Eleven Miles to Oshkosh

by Jim Guhl

  “Maybe you can go with me.”

  “I don’t hunt anymore.”

  “Yeah, I know. But maybe you could go with me anyhow.”

  “Could I even climb into the skiff?”

  “I could help you.”

  “I don’t know. I’d have to spend a whole day outside of my beautiful home here at Emerald Gardens.”

  Both of us smiled.

  “Does your mom know?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. You sneak out of there with the shotgun and I’ll pick you up in front of Governor Doty’s cabin at six o’clock sharp.”

  I nodded.

  “You got any shells?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll get us some. You just be at Doty Cabin tomorrow with the 12 gauge.”

  6

  I got to English class early the next day and found Opal already in the room with her nose in a book.

  “Hi, Opal,” I said.

  “Hi, Del,” she said. “I’m halfway through The Scarlet Letter. Have you started yet?”

  “No. I haven’t even bought it, but I’m going to Bookland tonight. My grandpa’s taking me out to learn how to shoot the Winchester Model 12 shotgun, and we’ll be driving right by.” I watched Opal closely. I thought she would be impressed by what I said about the shotgun. I waited.

  “You’re learning to shoot a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would anybody want to do that?”

  In a split second my thoughts came off the rails. They quickly vacated the pride section of my brain and moved toward the defense department. I tried to come up with a response but the puzzle pieces were scattered and I had nothing.

  “Um . . . well . . .”

  “After what happened to your father, why would you even want to touch a gun?”

  “You know about my dad?”

  “Del, everybody knows. I’m very sorry.”

  I lowered my eyes.

  Opal continued. “Just because your dad was murdered by someone with a gun doesn’t mean you have to start using one.”

  “Opal! This isn’t about that.”

  “What?”

  “This is about duck hunting.”

  “Duck hunting?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I guess that’s different. It doesn’t sound like much fun though.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you have to sit in a swamp?”

  “Gosh. Being in the swamp is the best part.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Try me.” The sparkle in her eyes was back.

  My thoughts returned cautiously to the pride department of my brain. Then I just started yakking.

  I explained in some detail how ducks, beginning with the mallards, teal, shovelers, woodies, and pintails, funneled in great flocks through the Mississippi and Central flyways toward their wintering grounds to the south. I went on to tell her that in late October the great migration shifted to bluebills, goldeneyes, canvasbacks, buffleheads, and ringbills. And through it all, some twenty species or more, not counting geese, swans, gallinules, and snipe, peeled the sky at speeds that sometimes exceeded fifty miles an hour. Most importantly of all, I explained that hundreds of thousands of these birds, maybe millions, would be passing through the region where we lived. How we were the lucky ones who lived by the great waterfowling lakes of Winnebago, Poygan, Rush, and Butte des Morts. I explained that it was a spectacle and that the Poygan Marsh in particular held a magic almost beyond description. I told her how in the near darkness of predawn as the herons screeched and the owls moaned, if you lay back in the skiff and listened hard, you would hear the whistling of unseen wings that told you the first flock of ducks had taken flight and that the show was about to begin.

  “Besides, it’s a tradition in our family,” I said. “And they taste good. I mean, you eat chicken, don’t you?”

  It was Opal’s turn to go slack-jawed. She just looked at me strangely with a sort of crooked, half smile. “I had no idea,” she said at last.

  I shrugged and produced a half smile of my own. “Well, okay then—now you know.”

  “But, how did you learn all that if you never shot a gun before?”

  “I’ve gone out with my dad for the past three years,” I said. “This year he said I could carry a shotgun.”

  “By yourself?”

  “I asked my grandpa to go with me.”

  “And for three years you went with your father just to watch?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You know what I think?” she said.

  The school bell rang and Mrs. Borger rose to her feet.

  “What do you think?” I whispered.

  She whispered back. “I think I’d like to go with you sometime.” Her smile glowed like a crescent moon. And for the first time, I wondered if a scrawny kid called Minnow could someday have a girlfriend—for real.

