by David Wayne
“Max, I’m so sorry to make you uncomfortable. I would never purposely put you on the spot like that.”
“Okay…I guess,” I said, clueless as to what she was talking about.
“I didn’t realize you would be back so soon. I desperately needed to bathe, plus I’ve never been skinny-dipping before,” she said, attempting to suppress a mischievous grin.
I shrugged. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
She was staring at me funny. It was a look of… pity? I stared at her, completely lost. Why was she feeling sorry for me? Because I’d struck out for food and come back empty-handed? “Sister, what are you talking about?”
She became sheepish. “You stumbled onto a nude woman in a river, got excited, and had to relieve your urges out in the woods. That’s what took you so long. It’s no big deal. I have brothers. I understand,” she said, unable to suppress her grin.
Now I was embarrassed, with no idea how to respond. I wasn’t going to discuss male masturbation with a nun, yet I didn’t want her to think I’d been choking the chicken out in the woods, fantasizing about her nude in a stream. I couldn’t decide which was worse. Leave it alone or address it.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re a man; you’re weak in those ways,” she said.
What I didn’t need right now was a young nun explaining male masturbation to me, as if we were in mathematics class. Time to change the subject. “Mmm, the meat is really delicious,” I said.
“You might be interested to know—”
“No, Sister, I wouldn’t. Now, if we could discuss something more relevant, like our mission,” I said, trying for casual but falling short.
“Suit yourself. I didn’t realize you were so touchy about the subject.” She paused for a second, and an evil grin replaced her somber expression. “Perhaps you should have traveled with the heavy gay woman, and she could have helped you with your repressed sexual problems,” she chuckled. “Lighten up.”
Her laugh was infectious, and I found myself joining in with her. I’d say it’s safe to assume that if a nun is telling you to lighten up, you’re probably being a little too uptight. I kicked off my shoes. My feet were pink and puffy. I’d made a major dumbo call not finding hiking boots.
“You should have located some hiking boots, Mr. Ryker. I need to rub salve on those pinkies, or they’ll start blistering,” the mind reader said.
“No, thanks. These are man feet. Rough as leather, tough as nails,” I laughed. “I’m more worried about yours,” I said, but she was already heading to her tent, head shaking.
From her tent, she yelled out, “Mr. Ryker?”
I didn’t like the tone. It sounded sneaky, so I tiptoed toward my tent.
“You don’t have to worry; it won’t make you go blind, no matter how many times you do it,” she said, following with a string of laughter.
Chapter 15
We hit the trails early the next morning, right at daybreak. Our food supply was running low, so we had a light breakfast of canned corn and roasted walnuts. We hiked most of the day and decided to camp early and hunt. We hoped to replenish our supplies at the next town, which was a tiny dot on the map called RenCity, but we wouldn’t reach it today. It was either catch some food on our own or have a very meager dinner and no breakfast tomorrow. This was a problem I’d never had in my life—and it was a bit scary. I mean, if you’re hungry, you whip into a Taco Bell and get a burrito, or at least that’s what you used to do.
I checked the sights on my rifle, not because I needed to but because that’s what the sister was doing, and I didn’t want to seem like a do-nothing. My scope is a four-thousand-dollar model, about five times what most people spend on their rifle. My piece has seen many a human target—but never a wild animal. There’s a first time for everything, I guess.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer hunting with me?” she asked.
I answered without taking my eyes off the knothole I was sighting against. “No, we should split up. We’ll be more effective that way.”
“Oh,” she said, her disappointment obvious.
Her tone caused me to lower the gun and look toward her. What’s up now, Sister? I wondered. She always had an issue. “Something wrong?”
“Well, I thought you were from New Jersey? At least, that was the rumor whispered around town,” she said in a hushed tone.
The woman talked in weird code. What did my birthplace have to do with hunting? “Yeah, I’m from Jersey, originally anyway,” I said. “What of it?”
“I just thought you might need some pointers is all. I mean, how much hunting does one do roaming the streets of New Jersey?”
