by Merry Jones
The Impala made a grumble and groaned.
‘I told you a hundred times to fix the muffler.’ Pete was jittery.
‘Just be cool. Act normal.’ Bob pulled into the campground just before sunrise, parked near the RV area.
‘What if somebody stops us?’
‘Jesus Holy Christ. Nobody’s going to stop us.’
‘What if they do?’
Bob’s nostrils flared. ‘We’ve talked about it. What don’t you get yet? We’re a couple of dudes backpacking for a day, that’s all. We don’t need no hunting permits. No reservations. Nothing.’
‘Right. Nothing.’
‘You okay?’ Bob turned, looked at him.
Pete nodded. He chewed his thumbnail.
‘Because you’re doing that thing you do with your eyes.’
‘What thing?’
‘Where you blink real fast.’
Pete shrugged and tried not to blink.
‘You got to tell me you’re okay. Because once we get out of this car, there’s no going back.’
Pete blinked a bunch of times. ‘I know.’ He reached for the car door.
‘Not yet. Hold on. Let’s double-check the packs.’
Pete twisted around and climbed onto his knees, facing the back seat.
Bob reached into the pocket of his down vest, took out a list. ‘Okay. Dynamite.’
‘Check.’
‘Rope.’
‘Check.’
Bob read the list: cable, wiring, tool kit, blasting caps, detonators. Maps. Flashlights. Spare clothes. Tarp. Beer, beef jerky. Baggie of grass. Matches. Pipe bombs. Pete’s phone with the GPS.
‘Check.’
Bob’s eyes were glowing. ‘This is it, man.’
Pete’s hands were shaking.
‘Scared?’
‘Shittin’ my pants.’
Bob laughed. ‘That’s okay, man. Think of it this way. Before a tough football game – before anything tough, your body revs itself up. You feel scared sick, but it’s not fear – it’s just hormones or chemicals. It’s your body preparing itself for something big. So it’s a good sign if you feel sick.’
Pete remembered Homecoming, senior year. He’d been scared sick then, too, and they’d won 28-11. Bob was right. His body was revving up to do something great.
‘How about you? Do you feel sick?’
Bob grinned. ‘Me? I’m so revved my eyes might pop out of my head.’
Pete nodded, stared out the windshield. In a few minutes, the sun would come up. But, for now, darkness would cover them.
‘Ready?’ Bob punched his shoulder.
Pete didn’t answer, he just returned the punch. This was it, the day they’d been planning for months. This day, today, they were going to do something mind-boggling. They were going to become famous and change history.
This day was going to be great.
Just as the sun peeked over the horizon, Angela Russo led her husband Phil to the edge of the field.
‘This is probably the best place to spot small game. You want to stay still, watch for movement. Don’t move because, if they spot you, they’ll freeze and you won’t see the grass moving.’
Phil nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’ She looked so beautiful out here, without make-up. Her hair up under her cap. Freckled like a tomboy. Or a modern Annie Oakley.
‘You remember how it goes? Aim, deep breath, hold it, aim, squeeze off the shot, breathe.’
‘Got it. I’ll be fine.’
‘Be careful. Don’t take any chances on your first time out.’ She patted his arm.
‘I’m fine. It’s you I’m worried about.’
‘I’ve been hunting half my life, Phil. I know what I’m doing.’
‘But you’ve never gone after bear before. At least not by yourself.’
‘That’s the point, though, isn’t it? I want to bag one. Just me. All by myself. Without goddam Stan. Without anyone.’
Phil put a hand under her chin. ‘I know it’s important to you, darling. I just wish you knew you don’t have to prove yourself. Certainly not to me. To me, you’re already perfect.’
Angela pursed her lips.
‘Okay, sorry. I know. This isn’t about me. It’s about you.’
She smiled stiffly. ‘Bring home a rabbit, Phil. I’ll be back for you in a couple of hours.’
He watched her go, the sway of her round bottom inside her coveralls. He waited until she disappeared into the trees beyond the field. Then, alone, he found a spot near the edge of the woods and waited, motionless, the way Angela told him. As the sun came up, he saw a bird or two, but no squirrels or rabbits. Damn, he wanted to bag something just to show her that he could. To gain her respect. Not that he’d ever compare to Stan, hunting-wise. Stan and Angela had hunted together their whole marriage. They’d come here every year and bagged venison every season. Stan was supposedly a crackerjack shot, whereas Phil had just this year managed to hit a tin can. But if he could hit a rabbit, maybe he could show Angela that he was competent.