  After supper I told my mom I was going to Doty Park, and it wasn’t even a lie. I went into the garage and found the Winchester right where I had stashed it behind a stack of scrap lumber. It was in a brown leather case, but anybody could tell that there was a gun inside by the shape of it. I took off through the backyards and found Asa parked in his turquoise-colored Chevy Apache pickup just outside Doty Cabin.

  “Put the shotgun behind the seat,” he said. “You drive. It hurts my hip to work the clutch.”

  “I can’t, Grandpa. I’m only fifteen. I don’t have my license yet.”

  “Don’t speed then.” Grandpa got out and slowly hobbled around to the passenger side.

  “But, I don’t even know how to work the clutch,” I complained.

  “Do you want to fire that shotgun or don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay—I’ll talk you through it. Now, get in.”

  I put the Winchester behind the seat and got in on the driver’s side. My eyes scanned the chrome knobs and the numbers on the speedometer that went up to 100. My fingers found the indentations in the steering wheel and I tested my grip of the shift lever. Grandpa Asa explained how driving a truck with a clutch could be a delicate procedure, sort of like setting the hook on a walleye.

  “You’ve got to take up the slack real slow as you lift your left foot off the pedal. There’s a spinning disk connected to the engine and another disk connected to the transmission. When you lift up your left foot on the clutch pedal, those disks come together and start gripping each other. You have to let up the pedal slowly and let it grab on gradually, like the walleye. When the truck starts moving pretty good, then you set the hook by releasing it the rest of the way while giving it some throttle. After that, you’re on your way.”

  Guess what. Hooking a walleye was a hundred times easier than getting that stupid truck going in first gear. Gee whiz! On the first five tries the thing bucked like a mule and died.

  “Dammit,” I whispered.

  “If you’re gonna swear, say it like you mean it,” said Asa.

  “Dammit!”

  “That’s better. Now try it again, but take it real slow and let the disks slip together for a long while before they grab. Just let the truck start rolling real slow until I tell you different.”

  I tried again and lifted my foot up from the clutch pedal very slowly until the truck started to creep along.

  “Let up on it another quarter of an inch and give it some more throttle,” said Asa.

  I did as he said and the truck gained more speed.

  “Okay, set the hook.”

  I lifted my left foot all the way off the pedal and the truck chugged right along as smooth as could be.

  “Give it some gas,” said Grandpa Asa.

  I did.

  “Now shift to second gear by working the clutch all over again.”

  I pushed in the clutch pedal and Grandpa showed me how to shift the lever into second. We were on our way. I wasn’t a kid anymore. All I needed was a leather jacket and a haircu
t like James Dean. Then I saw the stop sign coming up, and a half minute later we were right back to square one.

  It took a while, but we made it over the bridge and through downtown Neenah on Wisconsin Avenue. I even stopped at Bookland to buy my paperback copy of The Scarlet Letter, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, for sixty cents plus two pennies for the governor. Then it was back on the road toward the foundry and beyond, where we chugged past corn fields and patchy woods. The sky blushed pink in the west by the time we got to the spot marked by X-shaped crossing signs at the railroad tracks on Dixie Road.

  “Park the truck just this side of the railroad crossing,” said Asa.

  I put the passenger-side tires on the grassy incline of a ditch, turned off the ignition, and handed the keys to Asa.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “We’ll walk alongside the tracks until we’re out of sight behind that sumac bush. You carry the gun and the shells. I’ll try to follow with my cane.”

  I walked as slowly as I could, but Grandpa Asa still fell behind. I waited and offered my arm for support. Between that and his cane, he finally made it behind the brightly colored leaves of the sumac. A low rumble came up from the direction of Oshkosh to our south.

  I looked at Asa. “A train’s coming, Grandpa.”

  “Get down under the bushes,” he said.

