by Galen Winter
“Oh, it’s you. Hello Counselor.” He stood in the doorway. His smile seemed a bit forced. “I’m afraid I won’t be good company.” He extended no invitation and made no movement suggesting I should enter and added: “Please don’t misunderstand.” It was Peabody’s way of saying “Go away.”
He began to close the door. I disregarded his unspoken order and walked past him into his living quarters. “Welcome back,” I said. “Nice to see you.” Peabody didn’t answer. I took the glass from where it rested on the stand next to his wingback chair. The ice cubes had melted. It told me the Major had been sitting there for some time, thinking about something,
I went to the kitchen and prepared a drink. I gave it to him and went directly to the issue. “There are times when a man should not be alone. There are also times when he should talk about his problem with someone he can trust. That’s what friends are for.”
Peabody was silent. He sat, considered his lawyer’s words and then spoke. “I’m not interested in encouraging your highly developed curiosity. At first, I was looking for a way to diplomatically tell you it was none of your business. Then it occurred to me. Perhaps you are right. The sooner I get this off my chest, the better I’ll be.” Then the Major told me about Peter Willson.
“I met Peter Willson in Texas. My first impression was decidedly negative. He had an unattractive imperious air about him. On the surface, he seemed aloof and cold, somewhat opinionated and conditioned to getting his own way. I suppose that’s not uncommon among CEOs of large organizations. They are surrounded by sycophant underlings, ready to do their bidding and follow their orders while, all the time, currying their favor, stabbing their own competition in the back and waiting for the boss to retire or die.
“Peter sought me out and started questioning me about this and that. He was pushy and I don’t like pushy people. However, he was a recent retiree and, I gave him a bit of leeway. After all, he spent nearly forty years in the corporate environment. That’s enough to warp anyone.
“When I offered him a cigar, he told me he hadn’t smoked in twenty years. Then he said ‘My doctor can go to hell’ and took it. I began to like him. I adjusted my first impression. It’s possible he began to like me, too. In any even, he insisted on telling me his life story.
“Peter had rural beginnings. As a young man in Pennsylvania, he was a hunter and a fisher. He worked his way through the Wharton school and got a job in a bank. Once in the corporate world, his responsibilities began to grow. He could find no time for non-banking activities. Hunting and fishing disappeared from his life. I felt sorry for him.
“Of course, he became a workaholic. You don’t crawl up the corporate ladder without being one. Peter became President of his bank. Then he arranged mergers with other groups and negotiated a few purchases, but never lost his position as top dog. He ended up as President of a large regional bank complex. As he approached retirement, his mind time-traveled back to earlier years. His youthful hunting and fishing experiences occupied more and more of his thoughts.
“Wilson retired three weeks ago. The Texas trek was his first hunt in decades. I suppose that’s why he kept questioning me. He wanted to know what I could tell him about Ruffed Grouse hunting in Wisconsin, about pheasants in South Dakota, ducks in Nicaragua, Perdiz in Uruguay and quail in Georgia. It wasn’t mere curiosity. He said he was retired - he was now a free man. He intended to go there and do it.”
Peabody leaned back, sipped and continued his story. He wasn’t talking to me. He was speaking to some unseen audience.
“Yesterday, Peter Willson didn’t return to camp for lunch. We found him still seated at the base of a tree. His shotgun lay across his lap. The turkey call had fallen from his hand. He was dead. I suppose it was a heart attack. When I packed his shaving gear, I found pills - Lisinopril, Plavix, Metropolol, one of those vastatin drugs with a name sounding like a Central Asian Republic - the stuff doctors prescribe for high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol.
“Well, Peter won’t need them now. He won’t go to Nicaragua or South Dakota. He won’t shoot Perdiz or see Iguacu.”
Peabody was quiet. Then for the first time since he began the story, he looked at me and asked a question. “Is there life before death? If Peter Willson were alive, he might say ‘No’.”
* * * * *
After reading the Peter Willson obituary in the Inquirer, I looked out my office window at the Philadelphia skyline, and repeated the Major’s question. Is there life before death?
Too many people spend their lives only thinking about things they want to do and want to see. Too many people get to the ends of their lives and find there are too many things they haven’t done and too many things they haven’t seen. I’ve never given much serious thought to what I really want to do or what I really want to see. Major Peabody is way ahead of me. He knows what he wants. And he does it.
Then I knew at least one thing I wanted to do. I drew a check on the Peabody Spendthrift Trust Fund and delivered it the Major - two weeks in advance of its due date.
Other Books by Galen Winter
LEGENDARY NORTHWOODS ANIMALS
Quasi-Scientific Studies of the Invisible Moose, the Shovel Nosed Beaver, the Blunt Billed Rock Pecker and Other Fabled Creatures. Charles Darwin - Roll Over in Your Grave.
BACKLASH
A Compendium of Lore and Lies (Mostly Lies) Concerning Hunting Fishing and the Out-Of-Doors
BACKLASH II
Tales Told by Hunters Fishermen and Other Damned Liars
THE AEGIS CONSPIRACY
A Novel About Conspiracies Within Conspiracies Within the CIA
THE BEST OF THE MAJOR
A Compilation of Stories About a Bird Hunter, a Rascal and a User of Cigars and Single Malt Scotch Whiskey
THE CHRONICLES OF MAJOR PEABODY
The Questionable Adventures of a Wily Spendthrift, a Politic-ally Incorrect Curmudgeon, an Unprincipled Wagerer and an Obsessive Bird Hunter
SUMMER OF 38
A Novel
