My favorite place to hunt was my “hunting rock,” which overlooked my spring and a salt lick that was popular with the local deer population. I hunkered down behind the rock and settled in for a long sit.
The leaves, which had so thickly clothed the oak trees all summer, carpeted the ground, while many of them still clung like tatters of a garment, waiting for the elements to force them into releasing their grip.
After a time, the wind died down, and the flapping of the leaves was reduced to an occasional flutter. The sun became warm, since I was sheltered on all sides, and my post felt like a sunroom. I felt drowsy, and, telling myself it would probably be an hour or so before the deer would begin moving, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth that seeped through my clothes and imbued my body.
It became so still I could hear laughter and shouting from children being let out of school almost a mile away. Hearing them made me wish that I was with them instead of being the backbone of our farm. I missed being able to learn about all those things that fascinated me—history, geography, literature. I missed playing games or hanging out with the boys during recess and flirting with the girls when my nerve was up. I thought about it wistfully as I rested my chin on my chest and dozed off to sleep.
The light was fading when I raised my head from my slumber. I inched my head up and peered groggily over the rock. Something moved. It moved again, and I could see it was the flapping of an ear. Then, I was able to make out the form of a deer—no, two deer, the brush breaking up their profiles. How those hoofed ghosts could slip in unheard was a question I’d asked myself a thousand times, always with the same baffled conclusion. My adrenaline started flowing and I had to fight off the shakes.
The most visible animal was a doe, of that I was certain, but the second animal was obscured. Head held high, the doe surveyed the area. I tried not to look her in the eye. They can sense that. She put her head down, pretended to graze momentarily, and jerked it back up, as if trying to catch a careless predator off guard. Then she tiptoed toward the spring, snatching a bite or two of foliage as she oscillated her tail vigorously a few times, as though signaling her partner all was well.
I stared at the second deer as it cautiously emerged from the shadows. My eye caught part of a leg, a flank, the outline of an antler. My mind pieced the rest of the body together. Finally, it came into clear view. It was a nice 8-point buck, with a respectable set of antlers that I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist showing off to anyone who would show even the most remote interest.
The doe daintily sipped from the pool as the buck walked with a monarch’s air toward the salt lick. I slouched down even further so I could look down the barrel without moving the end of it but a hair, and put the iron sights on his chest. He was a good 50 pounds heavier than the doe. I knew he’d be tougher; tougher to eat and tougher to transport back to the house. And the extra meat on him would probably go bad before we could finish it, anyway.
I grudgingly pried my sights off him and fixed them on the doe, following her as she walked toward the salt lick, waiting for an opening. She stopped and looked back at the buck.
I could feel the blood in my ears as I exhaled slowly and caressed the trigger. It felt good. Slayer touched off with an angry roar and pounded my shoulder. I could see the doe drop to her knees, pick herself back up again and run drunkenly for a few yards before finally losing her equilibrium and falling over. She kicked twice and lay still.
The buck ran too, but he just made a little half circle and ended up even closer to me, confused as to where the blast had emanated from. He stood 10 yards from me, nostrils flared as he sampled the air, his erect ears flapping and twisting to catch any breath of a sound. His head pivoted nervously to and fro like a windmill being buffeted by contrary winds. Oh, he was grand! As I peered over my rock, I made a small kissing noise with my lips, like you’d make to a horse. Wild-eyed, he crouched for a millisecond, as though winding every fiber in his body to maximum tension, and launched himself straight into the air, touching down ten feet away and crashing his way through the woods with great bounds, covering 25, even 30 feet in a single bound.
I got up stiffly and walked over to where I’d last seen the doe. She was nestled in some tall grass. I squatted down, laid my rifle on her belly and rested one knee on her chest. Dark, frothy blood bubbled from the entry hole. Lung shot. Quick and painless, just the way I liked it. The thrill of the hunt mixed with the somberness of the kill, and I murmured "Thanks" as I stroked her slender, hirsute neck. She was a fair size, so I elected to return home, bring back a horse, and have him drag her home where I could then dress and skin her by lantern light.