“Sister, I’ve shot enough wild game with old Betsy here to fill a meat packing plant,” I said, giving her an exaggerated wink.
She flung me a disapproving stare before returning to her Remington bolt action, which she had been cleaning with fervor. What’s her problem? I stuck my tongue out to her bowed head.
“That was childish, Mr. Ryker. I was only trying to help.”
We set about preparing for the afternoon hunt. I was securing the campsite when she headed out toward the north trail before stopping and leaning against a giant yellow poplar. “Last call. This train’s leaving the station,” she yelled.
“Toot-toot, Sister, this cowboy’s moseying the southward trail, away from the O.K. Corral,” I yelled back, pausing to push my stone in the middle of the path. I crunched my way through the thicket, smashing branches while humming “A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go.”
I barely caught her comment as she headed off. “There goes the pro hunter, stealthy on his way to starvation.”
*
I watched the young buck sipping water from the river. I had waited impatiently for an hour, behind a scratchy bush, while being eaten alive by red fire ants. I’d found a cleared area next to the water; it was an obvious animal drinking hole. The shrubbery was sparse here. A ravine caused by rain runoff provided the perfect spot for wildlife to stop and drink. The thickets were thin for a good forty feet back, making it hard for a predator to sneak up on them. Safe as prey could hope for in the wild. But not safe from my rifle.
In the course of my previous profession, I’d killed more men than I cared to own up to. But somehow, hunting seemed cruel. I preferred to buy my meat from the local butcher shop, pre-wrapped in cellophane and ready for the barbie. I didn’t care to have a live deer in my gun sights. Of course, faced with starvation, Bambi had to come down. That was the bottom line, Jack. That wasn’t a deer, it was dinner. I put the young buck squarely in my scope, unconsciously going through the precursor mental and physical motions from sniper training. Deep breath, hold it in, put tension on the trigger, then squeeze gently.
I was an expert shot and would no way miss Rudolph from this short distance. Oddly, this thought caused the red-nosed reindeer song to start playing in my head, irritating me. I prepared to pull the trigger, bracing for the kick that would occur once I pressed that last millimeter of trigger. Bye-bye, Bambi, and hello, dinner. Roasty, toasty venison sounded great. Susan might bag a scrawny squirrel, but Jersey boy was about to bring home the happy meal. Supersized.
Bang!
The discharge was loud, echoing through the small valley. Smoke billowed from the end of the rifle, and I let out my breath. The deer, eyes wide, was frozen in place—stunned by the sudden noise. I knew a bullet through the heart often left its target suspended by adrenaline before finally falling over. So I waited, fooling myself for another few seconds.
That was not going to happen, because I had purposely shot over the deer. Bambi scampered off at full steam, no idea how lucky a buck he really was. I set my rifle against a tree, standing to stretch my legs. I pushed the stupidity from my mind, refusing to believe I’d rather starve than shoot an animal. It was crazy. What kind of a man was I, anyway? I answered my own question: one that was gonna go hungry.
I wandered around aimlessly, not wanting to go back too early yet kn
owing that I was just pretending to hunt, which was ludicrous. I got off the trail, deciding it was the perfect opportunity to take a poop—in peace and quiet. Just as I was unbuckling my pants, I noticed some bright red cherry-looking thingies. Then I had a brainstorm. Berries and fruits could be eaten just as well as meat, plus they traveled well, just like the walnuts did. Forgetting nature's calling, I shrugged off my long-sleeve shirt, tying the ends together and buttoning the bottom part to form a makeshift shirt basket.
Over the next hour, I picked and plucked at full throttle, humming old Fleetwood Mac and Dan Fogelberg songs. Once my shirt was overflowing with wild berries, I fastened the remaining buttons, closing the bulging mass up. I trotted off, almost skipping down the pathway. Then I had another bright idea—I’d give Sister dearest a taste of her own medicine.
First, I scripted a lecture. Then I practiced her tone of voice and a few of the scolding poses she seemed to revel in casting my way. I gave it a trial run, rehearsing it out loud.