Phil gazed across the field, watching for movement. A chilly breeze rattled the leaves of the trees, swayed the grass and weeds. Occasionally, a bird called out. Other than that, the woods were silent. He looked across the clearing at the trees with their vibrant colored leaves, wondered if Angela had found tracks yet. If she’d actually shoot a bear. Jesus. What if she did? What would they do with it? Mount its head on a board and put it in the den? The thought made Phil queasy. Up ahead, something moved through the grass, making a line. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, reminded himself: aim, breathe, hold, squeeze. Saw the rabbit through his scope. Took a breath. Held it. Aimed.
What in God’s name was he doing? Was he really going to shoot at that defenseless little creature? Was he going to kill it? He watched it hold still, trying to become invisible as if it sensed a predator. All he had to do was fire, and he’d have a prize for Angela. He pictured the rabbit, skinned and gutted. Its feet would be good-luck charms on key chains. It was up to him. He had the power over the rabbit’s life or death. Gracious – what was he doing? Phil lowered the rifle. He stared at the weapon, at his hands. Felt sick.
But what about Angela? He wanted to impress her, ached to have her look up to him the way she looked up to Stan. But Phil could never be like Stan. He was a pharmacist, not an outdoors man. He preferred to garden, watch films, play bridge, drink fine wines. He hoped that Angela loved him for the man he was. Of course she did. She was married to him now, not to Stan. Hunting was simply a passion that she hoped they could share, the way he hoped she’d learn to play bridge.
The gun was heavy. His new boots felt stiff. The ground was rocky and, even with his flannel shirt, he felt the nip of the air. Phil looked back at the bunny. It was gone.
He sighed, annoyed with himself. It was just a dumb rabbit – it wasn’t like he was murdering a person. He had to do this for Angela. Just this once. He had do it to prove that he could, and then never again. He held very still, watching the stillness of the field. Recognizing some of the plants – bull thistle over there, day lilies all over. Purple loosestrife. And weren’t those Spanish bluebells? He held still, staring at the plants as the sun peaked higher. There was something Zen-like about standing so still and silent, waiting. He was staring at a privet blossom, letting his eyes drift out of focus when, close behind him, he heard a shot.
He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. He could swear he’d felt a whoosh of air along with the crack of the shot. But certainly that had been his imagination. In fact, the shot probably hadn’t been all that close. He wasn’t familiar with the sound of shots fired in the woods; quite possibly, the sound had rebounded off trees, bouncing and ricocheting in all directions, so he couldn’t really be sure where it was coming from, let alone how far away.
Even so, that crack had alarmed him. Had sounded as if it had come from a copse of trees not far away, toward the south end of the clearing. He looked that way, hoping he wouldn’t see a bloodied deer or, worse, a h
unter gutting it. Would the guy gut it right there, in the woods? Phil didn’t know about the gutting process. Didn’t want to. Hunting, he decided, was not for him. It was barbaric, the whole sport – even calling it a ‘sport’ was barbaric. It was not a game; it was killing, pure and simple. And calling the victims ‘game’ – as if killing them were somehow playing – that was twisted, too. Phil scanned the area where he thought he’d heard the shot. Didn’t see any animals, dead or alive, but under a tree on the ground, he saw a patch of blue.
Blue. Not flowers. A solid patch like fabric, the color of his shirt.
He stared at it for a few seconds, curious. Nothing in nature would be that color and size. Wary, clutching his rifle, he moved closer, watching the blue patch. As he got closer, it became more defined. It wasn’t entirely blue; it was plaid, much like the blue and gray plaid of his own shirt. Something cold rippled up his spine, but he kept going, keeping his eyes focused on the plaid fabric until he got close enough to see, among clumps of Devil’s tails and Japanese stiltgrass, the arms and hands of the man who was wearing it.
Oh Christ. Half the shirt was drenched with blood.