Firearm slung over my shoulder, I strode jubilantly across the face of the land. The moon rose, as if to apologetically compensate for the sun’s absence, I thought, much like my mother attempted to substitute for Moses. I thrust those thoughts aside and found the first star. It looked like a peephole into God’s heaven. The sky was clear, the air pure and exhilarating. The moon hung like a great creamy opal set in an ebony sky. God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world.
I began to sing softly, as I had breath,
“Oh Lord my God.” Step, step, over a fallen log.
“When I in awesome wonder.” Up a steep, short incline.
“Consider all the world thy hands hath made.” My pace quickened. I needed to hurry back to my doe before the varmints got to her.
“I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, thy power throughout the universe displayed.” My breath ran out, and I panted a little. Part of me wanted to sing out loudly, as though the ridge was my stage and all the world a rapt audience, but it almost seemed irreverent to break the tranquility of the night. I followed the ridge to where it leveled into the plateau that was our homestead, and emerged into the clearing.
“Hmm hmm hmm hmmmm, my savior God to thee,” I alternately hummed and sang in time to my footsteps.
“How great thou art.” Step step. “How great thou art.” Step step.
I continued to hum under my breath as made my way toward our barn to rouse old Shiver. He only had one good eye, and must have been 200 years old, but he sure knew his way around in the dark. Light shone from a crack in the barn door. Ma must have gotten a late start on the chores tonight. I leaned Slayer against the barn and opened the door.
“Ma?” I called, shutting the door behind me. "Ma, I got one!" Silence. “Ma, are you in here?” The only reply was our hens murmuring and muttering to each other, like a commune of gossipy old women.
Ethel, our most dependable milk cow, slowly turned her head in her unflappable way and stared at me with her big eyes over the side of her stall. I looked on the ground and saw the toe of a brown shoe jutting out of her stall. I felt sick. I sprinted toward her.
Motionlessly crumpled on the ground lay Ma, drenched in a pool of milk, her milking bucket lying on its side underneath Ethel.
“Ma!” I screamed. Kneeling down beside her, my back toward Ethel, I turned her head to face me. She was breathing, but unresponsive. Ethel was crowding us, pressing her belly against my back.
“Give us some room, you piece of shit! Damn you!” I smacked her flank, and she shifted her bony frame over.
I turned Ma’s body over and held her face in my hands. Her forehead was cut open just under the hairline, a gaping gash that revealed the white of bone, ringed with blood. I brushed off the bits of straw and dirt that were stuck to her nose and cheek. She looked like breathing death.
I picked her up and could feel the wetness of her milk-saturated jacket. She wasn’t a big woman, but carrying her limp weight was still a strain. Her breaths were long and labored as I carried her to the house and struggled to open the door. Finding the knob in the darkness, I opened the door and crab walked in to avoid hitting her head on the door frame.
I laid her down on the kitchen table and frantically searched for matches and a lamp. After finding them, I lit the lamp, gingerly lifted Ma off the table, and carried her
into her bedroom. I grabbed a comforter out of the closet, threw it over her, and covered her with another thick flannel blanket for good measure. Now I needed help.
Moses was gone. He had been for a day and a half now, and he’d taken the car. I’d either have to ride horseback into town and get Dr. Sanderson, or else ride to the nearest neighbor who owned a car, the Moores. I bolted to the barn, my mind on fire and my lungs aflame.
“Shiver, get up!” I shouted frantically at the horse as I snatched a bridle from where it hung on a rusty nail. He was lying down and seemed a little nettled as I urged him up, untied him, and shoved the bit into his mouth. Not wanting to squander time, I forwent the saddle, hopped on his back, and spurred him out the door and into the night.
