Hunting Season

 

By

Rayne Ayers Debski

 

It’s almost midnight when Andrew maneuvers our car up the serpentine road to the Sanctuary. Without street lights to illuminate the curves, the abrupt shifts are unexpected. My back stiffens in preparation for the next one. Andrew swings the car hard enough for my shoulder to knock against the door. I’m too tired to complain; he’s too intent on getting to our destination to notice. We were supposed to be there five hours ago. Andrew had to work late.

Sanctuary is a misnomer. Our vacation home in the Blue Ridge sits on a half acre of trees, among dozens like it. We selected the name because that’s what we wanted: Andrew, a getaway from his accounting firm, and me, a place to bring environmental magazines and Terra chips. We haven’t been here since the summer when the forest hid everything. Now, in October, leaves pile along the road.

“Did you tell Jake to turn on the heat?”

I shake my head. “I thought we’d build a fire.” I imagined we would sit in front of the fireplace, watch logs spit out insects, and plan what to do during a long weekend together. It seemed more exciting than calling the caretaker to start the furnace.

“We’ll be getting into a cold bed.”

“I thought we’d dance naked in front of the fire.”

“We’ve never done that.”

“I never ate mussels until I met you.” This is a game we play, a reminder of “firsts” we’ve shared during our nine years together, a game of truth and lies. Usually, my husband responds with something like “I never farted in silk boxers before I met you.” Tonight he stares at the road ahead.

“Did you remember to buy fruit?” He turns the car into our driveway. “I didn’t put it on the shopping list.”

“Blueberries,” I say. “And bananas.”

He reaches for my hand and squeezes it. This affectionate gesture belies the distance that has grown between us.

“Are you okay?” He still holds my damp hand.

“Fine.” I remove myself from his grasp and gather my things. In the last year we’ve gone to cooking classes, cleaned out the basement, taken up digital photography. We joke. We share stories with friends. We rarely look each other in the eye. “You?”

“Yes,” he says.

We are here in the mountains with its bracing air and snakes in the laundry room to have three days without anyone else.

He locks the car. “I’m fine.”

 

By dawn, barn swallows are singing. Sleep is impossible. With a blanket around my shoulders, I walk through the kitchen onto the mildewed wooden deck.

I scan the tops of the yellow hickories for the Orionids. Last year we stayed awake all night to see the meteor showers. The luminous streaks we’d read about—meteors every five minutes!—never appeared. Instead of going to bed, Andrew insisted we return to Richmond so he could ride with his bicycle club. We drove home in silence. This morning I watch a single meteor streak across the sky. From its position, I know it’s not part of the Orionids. Maybe I’ll tell Andrew it was. Slowly, the sky lightens.

Dressed for his daily run in new shorts and an old sweat shirt, Andrew slides open the door to the deck. “Do you want hot water for tea?” Without waiting for an answer, he fills the kettle. His six-foot muscular presence shrinks the space in the kitchen.  The blender pulverizes bananas, orange juice, and yogurt. Jays bicker in the trees. I must remember to buy birdseed. A piece of blue cloth I shoved into the screen the last time we were here has turned dark green.

He pours his smoothie into a glass and gulps it down. Although he has recently turned forty, there’s no gray in his thick, dark hair. The creases in his forehead are recent, etched from worries about his firm’s survivability.  He pokes his head out the door. “Water’s ready.”

“When will you be back?”

“You can come with me if you want.”

“I don’t feel like running.”

“Too wet out?”

“I feel like I’ll use up too much of myself. I’ve been feeling that way. Used. Used up.”

“Maybe you need new running shoes.”

“New running shoes?”

“You can tell your friends ‘I sprinted past my husband in my new Nikes.’”

“I’d never sprint past you. I can’t even keep up with you.”

He squints at the glass wind chime, his anniversary gift to me, its strands twisted into silence. “You should have brought that inside.”

“Sometimes things get away from me.” One of the bickering jays swoops toward the deck, then returns to its mate. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’m not asking you to do anything.” He unhooks the wind chime and hands it to me. The glass is cold and slippery. “Just wish you’d take better care of things.”

I place the chimes on the picnic table and unravel the strings. I’m not a careless person. I may overlook the expiration date on a milk carton or mail a payment the day it’s due. But at the Piedmont Historical Society, where I’m the Executive Director, every object is correctly identified. Our home in Richmond is not a showplace, but the gardens are weeded. And here in the mountains, I sweep away spider webs and keep the wine rack filled. If something is amiss, it isn’t, as Andrew insists, because of negligence. After all these years, he still doesn’t understand there are things I do because of carelessness, but others I do for spite.

My bare feet are turning blue. Andrew is at least a mile into his run. The jays have quieted. I re-hang the wind chime but go inside before it begins to sing.

 

There is laughter from the neighbor’s yard, my husband’s loud and nasal, and Kit Barton’s, low and throaty. From the kitchen window I can almost see the house next door. The Bartons moved here last spring. Unlike us, they live on the mountain year round. Kit Barton is an expert bow hunter, and Mark Barton is the owner of a private fishing club. He’s a potential client of Andrew’s firm. If they’re outside when Andrew finishes his run, he talks with them. His chattiness with strangers irritates me—I hate feeling excluded.  I run upstairs to his study for binoculars, as if they’ll help me hear what he’s saying to Kit.