Phil stared, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The man must have been shot. Oh God, there’d been a terrible accident. Phil ran to the guy; maybe he was still alive. He could do CPR, stop the bleeding. He looked around – maybe someone was close enough to go for help. Sure enough, up ahead in the early-morning light, half-hidden by the trees, he saw a figure, holding a rifle.
‘Help!’ Phil shouted. ‘There’s been an accident. A man’s been shot – help!’
The person stepped out, faced him, raised the rifle and took aim.
For a moment, Phil didn’t understand. By the time he did, it was too late to run, let alone to use his rifle.
The stream was icy cold. Harper didn’t mind. She spread a towel over a flat rock, sat down and sponged off. The chill of the water stirred her. She watched it rush over pebbles, run over her feet as if in a hurry. The surface rippled in the early light, reflecting silver, blue and gold. Harper dipped her sponge into the water, washed her face, her neck. She thought of Chloe, wondered if she were awake yet. As she washed her feet, she hesitated. Something moved in the trees, and she sensed that she was being watched. But that was unlikely. She and Hank had camped off by themselves, away from the campgrounds. No one was around. Maybe it was a hunter.
Harper squinted into the woods, saw only trees, tangles of vines and weeds, speckles of colored leaves. A bird flittered off a limb. A squirrel leapt off a trunk. But no hunter. Nobody was lurking in the woods, watching her. Harper dipped her sponge in the stream again, soaked it.
The water was clear, but Hank had warned that it wasn’t clean. He’d brought bottled water because he thought the streams were probably polluted. Something to do with fracking, not that Harper completely understood what that was. All she knew was that it involved cracking rocks deep under the earth’s surface to get fossil fuels. And that it was controversial. Those opposed to it blamed fracking for everything from pollution to fires to explosions to earthquakes. Apparently, fracking had been done upstream and a pipeline had been built through the forest. While they were here, Hank was going to take samples of soil and water for testing. Doing his geology thing. He couldn’t help it.
Rinsing off, Harper looked up the slope to their campsite. Hank was mixing up batter from powdered milk, flour, eggs and bottled water. Engrossed. Completely at home. No, at home he had less energy. It was barely seven, and already he’d taken samples of their campsite soil, the stream and the mud under and around it. He’d washed yesterday’s clothes, cleaned up in the stream, planned their morning hike along the bog. Now he was cooking. Hank was a dynamo, healthy again, tireless, the way he’d been before his accident. He’d started up the propane stove. Who would have imagined that he’d recover so completely? She saw him again, falling off the roof, sliding. Landing on his head. She saw him unconscious in the hospital, tubes emanating from every part of his body. Monitors beeping, screens showing his heart rate, his oxygen levels … No. That was over. She didn’t need to revisit it.
Harper closed her eyes, erasing the memory. Hank was fine. She dribbled cold water down her back, watching him lean over their little propane stove. The cloth of his sweatshirt stretched across his shoulders.
Hank looked up. Had he felt her watching him? ‘Come and get it!’
Harper dried her feet, put on her socks and boots, and joined him. They ate pancakes in the crisp air to the music of birds. Hank talked about where they’d hike, the samples he wanted to take. What he expected to find. He went on talking. Harper still couldn’t get used to his conversation. For more than two years, he hadn’t been able to articulate complete sentences or clearly express his thoughts. Now, he wouldn’t quiet down. Harper tried but couldn’t feign interest in chemistry and mineral deposits and so on. Her mind wandered to Chloe. Was she eating breakfast now? Asking where mommy was? Had she used the potty? Lord, she missed her. But Chloe was fine. She needed to experience a few days without her mom. And her mom needed to experience a few without Chloe.
Hank was still talking, saying something about people complaining about foul-tasting water. She needed to pay closer attention.
Except whatever Hank was talking about wasn’t all that appealing. She understood the importance of leakage and wastewater and natural gas, but honestly, pipeline safeguards didn’t stir her blood. She drifted, watching Hank’s mouth move, not listening to what he was saying. Realizing how much he loved his work. How Hank had it all – a loving family, a challenging career. Health. His life was full.
Harper chewed a mouthful of pancake, swallowed. Nodded at Hank as if she understood. And realized that Chloe’s life was also full. Chloe had preschool, swim class, gymnastics, library, music group, play dates. Harper swallowed coffee, burned her tongue. Damn.