My eyes adjusted to the blackness slowly, so for the first while I had to rely on Shiver’s horse sense to navigate. Fortunately, he knew the way into town, so all I did was encourage him, smacking him with the ends of the reins. He wasn’t built for speed, he was made for pulling a plow, so once I was convinced he was doing his best, I just settled down with my body bowed over his withers, grabbed a handful of mane, and rode.
It would be a few minutes before we would reach the Moores' place, which gave me time to think. I thought about Ma, how pale, how lifeless she’d looked. I wondered if she was going to die. Teeth gritted, I could feel the tears begin to flood my eyes and I fought to keep my lips still. I needed to preserve my composure, even if no one was watching. It wasn’t a good practice to be losing control, even in private. Nonetheless, the tears trailed one after the other from the corners of my eyes and the wind created from riding blew them back almost to my ears before they dried. I reached up with one hand and wiped the wetness from my eyes and the salty drippings from my nose off of my upper lip. A few strands of Shiver’s coarse mane blew into my open mouth, and I pulled them out. Then I sobbed. Sobbed out of fear, sobbed about the unknown, sobbed because I thought my mother might be dead.
As we neared the Moore place I could see there was light coming from the house through the trees. I reined Shiver into the long driveway and we galloped toward the house.
“Come on, Shiver!” I prompted. “Yaw!” I kicked his ribs a few times. He found another gear.
“Good boy,” I patted him, “atta boy!” I pulled him up in front of the house and jumped off, rubbing my eyes and face in an attempt to erase any signs I had been crying, and began pounding on the door with both fists.
“Mr. Moore!” I yelled. “Preacher, it’s Bobby!” I continued hammering, and I saw one face peer out from behind the kitchen curtains as I felt footsteps approach the door. The door opened and 13-year-old Ellen Moore stood before me.
“Bob—” she started.
“Ma’s been hurt!” I interrupted, “I need a ride to Dr. Sanderson’s now!”
Seeing I didn’t have time for pleasantries, she turned and called loudly for her father, who was already moving toward the door with some urgency.
“Bobby’s ma needs a doctor!” Ellen told him.
No call to action was necessary from me; he yanked his coat off its hook, his hat from above it, and kissed his wife. “It could be late,” he said, and she nodded understandingly.
“Joseph, take care of his horse,” he directed Ellen’s twin brother.
We walked hurriedly to where the car was parked. He started it and drove over the front yard instead of backing it up and turning around. As we left, I could see Joseph leading Shiver away.
We turned onto the road and the car whined at being awakened so rudely and pushed so hard.
“What happened to your ma?” Preacher Moore inquired cautiously, as if he wasn’t too sure if he should burden me with questions.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said. “I got back from hunting and she was lying in the barn, beside one of our cows, knocked out cold with a big cut on her head. I think she hit her head on the trough, but, I—I don’t know why she fell.” The preacher listened thoughtfully.
“Maybe the cow took a fright and knocked her off balance,” he stabbed.
“I don’t know. Ethel is the calmest cow in the county, so I wouldn’t think her to be to blame. Ma was lying almost right under her and she never stepped on her, and she must have been lying there a while.”
“Hmm,” he said, and fell back into silent reflection.
He didn’t slow down as we approached Coon Hollow, we just rumbled right along until we had to make a left, two blocks past the saloon where Moses sat voiding the warranty on his liver. Had I not been so distraught about Ma I would have been enraged to see his car parked out front, but I hardly noticed.
The preacher turned the car sharply into Dr. Sanderson’s driveway. We skidded to a halt, and he leapt out and sprinted to the door. After a vigorous pounding, the door opened, and I could hear a curt exchange of words. He loped back to the car and threw it into reverse.
“He’s on his way,” was all he said.
I looked anxiously in the side mirror, hoping Dr. Sanderson would be tailing us closely, but he was nowhere in sight.
