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  “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything that ain’t a tree or a chicken.” He went into the front room and took his pistol from the mantel. On the porch, he sat and rocked and stared off into the woods and down the dirt drive. He looked for a while at his pickup, recalling the first time he’d driven it after Jamie dropped in that souped-up engine. It had been parked at Judd Carlton’s garage. He had barely touched the gas and truck kicked out like a shot. Shame about Judd’s dog. “Can’t that baby move,” he muttered.

  After some time, Clomer was at the screen door. “Darnell, something fuzzy out back.” He didn’t look at her and she went on. “Too tall for a chicken. Trees don’t move.”

  He pulled himself up. “Then I guess I’d best come have a look.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Weren’t no person now?”

  “Awful fuzzy.”

  They walked through the house and into the kitchen. Darnell stood, looking through the screen of the back door while Clomer screwed up her face and peered out the window over the sink. A couple of hens dashed across the yard. “Somethin’s got the gals nervous, all right,” Darnell said. He flipped open the chamber of his revolver, observed the shells, slammed it shut.

  “There it is,” said Clomer.

  And there it was, stepping from behind the shed, a black bear four feet high. Darnell cocked his weapon. “It’s a bear, Clomer.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said as if the knowledge had helped her to see more clearly. “You gonna shoot him?”

  He let the hammer forward to rest. “I can’t shoot him, Clomer. He’s a sign.” He turned away from the door. “I’ve got to wrassle him, knife-fight him.”

  “With all due respect,” said Clomer, “that don’t sound like the swiftest of ideas.”

  Darnell sat at the table. “Nonetheless.”

  “The critter’s leaving,” Clomer said. “Getting away.”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “He was right big. What I could see of him.”

  “He’s got to be wrassled, knife-fought.”

  Clomer tried to call Mavis Johnson on the telephone. Mavis’s husband, Ed, answered. “Well, hey, Clomer.”

  “Hey, Ed. Mavis in?”

  “Why, sure she is. You know, Mavis don’t get out like she used to. Bad legs. I’m takin’ the phone to her now. We got us one of the princesses with a long cord put on so Mavis won’t have to get up. She has so much trouble with her legs. Well, here’s Mavis.” Then, away from the phone, “It’s Clomer Tellsy calling. I mentioned your legs.”

  “Clomer?” said Mavis.

  “Hey, Mavis. How your legs?”

  “They’ll do. Don’t heed Ed; you’d think they was his legs.”

  “I’m calling to tell you that there’s a bear over here.”

  “Where’s Darnell?”

  “He’s up front. He says he plans to knife-fight the thing.”

  “You don’t say. Don’t that beat all?”

  “I just called to tell you.”

  “Where’s the bear right now?”

  “He’s gone back off into the woods,” said Clomer, “but Darnell is certain he’ll be back.”

  “Well, my my my.”

  “I’d best be off now.”

  “All right, Clomer. Thanks for calling.”

  Soon, word was all over Coy about how Darnell Aimes intended to engage a bear in hand-to-hand mortal combat.

  Judd Carlton said, “Darnell, you can’t be serious.”

  Darnell looked at the man’s feet; the rest of him was down under a Buick. “Oh, I’m serious, all right.”

  Mitch Biter was in the garage along with young Randy Volker. Randy couldn’t swallow it; it bothered him something awful. He paced, shaking his head and laughing.

  “I’m taking a knife with me,” Darnell said.

  “Good move,” mumbled Mitch. “Need something.” He tried to spit his tobacco juice out the door, but it just dribbled down his chin and made the stain on his white shirt wider.

  “An old coot like you,” Randy said, “wrasslin’ a bear?”

  “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  “Hell,” said Judd, rolling on his creeper from beneath the car, “why don’t you just run him over with your truck.”

  “When are you going to forgive about that dog?”

  Judd went to his tool chest. “It’s damn silly if you ask me.”

  “How big is the bear?” asked Randy.

  “Oh, he’s a big ‘un. Five feet, at least.”