In Jersey, one learns to maximize their endeavors. Rather than waste time on meat that spoils in one day, I found berries that will travel and last all week. Perhaps, Sister, you are the one in need of lessons. I would state this and drop the bushel of berries on the ground, in dramatic fashion. Along with the poses and mock facial expressions, I would spank her good.
As I neared camp, I forced myself to lose the gait. I didn’t want to oversell it. I walked into the clearing, slinging the hefty sack of fruits over my back, Santa Claus style. I was scraped up pretty good from the berry bushes—red dots and small cuts covered my hands and arms. This would add flare and drama to the presentation, both of which she sprinkled liberally throughout her lectures and rants. She was drama mama.
I noticed she’d built some kind of teepee over the fire, and little bellows of smoke were escaping here and there. On a second fire was a pot and what appeared to be a boiling stew. I didn’t see any telltale signs of animal cleaning lying about, so she must have been back for some time. Not bad, I had to admit. She had hunted, dressed out, and was cooking her quarry—in less than two hours. Impressive. But it was time to one-up her.
“Hey, Saint Nick, whatcha got in the sack? I hope it’s a deer. That’d be an excellent change in pace. I only bagged a few rabbits and a couple squirrels,” she said, her voice pleasant. “It must be something good. You’re all but floating into camp.”
I flung the bounty down next to her, but it snagged on my finger, causing the buttons to pop open and the red beauties to scatter everywhere. So much for my grand entrance. Before I could start into my speech, she jumped back in horror—as if I’d dropped a live hornet’s nest in her lap.
“My word,” she breathed rather than spoke, placing both hands to her chest. “What in the world are you doing with a sack full of red baneberries? Those bad boys are poisonous. I trust you haven’t ingested any?”
I felt deflated. What could I do? I had just spent an hour picking poisonous berries. I gave her the story of my logic, minus the mimicked poses and mock facial expressions. I didn’t impersonate her voice.
“Darn, I was really hoping those little suckers were edible fruit,” I said, trying to salvage some dignity. “Well, I’m two and oh, because I almost got a buck down by the river. I had him dead in my sights, but I was too far away, at least a hundred yards. I tried to get closer, but something startled him, and he bolted. Swish! Just like that, he was gone. I took the long shot but missed by a hair,” I said, using my darn-it voice. “Yep, just barely missed 'im,” I repeated, nodding my head to someone who wasn’t even paying attention to my story.
She’d made a rabbit stew, mixed with our last can of pork and beans. I scarfed it down like it was filet mignon—I was famished and depressed. “What’s up with the little teepee?” I asked, pointing over at her makeshift contraption. “Did you find some mini-Indians?” I laughed.
“I’m smoking the rabbit into jerky. It’s not the best eating but will preserve well. Once it’s smoked, we can eat it right out of the pouch or boil it into a soup—albeit a watered-down, bland one. We’ll need to tend the fire during the night, so we’ll have to take turns getting up; the meat needs to be smoked for at least twelve hours or we’ll get sick from it. There’s enough here to last a couple days if we go easy.”
Again, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Hunt it, skin it, stew it, smoke it into jerky for eating on the trail. After we cleaned up, we replenished the smoker and sat by the fire, winding down before bedtime. I sipped some whiskey, wishing I had a fat Cuban to accompany it. There were night crickets chirping but no other sounds; the forest was still and quiet.
“Do you mind?” she asked innocently, breaking the quiet.
I was transfixed by the fire, my trance broken by what seemed to be another of her random comments. Did I mind what? Did she need to fart? What? Not knowing how to respond to the non-question, I simply grunted. “Huh?”
She nodded in my general direction, reaching out her hand. For a moment, I looked around me, wondering what she wanted me to hand her. This was how things often went when we communicated. Back and forth several times, with hand gestures, odd looks, and her seemingly random words. Either I needed to become a mind reader or she needed to speak in full thoughts and statements, such as, “Max, hand me that rock, please.” Finally, I grunted again. “Huh?”