After rummaging through his closet, knocking over the twelve-gauge shotgun and spilling a box of ammunition, I find the binoculars. By the time I place them around my neck, Andrew is in the doorway.

“The Bartons invited us for dinner tonight.” He picks at his fingernail. “I said we’d be there.”

Moments like this lead me to believe our marriage has become a game of Blind Man’s Bluff. If I remind him this is our weekend to be alone together, he’ll look baffled. I hold up the binoculars. “Bird watching. I thought we could look for eagles.”

He shakes his head. “Five o’clock. Don’t be late.”

 

Come early for drinks, the Bartons told Andrew, so we can get to know Susan.

“If they don’t like me, will they send us on our way without dinner?”

Andrew roots around the wine rack. Although I can’t see his face, I know he’s wincing. He has never enjoyed what he calls my overactive imagination. “Better fill up on hors d’oeuvres just in case.”

“Maybe they’ll drug us. Use us as decoys to lure wild animals.” The inanity of my words shields my nervousness about hanging with people who will judge Andrew by his wife. I hadn’t thought to bring anything dressier than jeans and a sweater. I try to dislodge a tiny piece of dried steak from the sweater with my fingernail.

“Bison burgers,” he says getting into the spirit. “That’s what they’ll serve. Fresh from the hunt.”  He sets out a zinfandel and a cabernet, sizing up which would be the correct choice.

“Five o’clock is early for dinner.”

“Kit wants us to see the sunset.”

“Something different from what we see here?”

He holds each bottle to the light and examines its color. “Pretend you’re Eve, seeing a sunset for the first time.”

“I bet Eve didn’t eat buffalo. Or deer.” I scrape harder.  “Or ostrich.” The meat disappears from my sweater, but a small star of balsamic glaze remains. I rearrange my scarf to cover it.

“You don’t know that.” He places the wine in a tote and hands it to me. “But I’m with you on the ostrich.” I grab some nuts to chew while we walk next door. Maybe tonight won’t be so bad. We’ll listen to their stories and joke about them afterward. I turn to offer some nuts to Andrew, but he’s out the door. I rinse my hands and leave the wine on the counter.

It takes a few seconds to catch up to him. “Let’s not ruin this weekend,” I say.

He slows his pace. “This weekend?” His face is drawn. “Is that all you’re worried about?”

 

Heads of glassy-eyed animals cover the walls of the Barton’s living room. A deer with a rack large enough to decorate at Christmas stares disapprovingly at my sweater. I tug at my scarf. Next to him is an antelope, his tilted head exuding disdain. Three elk eye the room as if looking for an escape route. Above them float a tarpon and four bass. I try to avoid their gazes and smell what’s for dinner; the burning wood in the fireplace displaces all other scents.

“The animals are Kit’s,” Mark says. “The fish are mine. Caught the tarpon off Key Largo.” His voice is quiet, as if he doesn’t want to rile the animals. I press my lips together and pretend to be interested.

From a group of pictures on the sideboard, he selects one and hands it to me. “She spent seven hours lying in the mud to get the elk,” he says proudly. I hold the photo like a piece of smelly underwear and glance at the picture of Kit in dirt covered camouflage, her bow in one hand, her foot atop the carcass, a patch of rust stained grass in the foreground. I hope dinner isn’t the remains of this animal.

“Seven hours.” I fight the urge to toss the picture into the fire. “I couldn’t lay that long in a spa.” Andrew shoots me a warning look.

Kit continues the tour. Next to the stone fireplace, a five foot bear skin is spread across the wall. “She was six years old,” Kit says nodding at the bear as if eulogizing it. “I shot her in Canada.” Her diamond earrings sparkle. I turn to Andrew hoping he’s as uncomfortable as I am and willing to leave.

“Did you have a sidearm with you?” my husband asks.

Kit’s chestnut hair swings across her shoulders. “They’re not permitted in Canada when you’re bow hunting.”

“What if you missed and the bear charged?”

She shrugs. “That’s the chance you take.” Her white silk shirt ripples. “Do you hunt?”

“We shoot skeet,” I say. Andrew looks as if one of the trophies has joined the conversation.

He turns to Kit. “I used to bow hunt. Mostly deer.”

“You should come with us,” she says. “Bow season starts next week. We’re driving up to the game lands.”

“We’re only here for a couple of days,” I say.

“I’d like to try my hand at bow hunting again.” Andrew smiles at Kit and me, his head bobbling back and forth. “Susan keeps trying to get me up here more.” The bobbling has changed to a definite nod. “Yes. Next weekend.”

Before I can protest, Mark presses a glass into my hand. I rarely drink more than a glass of wine on an empty stomach. I swallow three cosmos in succession before Mark ushers us into the dining room. He’s saying something about their last fishing trip, “…and guess how many bass I caught that afternoon. Guess.”

I shake my head. “I have no idea.”

“Andrew, what do you think? How many?”

Andrew’s eyes search the table. “The wine,” he says. “What did you do with the wine?”

