clue. We’re city slickers. She pees and we move on.

  As we pull into the quiet road, I accelerate to the speed limit and we cruise. Leo rolls her window down a little and The Bomb sticks her nose out.

  After we have been driving for about a half hour I see the check engine light go on.

  What?!! My heart lurches sickeningly. I immediately panic.

  Maybe that was what Bommy smelled . . . trouble!

  Totally unexpected! We just had a huge checkup and oil change and every damn thing. I hate breakdowns! This is unacceptable.

  I am always terrified by the thought of getting stuck somewhere in the outback, with the ghosts and freaking monsters indigenous to deep woods! My hands get sweaty and my heart starts hammering.

  “Rusty, are you okay?” Beau is frowning. I must be turning either red or pale.

  “Yeah, yeah. Fine.” I start sniffing the dashboard for burning oil smell or something.

  I’m looking at the gauges—straining to see if there is anything different—still driving—squinting—sprinting—periph-eral motion—

  “Rusty! RUSTY!! Look OUT!! OMG—LOOK OUT!!” Leonie screams. So does Beau.

  I jerk up—just in time to see the blur from the corner of my eye leaping into the road. I brake and swerve but it does no good whatsoever. We fishtail.

  The deer springs, arching, straight at us, onto the van, trying to jump over it.

  It doesn’t.

  It hits the hood, and smashes the front. Splat. It thuds horribly. Its head slams down on the windshield and fractures it into a glass spider web. We scream at the impact and go into a spin—

  We can’t see. Everything flails and flashes and I think we are going to die. We scream and scream and brace. We spin around and around, nauseatingly, and come to a stop, half on the road, and from what it feels like, half over the ditch. The van wobbles but doesn’t pitch over and we are still.

  Things stop spinning. It gets quiet.

  The engine is steaming. The whole front end is crumbled.

  I look around at us and we are okay. We were wearing our seat belts.

  Leo has The Bomb smashed in the legroom beneath her.

  Everyone looks at me. I notice my hands are shaking. I open my mouth but I can’t speak.

  Them either. We sit gasping and unbalanced. The van teeters. We brace ourselves—

  But the teetering stops.

  Then we hear an awful noise . . . unearthly and prolonged. Hideous. Excruciating pain.

  It catapults Beau out of the car. The rest of us quickly jump clear. The van seesaws at our departure. As The Bomb leaps out, the van topples headfirst into the ditch. But we barely notice, for there is something much worse....

  The deer isn’t dead. It’s been thrown into the ditch too, a ways away.

  But it’s so not dead.

  We look at each other, sickened.

  Carnage.

  The deer is twisted up and its chest is broken open. You can see its guts and bones, but it’s very conscious. Things slosh inside it when it cries—things we shouldn’t be able to see. I think I can see its heart beating . . . gelatinous and horrible. Its movements are freakishly normal; it looks down and examines the chaos its innards have become.

  It looks at us and we stare back. Its huge terrified eyes seem to be imploring.

  “I’m so
sorry . . .” I whisper. I don’t know whom I’m telling more, the guys or the deer.

  The deer makes the horrible noise again. It stabs my ears and my heart. My fault . . .

  It’s so messed up. Its leg is like almost snapped off . . . a compound fracture . . . sort of dangling . . .

  “We have to help it,” quavers Leo. “We can’t leave this poor thing.”

  We are in shock. I start to remind her we can’t go anywhere, but it’s too much trouble to talk.

  “How?” comes out of me like a sigh.

  Beau has been standing, horrified and frozen. He springs into action. First, out of instinct, he tries 911. There is no such thing here, in the middle of nowhere. The deer groans loudly. Its head flops.

  “Rusty, come with me.” Beau starts walking away distractedly.

  We head back up the road. I wish we had stayed on the main highway. I wish a car would come along. I wish I had been paying attention.

  “Help me!” I look and Beau has found a huge rock. It’s too big for one person but maybe two could heft it.

