P ead

58 Short Story

They have been here before, too many times. Too many times and it never makes any difference, never changes a thing. They sit, separated by a partition of cracked and smudged Plexiglas and “review the details”— the lawyer’s words—of that night, trying to “uncover any new information.” But there is no new information to be uncovered. He had told the lawyer, the psychiatrist, and the judge the complete story from the beginning. Sparing nothing. He pleaded guilty. They had convicted him. And he was never getting out.

The lawyer, Wallace, wraps the phone with a paper towel and holds it to his ear, then gestures for the man on the other side to pick up his. “Abbott,” he says. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve visited.” “What’s it matter to me?” “I’m just saying—” “I never ask you to come here.” Henry Abbott looks at the lawyer, at his expensive suit, his tired, wrinkled skin. “You’re right. But you always agree to see me.” Someone in the cubicle next to them bangs on the partition glass. Visitor or inmate? Each section is separated by a privacy wall. No way to know. A girl starts crying. A guard rushes in and escorts her out.

Wallace clicks his tongue. “Domestics,” he says, “always with a flair for the dramatic.”

“Let’s just get this over with, Wallace. Ask me what you want to ask me, I’ll tell you nothing you haven’t already heard, and we can go our separate ways.”

“Abbott.” Wallace pulls the phone away from his left ear, rewraps it, and holds it up to his right.

“Wait, wait,” Henry raises a finger to the glass. “You know what? Before you start asking. Have I ever told you about the time my father took me turkey hunting for my eighth birthday?”

The lawyer shakes his head. “Listen, Wallace, real close, okay?” He points to the legal pad sitting on the desk in front of the lawyer. “You might want to take notes, too, or whatever it is you do on that paper. Doodle, whatever.”

“Go ahead, Abbott. Tell me.” “Right before my eighth birthday, my family moved to Wisconsin. My dad had been fired from his job in West Virginia, I think. Never knew all the details. My parents kept a lot of secrets. Anyway, so we moved to this middleof-nowhere town in Wisconsin, rented this craphole of a house right next to a power plant. I mean, the house was horrendous, dirty, mold covering the walls. But there was this patch of woods behind the plant. Actually, bigger than a patch, must’ve been a couple hundred acres. I loved it. I would cut through it sometimes to get to school when I was running late. It was dark and quiet. Secure. Made me feel secure.

“My dad was a hunter, you knew that, right? Yeah. Yeah, he was a hunter my whole life. Always for the sport of it. And it made me sick, that he did that for fun. My eighth birthday was the first time he’d ever made me go with him. I didn’t want to, he knew I didn’t want to, but he made me and I couldn’t say anything. I was eight. What was I gonna say against my father? I didn’t have a choice. Do you understand?

“So he said we were going to start small. I wasn’t ready for big game yet. I needed to start out by killing something smaller than I was, something I could intimidate. Turkey, he told me. We’re going to start with turkey. The woods were filled with wild turkey. I used to see them in clusters when I walked to school. They were always loud, I remember, so loud, like they were talking to each other. Well, I guess they were talking to each other. And they didn’t scare easy. I could walk right up to them, less than a foot away, and they’d just stare at me. I thought it would be easy, at least. What did I know?” Henry pauses for a moment, rubs away a smudge on the glass with the corner of his sleeve. Before he continues, he takes three slow breaths.

“We went out early that morning. My dad had all his

gear in two bright orange duffle bags. He made me put on a vest, ear muffs, gloves, protective goggles. Felt like I was wearing a costume. Felt like freakin’ Halloween. And then he didn’t waste any time. He told me how to hold the shot- gun, how to lessen the kickback. He showed me the turkey shot ammunition meant to penetrate the thick plumes of the turkeys.

“Then he handed me the gun, pointed. That one, he said. My fate was sealed, Wallace. I didn’t have a choice. The first shot missed. Dad wasn’t surprised. He’d been expect- ing that. Just try again, he said. But the noise had triggered something in those turkeys. Fight or flight, I guess. And they started running. Scattered in every direction. You better run, boy, you’re gonna lose ‘em. Run, Henry.

“I ran, followed a slower, fatter one. It couldn’t escape in time. I shot it. Shot it and then burst into tears, because the shot had hit its stomach and the thing was still alive. It was still alive and laying there making this noise, this horrific cry. Again! His voice was right behind me, his hand on my shoulder. Don’t let that thing suffer. “And that word. Suffer. To know that I had caused another living thing to suffer. My hands had done it. My eight-year-old hands. And to finish what I’d started was to become a murderer or a savior. At that moment I couldn’t have told you which would have been worse.”

Henry finishes his story and looks up at Wallace for the first time since he’d begun speaking. The lawyer gazes back, unblinking, pen still in hand, suspended over his notebook. He hadn’t written a single word.

Henry says, “Hell of a story, huh?” Almost chuckles. “Why now? Why are you telling me this now?” Wallace says.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Wallace sighs, drops the phone, doesn’t move for almost a minute. When he speaks again, his voice is pleading. “Why did you do it, Henry?” He slams a fist against the table in front of him. “Why did you take the fall for him? You’re innocent. You are innocent.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Wallace. I didn’t have a choice.” 59 Short Story