I raise my fingers to my lips and try to look contrite. “I never left a bottle of wine at home until I met you.”

Andrew hisses into my ear. “You’re drunk.” I busy myself with my napkin so no one will see the flush spreading across my face.

“Would you believe a dozen?” Mark says.

Kit sets a plate in front of each of us. The last thing I remember is the empty eyes of trout staring up at me.

 

In the morning Andrew and I occupy the kitchen and avoid eye contact. He starts the water for my tea, opens the refrigerator and sniffs the cold, fusty air escaping into the room. I stare at a croissant deciding if it’s worth the effort to eat it. A brown paper bag sits on the counter, its smell revealing the contents of leftover trout from last night’s dinner. Andrew shoves the bag into the trash and carries it to the porch.

“Do you want to go for a hike later?” He thrusts a box of herbal teabags on the table.

“Aren’t you hunting with your friends?” I jab strawberry preserves into the croissant. When I take a bite, crushed red fruit oozes down the side of my mouth. I grab a napkin, hoping he hasn’t noticed what a mess I’m making.

A cloud of steam rises from the water he pours into my teacup. “Sun’s out. It’s not cold.”  He drinks his smoothie straight from the blender carafe. “Do you want to hike or not?”

I shake my head. A slice of sunlight cuts the kitchen in two. On one side I sit hunched in my chair, wool sweater buttoned to my throat, bare feet pressed against the floor. He could walk across the kitchen, touch my hair, and the day would be different. He remains at the counter, a hulking presence stuffing granola bars into his running shorts.

“Maybe I’ll shoot skeet.” I try to chuckle so he’ll know I’m joking, but it comes out like a gurgle. He’s too busy filling his water bottle to notice.

“Suit yourself.” The thick hair on his arms bristles when he opens the door. “Make sure you put the trash in the shed.”

My head aches from last night’s alcohol. I open the door to the deck to let air into the room. Too fatigued to read the morning paper, I make a pillow with my arms on the table and rest my head. Almost asleep, I imagine hiking to the mountaintop and sitting there, waiting for Andrew to find me. It’s the kind of thing he used to do—guide our canoe through white water, talk me down steep ski slopes. That was when he wasn’t so distant, before he started going on camping trips without me, before he started locking the glove box of his car, before he started making excuses for not calling when he worked late.

 

A breeze blows against the wind chimes. I’m unsure how much time has passed. The tea is cold; I make a fresh cup. Outside, the bushes rustle. Something strikes the side of the house, a branch, perhaps. It’s not unusual for birds to fly into open windows or raccoons to saunter onto the deck for a handout.

Gripping the cup with both hands, I sip my tea. Although the erratic thumping continues, I refuse to let my “overactive imagination” take hold. It’s probably a deer. I peruse the newspaper headlines.

A musty odor blows into the house. Remembering the discarded trout, I stiffen. The trash can crashes against the door. I swing around.

The shadow of a six-foot bear crosses the deck. I fling the mug toward him and half run, half stumble up the narrow circular staircase to Andrew’s study. I try to still my hands long enough to lock the door.

I scrunch down on the floor, my head pounding. Shit. Why didn’t I grab the cell phone?

Below me, glass shatters. I close my eyes and cling to the side of the cold leather sofa. In his search for food, the bear is having his way with my kitchen, riffling cabinets and tossing plates. I have to get to the shotgun in the closet. I crawl across the carpet.

A chair scrapes the tile floor. I envision the bear sitting at the pine table waiting for me to feed him. I glance at the clock. Andrew should have returned by now. I think of the bear tramping through the woods. Would Andrew have seen him? What if the bear found him first? I imagine my husband running on the trail, the sun casting a golden glow around his head. Even the thick hair on his arms seems luminous. His quadriceps throb, the muscles hardening and thickening. The bear lunges for him, crushes Andrew’s heaving torso between his paws, and tears at his clothes. He rips the granola bar from Andrew and tosses his damaged body to the ground like an empty soda bottle. What if Andrew is bleeding in the woods awaiting help? No. He’s probably at the Barton’s discussing their hunting plans for next weekend.

A rumbling belch echoes through the house. My mouth is dry; sweat pours down my sides. The bear will sniff my fear. He’ll rip my heart out.

I pull the shotgun from the closet and pray my shaking will stop so I can load it and aim straight.

I creep to the landing and huddle behind the stair rail. The sun is so intense now it distorts my vision. My head throbs. The hulking figure is silhouetted against the windows overlooking the forest. He moves closer. Our eyes meet.

In that moment we recognize something familiar in each other. He gives a guilty shrug, and for a fierce instant I want to bury myself in him, forgive him for everything he has done. We stare at each other. I inhale, raise the gun, and take aim. The pounding in my head blurs my vision. He shakes his head.

I lower the weapon and close my eyes, knowing he will do with me what he wants. Outside, trees rustle and wind chimes sing softly in the breeze.

 

 

Rayne Debski’s short stories have appeared in literary journals, anthologies, and e-zines, and have been selected for readings by professional theatre groups in New York and Philadelphia. She can occasionally be found on the Six Sentences blog. She wishes her muse would visit more frequently.