  “What?” I say. He starts tugging on it furiously.

  Then I get it. My eyes bug as I gasp in horror.

  “Oh, no, Beau . . . oh, God, we can’t.” I put my hands over my mouth.

  The deer screams in torment. It sounds human. The sound creates a panic in Beau.

  “Rusty! Hurry! We can’t let it suffer! Now help me pick up this rock. We are going to put it out of its misery.” He hunkers down again and starts hauling on the boulder.

  Everything is my fault. I lean down and help him with the rock.

  We can’t budge it. Even when Leo comes and helps. It is an unmovable object.

  The deer screams again. It makes Beau crumple and wrap his arms around himself. Then he jumps up and heads back to the van. He starts rooting around in the back.

  The stuff that happened next became surreal and slow-motion.

  Beau finds something in the van and heads over to the deer, as it lies panting and gasping and groaning. It was in extreme agony, you could just tell.

  We follow after Beau and watch, as he hops into the ditch with the mangled deer. It tries to struggle when he gets too close but it’s too messed up. It shrieks. Time slows down even more.

  Beau speaks gently to the deer and it stops thrashing. It watches him.

  Then Beau kneels down by the deer and pulls its head over and cut its throat. Right by its ear.

  Just like that—quick and almost softly.

  Blood sprays and spurts out over Beau and all of us, in accusing heartbeats.

  The deer didn’t even seem surprised. Or like it hurt.

  It kicked once, and then, like, rested.

  Beau stays beside it and pets its head while all the blood in the world flows red out of its poor broken body, down its white chest and into the ground.

  Then time sped up to normal.

  Leo turns away; gasping for air and crying like her heart will break. Then she stops sobbing, and sinks down, hugging her knees and rocking herself.

  I stagger back to the wrecked van. I’m nauseated and clammy and shaking, and hang on to the popped-open back end. Sick, I gag and spit repeatedly. Everything smells like blood. It makes it worse.

  I throw up and crawl away on my knees, sweating cold and shuddering.

  The Bomb comes to me and whines in concern. I hang on to her for dear life.

  We just hold the positions we have assumed and are silent.

  Leo speaks first. Her voice is hoarse.

  “Are we okay?”

  It breaks the spell. Beau stands up.

  He has been sitting beside the dead deer. He looks like a horror show; he is covered with fresh and drying blood. His bloody hair is standing on end. His face is splashed red.

  I look down at myself and over at Leo. We are all covered with spatter patterns of blood.

  Beau, still clutching the sticky Swiss army knife, crawls over to where I am sitting, and fall-sits above me, on the side of the ditch.

  Stock-still, we strive to regain our grip . . . and after a spell, I stop shaking.

  “Dude,” I say, finally. “This is bad.”

  “Yeah.” He agrees, in a daze. He nods distantly.

  “Where are we?” I ask, trying to get him back. “What’s the closest town?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Google it.”

  He tries. At least there is enough reception. We find a tow truck number in a tiny town about twenty miles away. He calls. He gets voice mail. He very calmly leaves a message.

  We sit gazing at each other, blankly.

  Leo stands up.

  “We should walk.”

  Beau and I stare at her. She stares back. Starts moving backwards up the road, looking at us.

  “Come on. We don’t know if there is going to be a guy checking voice mail, or if they’re even in business, or anything. Beau left where we are on the message. We can’t just stay here. If we start now we can get to that town before it gets dark. I want to go.”

  “We look like zombies. We’re all bloody. We will freak people out.”

  “Good, they’ll pick us up. C’mon.”

  Twenty miles is a long way.

  You don’t really think it’s so far, when you’re just whippin’ in a car, but you’re wrong.

  Luckily it was flat where we wrecked, even though it’s forest, not farmland. I am still freaked out by the deep dark woods. Even by day.

  I take our important stuff from the van and remember to get Bommy’s leash. By habit I grab her dookie bags, but then remember I don’t have to, out here in the outback.