  We tucked ourselves under the red leaves and waited for the train to pass. It was a Soo Line train. I could tell by the approaching red-and-white locomotive engines up above the embankment. The whistle blasted twice and the rumble got louder and louder. The train had three engines, hissing and popping as they moved by ahead of the long string of railroad cars. Clickity-clickity-clickity. They drummed out a rhythm as the rails sagged and rose beneath the shiny, steel wheels. Boxcars, hopper cars, tankers, and flatbeds all rolled on for our inspection.

  At last, the red-and-white caboose passed through and Asa gave me the signal that we could come out from our hiding spots. When all was clear, Grandpa Asa pulled a cardboard cereal box out of his coat pocket.

  “This is your target. Put it on that bush over there.”

  I did. Then I unzipped the case and held the Winchester across my chest with both hands. The heavy 12-gauge shotgun had once belonged to my dad’s dad, Oscar Finwick. It was a long-barreled, no-frills, pump-action job with none of that foo-foo checkering on the stock. All 12-gauge shotguns are big and powerful, but this one was bigger than most. It felt like a sixty-pound barbell and I could barely heft it.

  Asa showed me how to work the safety and the trigger. “Do you remember the three safety rules?” he asked.

  I rattled them off. “Be sure of your target. Treat every gun as if it were loaded. Always keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction.”

  “Good.”

  He helped me slide a single shell in the chamber and I shut it with a clang. Asa backed up a few steps as I tried to shoulder the ungainly thing. The Winchester was so big that I couldn’t even reach the wooden forearm with my left hand. Instead, I held the gun at the steel section just beyond the receiver but short of the forearm piece.

  “Hold it tight,” said Asa. “Safety off, then aim. Squeeze the trigger when you’re ready.”

  It all sounded so easy. I hoisted the enormous thing and tried my best to sight down the plane of the barrel. It was impossibly long and heavy. I couldn’t keep it steady. Up and down, left and right, the thing wobbled in my grip. Finally, I saw the cardboard box in my sights and gave a steady tug with my trigger finger. All at once, the whole world turned upside down.

  The blast was so powerful that my brain heard it as a giant thunderclap two inches from my head. It left both ears ringing like crazy. My feet instinctively scrambled for balance as the blast launched me backward and the gun skyward at the same time. Somehow, I kept a grip on the barrel and stock but the gun had pivoted to almost vertical and I found myself aiming up at the purple sky. Hang on, I told myself as the thing reached its apex before dropping back down. I found my footing in a place several feet behind where I had started. I had done it.

  “Are you okay?” asked Grandpa.

  “Yes.”

  “You were wobbly.”

  “I know.”

  “The recoil almost knocked you off your feet.”

  “I know.”

  “You want to try another shot?”

  “Sure.”

  Step by step, I went through the whole procedure again and took aim once again at the cereal box in the bushes. I forced myself to put all of my strength into gripping the gun. I was steadier the second time before squeezing the trigger. The blast and recoil weren’t as bad either and I actually kept the gun from flying up in the air. I put it back on safe.

  “Let’s take a look at the target,” said Asa.

  The box had been shredded. I looked at Asa for a reaction. He just raised one eyebrow and nodded.

  “Pretty lucky . . . considering. But, I’m not sure if you’ve got the arm strength to aim and control the thing. If I had a 20 gauge you could hunt with that, but I don’t. It’s either the 12 or nothing.”

  “I can do it.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Asa folded his arms—a bad sign.

  “I could practice lifting and aiming it every day, before and after school.”

  “Not a bad idea,” said Asa. “Okay, we’ll try it. But if we get out in the marsh and that barrel flips up above your head when you shoot, then we’re done until next year.”

  I didn’t squawk. Asa was right and I knew it. If I couldn’t control the Winchester, there would be no duck hunting season for me. Opening day was less than two weeks off. Somehow, my biggest concern curved back around to Opal. After all my big talk about duck hunting and the Winchester Model 12 shotgun, I wasn’t sure how I would tell her that I was too weak and scrawny to hunt with it.

