High Hunt

by Eddings, David

  "Germanophile," he snorted.

  "No," I said seriously. "The others are out to make a buck, any way they can. Most of them would sell you their little brother if their little sister or their mother wasn't to your taste. The Germans don't give a shit if you like them or not, and God knows they don't need your money. Benson — this guy I knew — and I used to ride bicycles across a small mountain to a little fanning village — a kind of no-name sort of place with only a church, a Gasthaus, a few other shops, and a dozen or two houses, maybe two-three hundred people all together. We were the only Americans in the whole damned town. We rode through one afternoon and stopped for a beer. We just kept going back. The people there really got to like us, and we liked them. They had a big party for the oldest guy in town — everybody knocked off work for the whole day. The old boy was about ninety-seven or so. Benson and I were the only two outsiders invited to that blast. Not just the only two Americans — the only outsiders. It was absolutely great."

  "Ah, the pleasures of rural life," he said. "Swains and maidens in the first flower of youth."

  "Larkin," I said, "you're a phony bastard, you know that?"

  "I know," he said, and I think he was serious. He had a habit of going into those "I'm not really real" depressions. As I recall, that's one of the reasons we parted company. Too much of that stuff can get on a guy's nerves.

  Then Monica came in. I vaguely remembered seeing her around school when I'd still been there. She was a sleek brunette; and, I don't know — polished is the word, I guess — or maybe brittle. I'd seen a couple of girls like her in Germany — the hundred-marks-a-night sort of girl. At first she treated me like a piece of garbage on the floor, but when she learned that I'd been to Europe, her attitude changed. She started poking the usual bright questions at me, trying to make sure I'd really been there — though how in hell she'd know is beyond me. She wanted to talk about Paris, naturally, and mentioned a lot of names I remembered only as the tourist-trappy kind of places to stay away from. About the only thing we agreed on was the Rodin Museum, but I think it was for different reasons. It began to sound as if she'd been there and I hadn't. I think she was a little peeved that I didn't fake it for her as others I knew did so often, gushing about places they really couldn't stand,

  simply because it was the "thing to do." I listened to her chatter politely. There was something sort of odd here, but I couldn't quite get hold of it.

  "Stanley," she said, turning to him. "Did you run those things through the washer that I asked you to this morning?" There was a threat in her tone, a kind of "You'd better have, if you know what's good for you" sort of thing.

  "Yes, dear," he said meekly.

  That was it then. The whole thing fell into place. She had the big stick, and he knew it — and he'd been ashamed to let me find out. Married not more than a couple of years on the very outside, and he was pussy-whipped already. Poor Stan.

  "Good," she said. She turned back to me and smiled briefly — like switching on a light in an empty room and then switching it off again. Click-click. "I'd love to stay and talk with you, Dan, but I've really got to run. We're trying to set up a little drama group, and there are a million details. You know how it is." Click-click went the smile again. That room was still empty.

  "Oh, Stanley," she said, "don't forget that we're going over to the Jamisons' for dinner this evening." That was obviously for my benefit. She didn't want me hanging around the house. "Wear the blue suit. You know how conservatively Mr. Jamison dresses, and we do need their support if this little theater group is going to go anywhere."

  He nodded. Stan needed instructions on how to dress like I needed instructions on opening beer bottles. It was just a little dig to keep him in line.

  "I'll be back about fourish," she went on, "and I'll be in the mood for a Manhattan by then. You will be a good boy and mix up a small pitcher, won't you?"

  Click-click went the smile again. What a phony bitch!

  "Of course," he said. She was humiliating him, and she damned well knew it. I guess he wasn't allowed to have any friends that she hadn't passed on first.

  "I've really got to run," she said. "It's been lovely meeting you, Dan."

  We all stood up, and she left. We sat down again.

  "Well, Dan," Stan said, rather quickly, I thought, "what are you going to do now that you're a civilian again?"

  "Graduate school, I guess," I said.

  "Up at the U?"