‘You all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘You looked like you were choking.’
‘No. I’m fine.’
He looked doubtful, eyed her as he swirled syrup onto the last bite of his pancakes. Harper’s tongue felt on fire, but she smiled to reassure Hank. She even took another sip of coffee, careful this time to cool it first. She went through the motions of being happy and relaxed, for Hank’s sake. What would be the point of letting him know how lost she felt? He couldn’t fix her situation, couldn’t make a life for her. Couldn’t stop her from becoming clingy or needy or from sinking into self-pity. No, finding a way to fill her life was her responsibility, hers alone.
Hank had stopped talking a while ago. They sat in silence.
‘Delicious.’ Harper got up, kissed him. She picked up the pan, took the plates and a dish towel, headed for the stream.
‘Hold on, Harper. I’ll do it.’ Hank came up behind her. He had their mugs.
‘But you cooked.’
Hank stood close, nuzzled her. ‘I want to. I feel great, being out here again. It’s like coming back to life. I’ll clean up and hang the supplies. Why don’t you just relax?’
‘Relax?’
‘I’ll be fast.’
Harper watched him scamper down the slope to the stream. Why didn’t he want her to help? Was he so self-sufficient that she seemed in the way? Did he think she’d slow him down or do things wrong? Not long ago, Hank had depended on her for everything – even for speaking. But now, she stood alone, feeling useless. Not needed.
Stop it, she told herself. Cool down. She was being oversensitive. She should let Hank do his manly Hank-in-the-wilderness things. She went back to their tent, then wandered onto a path just beyond it. She wouldn’t go far. Just take a couple of minutes to be alone. Maybe she’d figure out her future. Harper stepped over fallen red and yellow leaves, thistles, creeping vines. Her boots crunched, birds and crickets chattered, and Harper strained to imagine a career, a daily routine involving meetings, a wardrobe, an office, a purpose. No use. She couldn’t see herself there. So what did that mean? Wou
ld she be a stay-at-home mom, volunteering at bake sales for the PTA, playing tennis? No, not tennis. Not with her leg. Maybe she’d be like her mother and stay home and drink. Harper saw her childhood self, coming home from school, finding her mother passed out on a sofa. Never mind. Don’t go there. You are not your mother.
The light ahead was brighter. The trees seemed to stop. What was up there? A clearing? Maybe a park facility? She kept walking, curious, looking ahead. The field was maybe an acre. Golden, swaying to a breeze, dotted with blues and purples, whites and yellows. Harper’s foot snapped a stick, startling her. It was time to head back.
She turned, looked over her shoulder at the field again. And noticed a patch of blue about ten feet away, to her left.
The boy lay sprawled flat in the middle of the square. He had no face.
Harper told herself to leave him. To keep moving. The boy was beyond help. Smoke clouded around her, gunfire burst rapidly somewhere nearby. Dusty heat seared her lungs, smelled of burning rubber, burning flesh. Men were screaming. She crouched and dashed for cover, clutching her weapon. Where was her patrol? She couldn’t see through the smoky haze. Where were they?
‘Sergeant?’ she called. ‘Phyllis? Cooper?’
No one answered.
‘Marvin?’
Shit. Where was her damned patrol? She held her rifle up and ready, aimed it toward the square. Her head felt jangled. Christ, what had happened? The boy. He’d been crossing the square, walking toward the checkpoint. And now he was dead. Something had happened. An explosion? An ambush? She’d missed it. How had she missed it?
Footsteps. Coming closer. Harper hunkered down, ready to fire. ‘Stop,’ she warned. ‘Don’t come closer.’
But the figure came closer, repeating foreign sounds. Or wait – maybe not foreign. ‘Harper. It’s okay. It’s okay.’
What? He knew her name. He kept talking, repeating himself. And his voice – wait. Hank? Hank was here? At the checkpoint?
Harper bit her lip, hard. In moments, the smoke vanished, replaced by trees. The gunfire and screams quieted, stifled by Hank’s voice. Her rifle became a broken branch. The flashback of flames and destruction faded into autumn leaves and her husband’s embrace.