  7

  I had set my alarm clock ten minutes earlier than normal and woke before it went off. I flicked the switch so it wouldn’t buzz. The house was quiet but I peeked out my bedroom door to make sure nobody was awake. Then I pulled the Winchester out of the closet, laid it on my bed, and unzipped the case.

  “Here goes,” I whispered.

  With the shotgun at ready position across my chest, I looked toward the ceiling and spied an imaginary green-headed mallard against the white overcast. I hefted it to my shoulder, an action that came with a grunt. Holy Moses! Even unloaded, the thing weighed a ton. I shifted my feet, then swung the gun left to right at about 45 degrees so I wouldn’t scrape the ceiling and aimed down the shooting plane of the barrel. I pretended to pull the trigger and whispered the sound of the blast.

  “Pow.”

  I brought the Model 12 back down to ready position. There was no sense kidding myself. I was wobbly. Laying the shotgun back on the bed, I shook out my arms before going through the exercise again.

  The second time I didn’t aim the shotgun over my head. Instead of imaginary ducks, I aimed at the dark rectangle of my partly open closet door and my mind shifted to the faceless man who had killed my dad. I could see him there as a silhouette in that closet darkness. I put the plane of the barrel right on the center of his chest and held it firm and steady for a long time, never shaking a bit, before lifting it off my shoulder.

  Yep, an angry fire still smoldered inside of me, and I had felt it flare up before. This time was different. This time was the hottest blaze yet. White hot. For the first time I actually thought about killing—and I didn’t mean ducks.

  I laid the gun back on the bed and let my heart beat down.

  Mom’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Del, are you awake?”

  I took a long, deep breath. “Just getting out of bed,” I said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  I slid the Winchester back into the leather case and shoved it under the bed with a flannel shirt draped over the top. Before going down for breakfast, I took one more look at the dark opening of my partly open closet door. The silhouette of the man was gone.

&nbs
p; It was a Wednesday and it bummed me out because I didn’t have English class, which meant I wouldn’t be sitting next to Opal Parsons. I had survived Phys Ed and was on my way to American History, my last class of the day, when a familiar scene appeared up ahead. Dinsky again, with that idiot, dink friend of his. They stood at the intersection where the west wing branches off from the main building and I could just tell they were looking for more trouble.

  “How ’bout that red-haired kid?” said Leon. “I’ll spot him out. Then you kick his stuff.”

  The goon just laughed and bobbed his head up and down like an idiot. I recognized the red-haired kid as Jay Finley, a boy I had known since Horace Mann. He was really smart and just an all-around good guy. Unfortunately, he had no idea that he was walking into a trap.

  “Hey, Jay!” I yelled.

  He didn’t hear me. I forced my way through the crowd to get closer.

  “Jay! Jay Finley!” I waved my arm over my head. “Wait a minute.”

  He looked a little annoyed but he at least tried to maneuver toward me. I plowed through the crowd and finally reached him.

  “Hey, Minnow. What’s up?”

  “Don’t go that way,” I said. “Dinsky is waiting to spot you out.”

  We both looked over at Leon Dinsky. He was pissed. His face burned red as he yelled at me. “Mind your own business, you little prick!”

  Jay made a quick left with me right behind him and we both wiggled through the crowd like a couple squirrels running from a bobcat. It wasn’t much, I guess, but at least I had done something that time. I thought about my reading assignment. In The Scarlet Letter, the woman who committed adultery had to wear a bright-red letter A so everyone could scorn her. I felt like I needed to get a certain letter off my own shoulder, only mine was a C. I hadn’t actually gone face-to-face with Dinsky but at least I had done something, and I figured it was a start.

  Now, if only I could do something about the damned bastard who murdered my dad.

  Steve and I both had study hall for sixth period, but we agreed to meet at the Science Resource Center instead. Mrs. Schwartz was used to seeing us. We picked out a table in the back where we sat between the periodic chart of elements and a poster showing the lifecycle of a frog.