“The whiskey, Mr. Ryker, may I have a sip, please?” she said, wearing a bashful smile but holding out her arm, pointing at my comforting, last amount of whiskey. I wanted to say, No! This is my ba-ba, and it’s almost gone. But, of course, I didn’t. Instead, I decided to lecture her.
“Sister, you are of age…but it’s inappropriate. I know things are tough right now. They are for everyone. But trust me on this—reaching for the bottle is not the answer.” I used my best fatherly scolding voice, then took a big swig of juice. No way was I sharing the last of my booze.
She sat up rigidly. “You’ll not scold me, Max Ryker, let’s get that straight right now. Of age, indeed.” She had moved into her huffy, puffy mode. “Another thing, you can knock off the father-figure routine—it isn’t working. You’re maybe five years older than me, tops. Now, I know you’re low on whiskey, but I insist you share.” She stormed over, one hand on her pushed-out hip. She reached for the bottle. “Give it,” she demanded.
Slowly and reluctantly, I handed her my liquor—the final drops of my precious stash. It was under a quarter full and needed to last the rest of tonight, and it would—if it were sipped and nursed. As I held it out, she snatched it away. Then, to my horror, she killed the whole thing! Before I could react, she gulped down the very last drop of my cheap Scotch whiskey.
“Ahhhhhhh,” she said loudly, blowing out a long breath and shaking her head from side to side. “Whew! Man, did that ever burn.” She let out a slight burp. “Oops,” she giggled, slightly embarrassed. “Pardon me.” Before returning to her seat, she eyed me, throwing one of her disapproving looks. What she was disapproving of, I had no clue. Right now, I was disapproving of my disappearing liquor. We sat quietly as I pouted. Finally, she broke the silence.
“That stuff tastes nasty. You know, I’ve never drunk alcohol before. Why’s my head getting dizzy?”
I was pissed; I wanted my head to be dizzy. “Because you just slugged down a bunch of ninety proof. If you’re going to get sick, go upchuck away from me. I hate to see chicks puke,” I said, staring away from her. “Excuse me, I’ve got to take a leak.”
When I returned, she was sloshed.
Chapter 16
“You know, Maxie Man, I’m not a perfect nun,” she said, and then let out a small burp, followed by a giggle stream.
“You can say that again, Sister.”
And she did. Then her face grew tight, eyes narrowed, and before I could stop it, I was stuck in a serious conversation, sinking in chick-sand.
“When I was younger, something happened. I’ve never told anyone,” she said. The fire was flickering, casting weird shadows ac
ross her face. “I’ve decided to share with you, Mr. Ryker. You can be my first. How’s that sound?” she said, grinning and slinging me a wink.
I didn’t like where this ship was sailing. “Some things should remain private, Sister. This sounds like one such matter.” I threw some thin brush and small logs on the fire, which immediately brightened up the area—but not the sister along with it.
“I lost my parents when I was young. I didn’t get on very well with Mother because I was Daddy's little princess, you know?”
I nodded, because it wasn’t really a question.
“I’m the oldest of four, with three brothers. Mother wanted me to be a mini-mama, help out in the house—but I preferred hunting and fishing with my dad. The boys were too young. He was a good Southern gentleman. Losing him so young really hurt,” she said, tearing up.
She didn’t look to me for a response, so I didn’t give one.
“I wanted to be an architect, but all that changed when…when the accident happened. We went into foster care, and I was split from the three boys because…because…”
I thought she would start wailing, and I was about to get up and comfort her, but then she drifted off someplace instead.
I tried to fill in the silence. “You’ve never told anybody your parents were in an accident?”
She didn’t respond.
“That you were split off from your brothers and lived in foster care?” It was like she didn’t hear me. If I were metaphysical, I’d swear she’d left her body, because she sat stoic and unreadable.
I added a log and stoked the fire, even though it required neither. I poured a cup of water from the canteen and set it by her. She gulped it down, spilling it on herself.
Finally, her looked floated over to me. “We’re going to die, aren’t we, Max?” she said without emotion.