  “Why not shoot him,” the youngest asked.

  Darnell straightened his back and looked out through the door. “Can’t do that.”

  “Can’t do that,” Mitch echoed, tried to spit.

  Darnell tossed Mitch an annoyed look which went unnoticed, then said, “I think the thing was let loose on my land. They’re trying to scare me off.”

  “Now, why would they want to do that?” Judd asked.

  “Hell, if I know,” said Darnell. “Maybe the highway’s comin’ through. They got their reasons. Maybe they want to build one of them malls, full of boo-tiques.”

  “Man’s got to have a fight,” mumbled Mitch.

  “Well, this is one I’d like to see,” said Randy.

  “Ain’t nobody goin’ stop you from comin’ out to take a peek.” Darnell took a deep breath. “Reckon the beast’ll be back tomorrow morning.” He took his time walking to his truck, his head held high. He tore out in the vehicle, kicking up a wake of dust which settled slowly on Mitch and Randy who had stepped out to watch him leave.

  The town of Coy was one which rallied behind its citizens in any endeavors, and the pursuit of premature and imbecilic death would not go unobserved. Aside from Judd, Randy and Mitch, there were Ed and Mavis Johnson (bad legs and all), Deke Bumgardner, Raff and Rufus Winslow, and Pixie Hayes along with her seven kids and one on the way. There were others. They were all in the kitchen, lining the walls, crammed in between the counter and the refrigerator, huddled around Darnell who just sat at the table sharpening his Case knife with a whetting stone. It was a hot day. They drank lemonade and sweated. An hour passed.

  “That bear ain’t comin’,” said Randy.

  “There he is,” said Mitch and a hush fell over the room.

  There was no pause. Darnell stood and marched past the bodies out into the yard, knife in hand.

  “Man has no sense of drama,” complained young Randy.

  “Ricky would be appalled if he weren’t dead,” said Clomer. “He would say that violence was a form of deviant sexual sublimation or something like that. Of course, then Darnell would kill him.”

  Everyone was crowded at the doors and windows. Darnell stood in the middle of the yard, shouting obscenities at the bear, the blade of his knife reflecting the sun back at the spectators. The bear approached. Darnell faced the animal and they moved slowly in a circle, studying each other.

  “Oh, my my my,” said Mavis Johnson.

  “You children turn away, don’t look,” Pixie Hayes said, but the kids watched.

  The bear took a swipe at Darnell with a paw, but the old man leaned away from it, then lunged forward with his blade and drew blood from the bear’s shoulder.

  “What’s happening?” asked Clomer.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Randy. “He got in a lick.”

  “He’s doin’it,” Judd said.

  The bear feigned a move left and caught Darnell circling around against it He picked the man up, hugged him, and threw him down hard.

  “He’s down,” said Ed Johnson.

  Darnell pulled himself up. Shaky, he took a couple of wild swings at the beast.

  “Well, I’m impressed,” said Rufus Winslow.

  The bear got a hold on him again and threw him down in the same fashion.

  “He’s down, again,” said one of the Hayes children.

  “Course he is,” mumbled Mitch. “Gotta be a damned fool.”

  “What’s
happening?” asked Clomer.

  Darnell Aimes was buried on the edge of his property. Some people claim they’ve seen him up on that ridge at night, his knife in his hand, looking for that bear. Clomer says she hasn’t seen a thing. No one doubts this.

  This story originally appeared in Callaloo, Number 27, and is reprinted here with the permission of the editors of Callaloo.

