The Hunter Hope Whitby
But the hunter was also the hunted; For many of my arrows left my bow only to seek my own breast. — The Prophet by Khalil Gibran
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Lying soundless in my sleeping bag, I wait for sleep. I hold my wrist up to a small stream of light and scream curses in my head. It’s only 3:30 am, and my leg is already shaking. Breathing in the familiar musk of the one-room cabin, I watch my uncles sleep. Jake’s on his stomach, Pete’s snoring, and Charlie is passed out in a chair cuddling a near-empty bottle of whiskey. There are about four dozen crushed Miller Lite cans littered throughout, along with sucked bones from two buckets of fried chicken. This is how we start each season of deer hunting in November, our first real family gathering before Thanksgiving. I started coming with my dad when I turned 12. It wasn’t long after that he let me have my first can of beer as Uncle Charlie hooted and hollered about his only 10-point buck. Eighteen years later, not much has changed, except this being the first hunt without Dad. Needing fresh air and cigarettes, I leave my sleeping bag in an angry twist and dress quietly. I’ve left my boots and shotgun by the door, and I grab them, closing the door softly behind me. “Shit! It’s dark,” I yell as I round our trucks, triggering the hounds to bark and howl in their pen. Hushing them with a few, “be good boys,” I pat down my jacket, feeling the hard pack of my Marlboro Reds but no cartridges. Searching inside of Charlie’s pickup, I find the gauge Winchesters I need as well as a bottle in the glovebox. My hand shakes as I bring it to my lips. The cold bites my face as the bourbon burns my throat. Tucking my uncle’s liquor back into its secret place, I snag the headlamp from his work hardhat and a beer from the cooler in the truck’s bed.
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The light from the headlamp burns out a faint, ghostly white as I make my way down a path leading to the creek that runs along the weather-beaten fence separating my family’s hunting grounds from the Johnsons’. The night hangs out its stars upon black velvet punctuated by a sliver of moonlight. I light my cigarette, flinching when something scurries through the leaves at my feet. Slowly, I exhale a thin veil of smoke into the thick, moist air. Inhaling, I convince myself it’s time to kick out my roommate. When I left him, he was sprawled across the couch watching the Thursday night game, Redskins vs. the Ravens. I don’t know what it is; I just don’t like him. He pays his share on time and doesn’t ask anything of me. Maybe he tries too hard to live like someone he’s not. Those mail-order ties of his aren’t saying much, even though he ties that Windsor with great care. Or maybe it’s that Notre Dame keyring. I’ve yet to see any alumni letters addressed to him. I have a degree in History, but right now I do better waiting on tables than standing in front of a blackboard. Just because I have that piece of paper, you don’t see me putting on airs explaining the fall of the Holy Roman Empire to people who only want to stuff themselves with the second-rate pasta I’m slinging. An owl hoots a signal, and I shine the headlamp up to the treetops. Forging ahead with a quicker step, I wonder if the owl sent out a warning alerting the woodland creatures that I’m coming The creek flows over and around some rocks, causing the water to break into a fall. Crouching next to the black water, I dip a finger into its frigid, swollen body. Last week’s unseasonable storms have created a rushing and ripping that threatens to flood its banks. I toss a twig into the fast-moving water. Spinning in the current, it disappears into darkness. Once, Dad and I sat on these same rocks eating pimento cheese
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sandwiches he made for lunch, him not asking me how football practice had been going, and me not asking him about his work. The light from the headlamp seeks out a stump next to a tree. I figure this would be a good place to rest. My feet and lower back ache from picking up doubleshifts at the restaurant. The warmth of Charlie’s bourbon would have warmed me up; I wish I had grabbed that instead of this Miller Lite. Popping the tab, I take a drink and listen to the low moan of a bullfrog. Strange it’s not hibernating. Downing the beer, I crush the thin aluminum can and throw it in the creek, silencing the frog’s calls for female company. I shine the light down to my wrist and groan at the time, a little after 5 am. “Has anyone noticed I’m missing yet?” I ask the woods. The thud of my heart answers, No. I allow the beer to lull me to a nearsleep. I’m just a kid, and Dad is teaching me how to play chess. He captures my bishop as my then-living sister, Madeline, calls us to supper. A snapping sound awakens me. Dawn is lightening the sky, and I see a brown blur near the creek’s edge. Stumbling, I reach for my shotgun. With one quick leap, he’s gone. “Dammit!” I curse, kicking the leaves once, then twice for good measure. “That better have been a dream,” I grumble The Indian Summer has finally begun surrendering its foliage to Autumn. Bursts of yellow, burnt orange and red overtake shades of green. The sun rises with bands of pink and gold above the pines. Despite the slight wind from the south, it’s already 20 degrees warmer than when I set out a few hours ago. My mouth tastes stale, and my stomach tightens with nausea. The match shakes as I light my cigarette. Dropping it, I grind it into the moss underneath my boot heel. God once walked the Earth. Sister Mary Francis told me this. “Why?” I asked. “Because this is his creation,” she said.