  I nodded.

  "Going into Education?"

  I shook my head. "Straight English. Education courses are a waste of time."

  "Oh, I don't know. I went on and took my MS."

  "Hey, Stan, that's really fine," I said, ignoring the defensive tone in his voice. "I didn't know whether you'd finished or not."

  "Oh, yes," he said, "about a year ago. I'm teaching high school now, but after I get a little more experience, I'm going to apply at several colleges. Monica's working on her master's, too, and we'll be in excellent shape as soon as she finishes."

  "That's fine, buddy," I said. "I'm glad to hear it."

  "We should get together a few times before you go back up to Seattle," he said.

  "We'll do that, Stan. I'm a little tied up right now. We're getting ready to go hunting in early September."

  "Hunting?" Stan said with sudden interest. "I didn't know there were any seasons open this early."

  "We're going up on the High Hunt — high Cascade deer season — way to hell and gone back up in the mountains. We've got a guide and horses all lined up. We're going up to the Methow River into the country on the back side of Glacier Peak. We'll be in there for about ten days."

  "God," he said, "I'd really love to do something like that." He meant it. I must have hit a nerve. "It must be pretty expensive though."

  "Not bad — fifty skins apiece for the whole deal — food extra. There are five of us going altogether."

  "That would be just great," he said longingly. "I'd been hoping to get a chance to get away this year, but it doesn't look like I'll be able to make it even for birds. Monica's going to be pretty tied up during the regular season this year — her drama group and all — so I'll have to manage the house." He hesitated a moment. "I imagine your plans and arrangements are all made."

  "No. We're pretty fluid."

  "You know, I've been working pretty hard for the last few years — getting my degree and then getting the house here and setting everything up just the way Monica and I want it. I haven't had much of a chance to really take a look at myself — you know, stop and really see where I am."

  "That happens to all of us now and then, Stan," I said.

  "Something like this, you know — getting away for a while, going way back up into the mountains away from all the rash and pressure. It would give a man a chance to really think things through."

  "That's why I'm going," I said seriously. I lit another cigarette. "I'm at loose ends — kind of in between the Army and school. It's a good time to do some thinking."

  "That's it exactly," he said. "And the hunting is something just thrown in extra really. It's the getting away from things that counts — oh, not Monica, of course — but the other things, the pressure and all."

  "You ever been out for deer?" I asked him, trying to cover it over a little so I wouldn't have to see the naked trapped look in his eyes.

  "Just once," he said, "a few years ago. It was just absolutely great, even though I didn't even see any. I certainly envy you, Dan."

  "You could probably come along, if you feel like it," I said. I think I really threw it out to see if he'd bite at it. I didn't really expect him to go for it.

  "Oh, I couldn't do that," he said. "I'm sure the others wouldn't want a stranger horning in." But he was hooked. Suddenly I wanted to do him a favor. Stan and I might not have agreed about much, but I figured he deserved a better break than he'd gotten. Maybe if he got away from her for a while he could get his balance again.

  "I doubt if these guys
would give a damn about that. It's just a bunch my brother knows, and we just decided to take off and go."

  "I'm sure I couldn't get away at the school!" — he paused thoughtfully —”although I have got some sick leave accumulated, and in a way it would be for health reasons, wouldn't you say?"

  "You're doing the talking." I laughed.

  He sat back, smiling sheepishly. "I guess I do sound like I'm trying to talk myself into something," he said.

  "I don't think the deal with our guide is really very firm yet," I told him, "and it could just be that another guy would help swing it. I'll talk with the others and see what they say, if you want me to."

  "Well," he started, "don't make it too definite. I'll have to give it some thought and talk it over with Monica — not that I have to —” He left it hanging, but I understood. He went on quickly. "Well, we do kind of like to talk things over. We make better decisions as a team. We feel that marriages work better that way, don't you agree?"

  "Makes sense," I said. "I'll sound out the other guys and let you know."