  Still Hunting

  Thanksgiving came with much rain and chilly winds and an invitation to join Laura’s parents in Washington, D.C., for turkey dinner and pumpkin pie. We drove down on Wednesday. I was nervous. Laura had spoken of her parents infrequently. I did know that James Reskin was a born-again endocrinologist, the son of Jewish parents, and an avid hunter of upland game. Edith Reskin was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat who had fantasies about FDR and she was still a Jew; this was her final line in any argument with her husband: “At least I’m still a Jew.” We arrived late that evening and I was surprised to find that Laura and I would be sharing a room and a bed. Certainly, I knew that they knew we slept together, but still we were not married. And, after small conversation, of course Laura wanted to make love. I could only think of her mother and father in the room next door, but she would not relent. I made love to her with my hand cupped over her mouth and this only served to excite her more. She screamed into my hand and the bed banged against the wall. I imagined Dr. Reskin on his knees praying for us all.

  I awoke to the sound of movement in the room. I rolled over to see Dr. Reskin standing before the window and a day that had not yet begun, holding a broken-down shotgun. I reached for Laura, but she was not there. Reskin engaged the barrels with a clack and looked at me. “Good morning?” I said.

  “You ever hunt turkey?” asked Reskin.

  “No, sir.”

  “The turkey is a good, big bird. A wise and clever bird. You can hunt a band of turkeys for a week and never see one Meleagris gallapavo.” He glanced out the window. “Quite an animal.”

  “Yes, sir:’

  “Well, get up and get dressed and we’ll see if we can’t bag us one.”

  “Do I have time to shower?”

  He frowned. “No.”

  “What if we don’t get one?”

  “We’ve got a Butterball in the freezer. We’ll microwave that sucker and that’ll be it. Besides, wild turkeys are cunning and few and far between. Can’t count on them.”

  I sat up. “I don’t have the right clothes.”

  “You’ve got jeans.” He pointed to the floor by the bed. “There’s my new pair of shoe pacs. I’ve only worn them once. What size do you wear?”

  “Ten-and-a-half.”

  “Elevens. Well, up and at ’em. There’s a wool jacket for you downstairs.”

  He left and I sat up in bed. I pulled on my jeans and a shirt, laced up the boots and went down to the kitchen. Laura and her mother were sitting at the table, in their robes, drinking coffee. I joined them.

  Reskin came in from outside. “Gear’s all packed,” he said.

  “Don’t we need a dog?” I asked.

  “Nope. Turkey is still hunting.” He bent and kissed his wife’s forehead, then Laura’s. “We’re off.”

  The women waved from the driveway as we rolled away in the old International Scout. There was no traffic in Georgetown so early, which made the morning seem even colder. We crossed into Virginia, drove past Manassas, and parked at the edge of a large pasture, Reskin took the shotguns from the rack and draped a shell-sack over his shoulder, handed another to me. He looked out over the pasture and said, “A man named Killer owns this land.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nice enough fellow, but that’s some name. Jack Killer.’

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Here, put this on.” He handed me a bright orange skullcap and pulled one on himself. “Gotta know where the other is.”

  We walked out across, then beyond the pasture, uphill and along a ridge. The sun was up now and a bit of the chill was taken out of the air.

  “The turkey is some bird,” Reskin began again. “A noble creature. Benjamin Franklin wanted him as the national emblem.” He stopped, looked at the ground, then walked on. “You’ve got to hunt him as you would a deer or elk. Find some sign and wait him out. That’s all you can do.” He stopped and pointed to a place where some leaves had been scratched up. He took me a few yards away and got me down behind a tree. “Now, you just wait here, and when you see—pow! You let him have it.” He left and stepped down the ridge to find a stand of his own.

  I tried to get comfortable. I started with the gun aimed at the area where the bird had been feeding, then set the weapon down beside me. I wished I had brought something to read. I fell asleep.

  I sprang to my feet at the sound of a shot and grabbed my gun. I followed the direction Reskin had taken down the ridge and through a laurel patch. I found him leaning against a small oak. He was shaken.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I shot him,” he whispered.

  “A hunter? Killer?”

  “No, a turkey.”

  I didn’t understand. “Where is he?”

  He looked at me with the strangest expression and said, “I hid him over there.”

  I saw nothing. “Where?”

  “Over here.” He walked over and pulled up some brush. There was a dead tom.

  “Why’d you hide him?”

  “He’s so large. He’s just so damn big.”