As we began to round the last jog in the road before home, I caught a glint of light in my side mirror and swiveled my head to look back. There was another car behind us about a quarter mile. Good, surely that will be Dr. Sanderson.
The car hesitated a little as we ascended the incline of our driveway, and the preacher found a lower gear.
We jumped out of the car before it had come to a full stop, leaving it to shudder a few times before it died. As we entered the front door, I could see the light from Dr. Sanderson’s headlights flood the tree tops as he turned into our driveway.
Once again I felt the rhythm of my heart in my ears as I snatched the lantern off the kitchen table and led the preacher to Ma’s room. The lantern cast larger-than-life caricatures of us on the walls. She lay still, and as I moved closer, I saw her mouth was open slightly and her eyes were half open. She’s awake!
“Ma!” I exclaimed excitedly, moving up to the bed. She didn’t even twitch. I looked over at the preacher and saw his eyes welling with tears.
“Ma?” I said. I reached over and touched her hand. Her cold hand. I turned silently and saw Dr. Sanderson enter the room.
“Is there something you can do?” I pleaded, trying to keep my voice steady and low to avoid sounding hysterical. He stepped briskly forward and took her wrist for a few seconds.
“I’m afraid not, Robert,” he sighed, almost contritely.
“Are you sure?” I begged. He just shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I wanted to run. Run into the hills for miles and pound my fists on the ground and scream, “Why, why, why?” But I didn’t. I just sat down on the edge of the bed and touched her; I touched the lines on her face and ran my fingers over the calluses and wrinkles on her hands. They were firm hands that had always been quick to chastise, to hold, to love. Hands that had always been there to pick you up. Hands with strength and dignity. And I grieved. I grieved for the loss of my life’s cornerstone, grieved because I’d lost my one unswerving supporter, grieved because I was alone. But mostly, I grieved because I never got to say good-bye.
There was no one but me to take care of burying my ma. Moses was AWOL and undependable, so I knew I had some decisions to make that night.
I went into the kitchen, started a fire in the stove, and brewed a pot of coffee. Both men took off their coats and threw them over the backs of their chairs as it began to warm up.
We sat around the table and cupped our hands around mugs of coffee.
Dr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Do you know what happened, Robert? Were you around?” he finally ventured.
“No, sir,” I shook my head vigorously, “I came back from hunting and she was lying in the barn, knocked out cold with that big cut on her head, where I think she hit it on the trough or something. I don’t know why she would have fallen like that.” I shook my head again, ran my finger around the rim of my mug and tried not to cry.
; “Well, chances are she may have had a slight heart attack or stroke, and the combination of that and hitting her head may just have been too much for her,” the doctor hypothesized. I nodded as he continued speaking. “If it’s alright, I’ll take her into town tonight, and we’ll get a cause of death tomorrow. Are you wanting Jacob Stokes to take care of the body and funeral?”
I nodded slowly, staring down at a crack in the table. “I reckon so,” I acceded softly. I sat, lost in thought. How am I going to plan a funeral, take care of all the arrangements, and pay for everything? I’m 16 years old!
As if reading my thoughts, Preacher Moore spoke up. “You know, Bobby, the church folk will give you a hand with whatever you need. Brother Cavenaugh has got some nice pine lumber sitting around he’s just never gotten around to using, and I’m sure it would make a fine coffin for your ma. I’ll talk to him about that tomorrow, it that’s alright with you.”
“That’ll be fine, sir, thank you.” I answered gratefully.
“Do you got any kinfolk ’round here that’ll be wanting to come, or who could give you a hand?” he inquired.
“No, sir,” I shook my head. Ma had been an only child like me, and her folks had passed away of smallpox when she was just about my age. Moses had drifted up from Georgia, and I knew he had four or five brothers and sisters, and his ma was still alive, but we hadn’t been in touch with them ever, so far as I could tell, and even if we had been, it was doubtful they’d want to show up to bury a relative they hardly knew.
Love is a Wounded Soldier Page 3