  "I'd appreciate it," he said. "But mind, nothing definite yet."

  "Sure, Stan," I said. "I understand."

  We kicked it around for another hour or so before I finally made an excuse to get away. Stan was all right, but the house was so damned neat it gave me the creeps. I guess I'm just a natural-born slob.

  7

  ON Friday morning I went up to Seattle and picked up my stuff from the place where I'd had it stored. I kind of putzed around a little but I couldn't find anybody I knew, so I drove on back to Tacoma.

  I spent most of the afternoon unpacking the stuff. I wound up with books all over the place. After I got it all squared away, it dawned on me that I was just going to have to pack it all up again anyway in a little while, but what the hell? I like having my books and things out where I can lay my hands on them. It was a little crowded though. My stereo alone took up a sizable chunk of the living room.

  That evening I went across town to the "art movie" theater to catch an Italian flick I'd been wanting to see for three or four years.

  "I don't see why you want to see that silly thing anyway," Jack said when I asked him if he wanted to go along. "I know a guy who seen it Tuesday. He said it was a real loser. Nothin' happens at all."

  "Maybe he just looked too fast," I said. "You want to come along or not?"

  "Naw, I don't think so, Dan," he said. "I really don't get much out of foreign movies."

  "Just thought I'd ask," I told him. It kind of bugs me when somebody puts something down that I'm really enthusiastic about. Probably everybody's the same way really.

  The "art theater" was like all the others I've been to — a grubby, rattletrappy, converted neighborhood showhouse with maybe a hundred and fifty uncomfortable seats. The lobby was painted a nauseating shade — something like a cross between pea-soup green and antique egg-yolk yellow — and the walls were cluttered with poster art and smeary abstracts. The popcorn counter had been replaced by card tables covered with paper cups full of synthetic espresso.

  The movie itself was preceded by a couple of incomprehensible short subjects, an artsy cartoon, and about two years' worth of coming attractions. Then there was the intermission, and everybody went out to gag down some of that rotten coffee and stand around making polite conversation.

  I choked on a mouthful of the lukewarm ink and drifted over to lean against the wall and watch the animals.

  Across the lobby I spotted Stan Larkin and Monica, she looking very bright and very chic and he hovering over her like a man with a brand-new car he's afraid someone's going to scratch. They chatted back and forth with bright, cultured expressions on their faces, drawing a fairly obvious wall around themselves, keeping the college kids and the freaks who thought all foreign movies were dirty at arm's length. With that attitude, it was pretty unlikely that either of them would notice me, but I turned my head away from them anyway. A little bit of Monica went a long way.

  When I turned my head, I caught a familiar face. Where in hell had I seen that little girl before? I was sure I didn't know any of the local college kids, and with the straight hair, bare feet, granny glasses, jeans, and sweatshirt, she had to be a college girl.

  Then Joan came out of the women's john, and I snapped to it. It was Clydine, the little Pacific Avenue pamphleteer I'd met on my first night back in Tacoma. It was an impulse, but I needed some protective covering in case Stan spotted me. I pushed my way through toward them.

  "Clydine!" I said in simulated surprise. "Joan! How are you girls anyway?"

  They looked at me blankly for an instant, not having the faintest notion who I was. "Uh — just fine," Clydine said, covering up beautifully. "We haven't seen you in —” She left it hanging, hoping I'd give her a clue. Joan was still looking at me doubtfully, her eyes flickering to my haircut. While it wasn't exactly GI, it was still too short to put me in their crowd.

  "Let's see," I said, "it must have been just before I got sent to Leavenworth."

  Their eyes bulged slightly.

  "I'll bet you didn't even recognize me with this haircut and without my beard," I said, "but they keep you clipped pretty short in the Big House." It was a little thick, but they bought it.

  "How long have you been — out?" Joan asked sympathetically, the suspicion fading from her face.

  "About a week now."