  Edith balked at the prospect of plucking the bird, but a stern look from Reskin sent her stomping to the sink with the carcass, cursing him, saying, “The man is a lunatic, a New Testament-thumping lunatic.”

  This was the first time in twelve years of Thanksgiving Day hunts that the good doctor had returned with a kill. An actual wild turkey had never been expected. Reskin didn’t know quite what to make of it. He was a little nervous and of the mind that I had brought him considerable luck. He sat silently in his study awaiting dinner. Laura was thrilled with the bird. She cornered me upstairs in the bathroom as I stepped out of the shower. I grabbed her by her shoulders and looked her in the eye.

  “Not in this house,” I said.

  “I want it,” she said.

  “Not in this house.”

  Her eyes grew moist and she ran out and down the hallway to the bedroom. I finished drying and followed her. She was stretched face-down across the bed, crying.

  “I’m sorry, Laura, but I don’t like it. This is your parents’ house.”

  “Don’t you think they know we sleep together?”

  “That’s beside the point. Don’t you want me to be comfortable?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Okay then.”

  She was silent while I dressed. The tears went away and she sat up. “Do you ever think of marriage?” she asked.

  I looked up from buttoning my shirt. “I guess.”

  “What about us?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you think we’ll be together for a long time?”

  “That’s hard to say, Laura. Ours is a young relationship. We’ve got a lot of growing to do.” I liked that response.

  “Promise me something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Promise me I’ll die first.”

  I tucked in my shirttail. “What are you saying?”

  “I want you to promise that I will die before you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think I could stand to be left alone.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this. Let’s go down to dinner.”

  Reskin cleared his throat to announce that he was about to recite grace. He fitted a fist into a palm, set his elbows on either side of his plate, and closed his eyes. He paused to let his silence spread across the table. “Dear Lord,” he said, his voice a bit deeper. “First of all, let me ask You a question: Why such a big bird? This is a large tom and I’m not sure I’m worthy of him. But I thank You. We thank You. And thank You for allowing us once again t
o sit at this table as a family. Please watch over us, protect, though we may screw our brains out in the room next to our parents.” Laura sighed loudly, but he didn’t miss a beat. “And watch over our guest. He is a good man. One might hope better for him than my daughter, but You do work in mysterious ways.”

  “James,” Edith complained.

  “So, Lord, let us finally say thank You for the lovely meal before us. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  Though upset by her father, Laura did not cry. Instead, she loaded up on mashed potatoes and refused turkey.

  The turkey was a little greasy, as game meat is likely to be, and strong of flavor. I couldn’t recall a tastier bird.

  “Very tangy,” said Edith.

  Reskin sat back in his chair and looked at her. “If you don’t like it, just leave it on your plate.”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I said it was tangy.”

  “Of course, it’s tangy.” Reskin stuck a forkload of meat into his mouth. “Game birds have more flavor than your everyday, force-fed, overweight, crippled, domestic clones.”

  He looked to me. “How do you like it?”

  “It’s very good.”

  “See,” he said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Laura muttered.

  Reskin slammed his fork down on the table.

  “Lighten up,” said Edith.

  He looked at me, again. “Do you hear them? On the one hand, my daughter. A painter with no visible inroads to the land of talent, an irresponsible sperm bank who excused an act of murder with the words, ‘It’s my body.’”

  “James!” said Edith. “That’s enough!”

  Laura was crying. She took more potatoes.

  “And my wife,” Reskin went on. “A political groupie who has intimate fantasies about invalid presidents past.”

  Laura got up and ran from the table. Edith collected breath, grew larger, stood, said, “At least I’m still a Jew?’ With that, she too was gone.

  It was just me and Reskin. We ate on in silence turned the bird over and split the oysters. I studied this man. I didn’t understand him. He was spiritual and sensitive, yet as hard, mean, and vicious as anyone I had ever met. I didn’t understand his anger. I reserved judgment, being a newcomer to a scene with a long and complex history.