  We start lurching along in a staggery, gimpy way like we’ve been pounded. Which we have.

  I remember, gratefully, that dark is still hours away, though the weather starts to sock in. Great. It’s cloudy at the moment; if it starts to rain that will just be perfect.

  Though maybe it’d wash off some of the blood. It’s dried now, stiff and nasty.

  We probably walk for two hours. I’m sure we look like we’re running in an undead marathon. I’m almost relieved no one can see us.

  We don’t talk too much, just think. There is no traffic.

  I’m at the point of being so guilty about all this that I think I’m starting to lose my mind. I’m looking around at every noise. I try not to obsess about zombies and vampires, but as the light fades and the weather gets misty, I do. I think all the blood makes me more creeped out.

  I know, right? I idiotically must freak myself out if there is no one else to do it, apparently.

  On we stagger . . . on and on. Into the barely waning light.

  Ironically, as soon as we see a farmhouse, we also see headlights on the road. Civilization!

  Eventually we can tell it’s a tow truck. It’s the guy we called. He’s still off in the distance, but speeding toward us. We wave and yell as it approaches us rapidly.

  It’s coming for us and it’s the most beautiful tow truck in the world. We stop and wait for it . . . sweet relief. So grateful for other people to the rescue.

  The dude pulls up beside us. He’s young and wearing flannel. Baseball hat, no logo.

  “You guys left the message?”

  “Yeah!” We are so grateful we all babble at once. “We killed a deer! It’s back there! It’s awful! The van is blue—it’s wrecked—in the ditch—near the dead deer! We have been walking for hours! It’s back there! So glad you’re here!! Super glad!!”

  As we say this we see another truck in the distance. Suddenly the road is populous!

  Dude looks in the rearview.

  “Those are my cousins.”

  And predictably I return to panic mode. Why do we need cousins? This could be bad.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, Dartanian and John.”

  This calms me a little. I mean, what thug would name their tiny thug baby Dartanian?

  They pull up behind the first guy on the road. Both of them are also young and flannelized.r />
  “Where’s the deer?”

  This is out of the driver’s mouth, before they even say hi.

  The first guy looks at them. “Figures.” He turns to us. “Do you want it?”

  We look at each other. Do we want it?

  “Um . . . no.” I try not to sound as clueless as we feel. Why would we want a dead deer?

  “Mind if they have it?”

  “Um . . . fine.” We eyeball each other surreptitiously and kind of shrug.

  They hoot and drive off, honking. The first guy looks at us.

  “Nice. Thanks. They didn’t bag one last season, so this eases their pain.”

  This oddly amuses me.

  These guys are really excited about the deer as venison, which until this moment had not entered my mind. Actually, it makes me feel better; this way it won’t all be such a waste, if someone eats the poor thing. You know, The Circle of Life and all.

  We look at each other again and nod. I see my crew feels a little better too.

  The tow guy surveys us, up and down.

  “Man, you must have really nailed that deer. You look pretty bad.”

  I grimace with the memory.

  “Yeah. We feel pretty bad too.”

  “Good thing you didn’t run into any bears. You smell like blood.”

  Which freaks me outta my mind! I was so worried about zombies I forgot about bears!

  “Oh . . . my . . . gawd,” I manage, feebly.

  “It’s cool, Dart has a couple of shotguns in the truck, if the bears are there by now.”

  We all stand still, spazzing out belatedly about bears.

  “Well,” Dude says, “I say, since you guys are so bloody and all, let’s go back to town and then I’ll bring whoever back to the van after you change, and we’ll tow it then.”

  “Yes!” We all say and pile in—after he pulls a tarp out of the back and spreads it over the seats.

  The town wasn’t too far, once we got in the tow truck and started to roll. We had walked a long way already.

  The light had faded by the time we pulled into the only motel beside the only gas station beside the only lil’ grocery. You get the idea.