  "Was it — I mean — well —” Clydine's eyes were brimming, and her hand had moved to touch my arm comfortingly. I was a martyr to the cause. She wasn't sure exactly what cause yet, but whatever it was, she was with me all the way. Some girls are like that.

  I carefully arranged my face into what I hoped was an expression of suffering nobility. "Anything," I said in a voice thick with emotion, "anything is better than participating in an immoral war." That ought to narrow it down for them.

  Clydine embraced me impulsively. For a moment I thought she was going to plant ceremonial kisses on each of my cheeks. As soon as Clydine let go, Joan gave me a quick squeeze. I began to feel a little shitty about it. The kids were pretty obviously sincere about the whole thing.

  "Come on, girls," I said, trying to cool it a little. In about a minute one of them would have made a speech. "It wasn't really that bad. It's gonna take a whole lot more than a year and a half in a federal joint to get old Dan down." I thought I'd better give them a name to hang on me.

  The lobby lights blinked twice, letting us know that the projectionist was ready if we were. I was about to ease away gracefully.

  "We'd better go find our seats," Clydine said, glomming onto my arm like grim death. Joan caught the other one, and I was led down the aisle like a reluctant bridegroom.

  I'd overplayed it, and now I was stuck with them. All I'd really wanted was someone to hold Stan off with, but they weren't about to let a bona fide hero of the revolution get away. I was hauled bodily into the midst of a gaggle of college types and plunked down into a seat between Joan and Clydine. I could hear a ripple of whispers circling out from where I sat, and I slouched lower in my seat, wishing the floor would open under me.

  The movie was good — not as good as I'd expected, but then they never really are — and I enjoyed it despite the need to keep up my little masquerade.

  After it was over, one hairy young cat suggested we all go up to his pad and blow some grass. I saw an easy out for myself. I took Clydine aside out in the lobby.

  "Uh — look, Clydine," I said in a slightly embarrassed undertone, "I don't want to crimp the party, but my parole officer and the local office of the FBI are staying awfully close to me. They're just waiting for the chance to bust me back into the big joint, and if they caught me at a pot party, well — I'll just split out and —”

  Her eyes flashed indignantly. She had gorgeous eyes, very large. "Stay right here," she ordered me. "Don't you dare move." She circled off through the crowd with her long dark hair streaming out behind her, and her little fanny twitching interestingly in her tight jeans.
She was back in about a minute and a half.

  "It's all fixed, Danny," she told me. "We're all going to the Blue Goose for beer instead." She grabbed my arm again. I felt Joan move in on the other side. Trapped.

  The Blue Goose was a beer joint near the campus, and by the time we got there the place was packed to the rafters. Word had leaked out.

  Clydine and Joan brought me in like the head of John the Baptist. All they needed was a plate — and maybe an ax.

  "Danny," Clydine said in an undertone, "I hate to say this, but I've forgotten your last name, and if I'm going to introduce you —”

  "No last names," I muttered to her quickly. "The FBI —” I left it hanging again.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded conspiratorially. "I understand," she said, "leave everything to me."

  "I won't be able to stay long," I said. "I think I've shaken off my tail but —”

  The rest of the evening was like something out of a very bad spy movie or one of those Russian novels of the late nineteenth century. I said as little as possible, concentrating on drinking the beer that everybody in the place seemed intent on buying for me.

  A number of girls insisted on kissing me soundly, if indiscriminately, about the head. Even one guy with a beard slipped up behind me and planted one on my cheek. He called it the "kiss of brotherhood," but if he carries on like that with his brothers, his family has serious problems. Still, it was the first time I'd ever been kissed by anybody with a beard. I can't really say that I recommend it, all things considered.

  After a couple hours I was getting a little bent out of shape from all the beer. Most of the time the place was deadly quiet. Everybody just sat there, watching me guzzle down the suds. Now I know how the girl feels who provides the entertainment at stag parties.

  Most of the conversation consisted of half-spoken questions and cryptic answers, followed by long intervals of silence while they digested the information. "Was it — ?" one young guy with a mustache asked.