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“When?” “In the cool of the day,” she answered. “Where?” “In the garden Eden.” “What proof?” “Faith, child. It’s a matter of faith." Stretching my arms above my head, I see that gold has become blue, and I drink it in. Where else would one suppose God takes these walks? Maybe here? I crack a private grin at the thought. Last week at work, Paige scolded me when I cursed God after dropping a tray of pasta bowls. “It’s a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain,” she said. “So,” I’d retorted. “So nothing. It’s defiling the sacredness of God.” I threw my head back and cursed his name again. I’d prayed a couple of times. Never got me anywhere or anything. “Chris Dennis, you’re going straight to hell!” She pouted. “There’s no such place,” I told her, knowing, from the many after-work get-togethers where I’d tried to convince her to have one more drink with me, that she believed God to be alive and well. “Is too,” she countered. “How does it feel to be the only believer?” I’d taunted her then. She squinted her doe eyes, preparing, I knew, a speech defending God’s existence. I watched as the words formed on her lips until she’d timidly held them back, concentrating instead on filling a tea pitcher. A strong gust of wind brings me back to the woods. I shiver. Looking beyond the creek and past the fence, I can make out the magnolia grove on the Johnsons’ property. Perhaps this is where God walks, I muse. I won’t tell Paige though; she’ll think I’m a believer. Checking on my cigarettes, I only have two. Not enough to make it through a day’s hunt. I curse myself for being so forgetful. I know Jake and Pete think the deer are scared away
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by the cigarette smoke. But I say, how does a dumb-ass deer know the difference between my smokes or smoke from a chimney? They don’t like me much anyway, my uncles, say I’m too much like my dad. Not hardly, I say. You won’t catch me pointing a revolver to my temple anytime soon. Charlie’s the only uncle who checks in on me. The only one who was happy to see me drive up Thursday night. I light a cigarette, hoping to ease the need to eat some grease to kill this hangover. The usual bitterness of Charlie’s coffee would taste really sweet right about now. I know I should go back to the cabin and eat whatever’s left from breakfast, but if I turn back, Jake and Pete will get the better tree stands, and I hate losing out to those two. Charlie’s usually good to have some jerky on him. Holding my hands out in front of me, they shake. Been like that for a while, but I can’t start tossing them back any earlier than I already do. Most days I desire to be numb. My mother always says, Remember what shoved your father into an early grave. I do. Each time I pour another smokey, amber shot in a glass. Holding my shotgun above my head, I twist side to side, stretching the stiffness from my body. Paige is covering my lunch shift today. I’ll have to stop at that peanut shack on the drive back and get her a little something to say thank you. I guess brittle doesn’t say, let’s be exclusive. Time to meet up with the others and try to make this trip worth my while. I follow the path backward, toward the cabin, listening to the anxious howling of the dogs. The hounds are on the scent, and they’re driving that deer right to me. Shit. My uncles deserve the kill; however, any moment I can take a clean shot. Lifting my shotgun to my shoulder, I hear hooves thundering. God, I will do better if you help me this once.
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The buck bursts through the thicket. The sun is gleaming off his walnut coat. If he makes it to the fence, I will no longer have a claim to him. My fingers ache as I swing the shotgun from my back to my shoulder. Looking down the barrel, I draw a bead on the buck. With the lightest of pressure, I squeeze the trigger. My hand shakes. Sweat slips into my eyes as I hear the splash of his hooves.
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Copyright © ���� by Hope Whitby All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Published in ���� by Life in �� Minutes Press ���� West Cary Street Richmond, VA ����� lifein��minutes.com/press Distributed by Life in �� Minutes Press Printed in Richmond, Virginia Second Printing, ����
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