by Will Weaver
Keeping his eyes closed, he repeats them in order—until he hits a complicated intersection. He can see it but can’t make the correct turn. He tries again, then again, but his tongue can’t say the words.
“Damn!” he says, and slumps backward in his chair.
“That’s really quite good, Miles!” the doctor says. “You got halfway through level twelve—the most difficult chart.”
“No, not good!” Miles says. He looks to his family. Sarah is white-faced and scared, his father grim; his mother tries not to cry.
“I assure you it is,” the doctor says. “Most people can’t make it through level six—half of what you can remember.”
“I don’t think you understand,” Nat says, then begins to sniffle big-time. “Miles is not ‘most people.’”
“Just tell me,” Miles says to the doctor. “Do I have all my marbles?”
“Marbles, yes,” she says with a trace of a smile. “But concussions are all different. Yours might take some time to heal, but gradually your headaches should go away.”
“That’s it?” Nat asks.
His family all look at one another.
“Sometimes I wish I was a surgeon,” the doctor says to them with an apologetic smile. “You come to me with a broken ankle, I put pins in it, and you’re fixed. But head injuries are not like that.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Nat asks.
“As you know, I’m not a regular doctor here. Once a month I visit several hospitals in the area. My home base is in Minneapolis, and it would be really good if Miles were closer to a bigger medical center. I’d like to do more tests.”
Miles’s parents look at each other.
“But that’s up to you,” she says. “These are difficult times right now, for all of us.”
After the doctor’s appointment they borrow the O’Keefe van and head downtown with Ray, who is getting off his shift. The van and its Blue Star sticker make them feel totally local and legal. They have lunch at the World Harvest Café on Beltrami Avenue, which Ray recommends. It’s run by young hippies, including a big girl cook who wears a red bandana and a very tight T-shirt with no bra.
“No meat or fresh greens,” the counter guy says with a smile. He has an eyebrow stud and a ponytail.
“What’s the special?” Art asks.
“Three bean soup. And some great bread,” the guy says.
They order, then take their time eating bean soup with a side of cheese and warm wheat bread. As usual, Ray and Sarah are giggling and trying not to paw each other.
Maybe it’s the soup, but Miles’s headache suddenly lifts. He’s not even annoyed by Ray and Sarah, who think he doesn’t know that they’re holding hands under the table.
After lunch they head over to the library so Nat can do her work thing.
“What about your school packets?” Art asks Miles. “I’ll walk over to the AEC with you.”
There’s a pause.
“Or not,” his father says.
Miles swallows. “I can’t really … read that well right now.”
“Brain injury—another lame excuse for not going to school,” Sarah says.
Miles manages a half smile.
“Sarah—that’s not funny!” Nat says.
“Sorry, bro. I guess it wasn’t,” Sarah mumbles.
“It was funny,” Miles says. “Sort of.”
Artie turns to Sarah. “You, on the other hand, have no excuse.”
“I know, I know! I’m headed to the AEC right now.”
“I’ll go with her,” Ray says.
“Don’t help her with her packets,” Miles calls to Ray.
Later, after work, Herb gives them all a ride back to the snowmobile.
“How’d it go with Dr. Chadron?” he asks first thing.
There is silence.
“Dr. Chadron is very sweet—,” Nat begins.
“She says that Miles needs more tests. Ones that he can’t get here,” Artie interrupts. There’s something in his voice that makes everyone pay attention.
Nobody says anything, and the tone in the van is different after that.
When they arrive at the drop-off point, Herb says, “I’ll wait to make sure your snowmobile starts.”
“It’ll start,” Miles says. He leads the way through the snow.
“Wait, I’ll do it,” Sarah says, and cranks over the engine. The electric start is sluggish from several hours in the cold, but the motor catches and puffs a cloud of blue smoke.
They say good-bye to Ray and his father.
“Date’s over,” Miles says to Sarah.
“Shut up,” she says as she takes the driver’s position; Miles climbs on behind, with Nat and Artie in the sled. They don’t seem to mind.
“I’m tired,” he says, and leans against her back.
“We’re almost home, bro,” she says.
Halfway back to the cabin, she sits up straighter on the seat. “Did you feed Brush this morning?” she calls back to her mother.
“No, I thought you did,” she answers.
“You should stop feeding him at all,” Miles says.
As they arrive at the hilltop above the cabin, Sarah screams; Miles lurches upright behind her to see what’s going on.
Below, in the yard, Brush is crouched over Emily. Who is dead. Dead and partially eaten. The dog has broken into Emily’s pen, killed her, and dragged her out; and now he is eating her.
Sarah lets out a howl and accelerates down the hill. They scramble off the snowmobile and out of the sled, shouting at the dog, who does not let go of Emily’s carcass. They scream and throw sticks, snow—anything—at him; but he growls and drags Emily backward. Toward the woods.
“Get a gun!” Miles calls.
“I will,” Sarah answers.
She hurries back from the cabin with her .410, fits a slug into the chamber, and jacks the bolt shut. As she steps forward, the dog growls at her. Keeps tugging at Emily. His yellow eyes are fixed on Sarah, who raises the gun. Nat—but not Artie—turns away.
Toom! Sarah jerks backward from the recoil, and Brush yelps and tumbles in a churning brown heap on the snow. She fits another shell into the chamber and shoots him again in the head—finishes him off. He goes limp. The light goes out of his old yellow eyes. Sarah hands the gun to Miles and disappears into the cabin.
That night the cabin is very warm, and there is supper on the table. Nat goes to the bedroom door and taps lightly. “Dinner?” she calls to Sarah.
Sarah eventually appears, red-eyed and with a blotchy face and bed hair.
It’s quiet around the dinner table.
“Hey,” Miles says to Sarah.
She only stares at her food.
“Could be the brain damage talking,” Miles says, “but you’re an amazing sister.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SARAH
IN THE MORNING THEY ARE having breakfast: oatmeal and coffee.
“What did you do with Emily?” Sarah finally says, glancing through the small window toward the yard.
“I put her in the sawmill shack, where nothing would bother her,” Miles says.
“I want to bury her,” she says.
Miles looks pained. “Ah, the ground is frozen.”
Sarah eats another spoonful of oatmeal, then wipes her eyes. “Okay. I’ll take her far out into the woods and make a place for her.”
Miles glances at the milk jar. There is only a little bit of milk left.
“You can have it,” she says.
“No, you should have it,” Miles says. He slides the jar her way.
“I can’t,” she says, and pushes it back.
Outside, with his breath steaming in the sharp, bright air, Miles has loaded Emily into the tow sled. He has turned Emily so that her good side is up. So that the half-eaten side is not visible.
“She’s frozen stiff,” Miles says.
They look at her. “At least her eyes are closed,” Sarah replies.
“You sure you
don’t want me to come along?” Miles asks.
“No. I’ll be fine.”
“Take your gun,” he says. “You never know.”
With the tow sled behind and the .410 alongside Emily, she idles down the trail away from the cabin and through the woods. A funeral procession. There’s no hurry. It’s a matter of respect.
She drives a half mile deeper into the forest, and where the trail becomes impassable with brush, she stops and kills the engine. Pulling the sled by hand, she goes deeper still into the woods and upward, on a side hill covered with red oak trees. These trees still have their leaves, something she never thought about before; the reddish tan leaves are dead, but they hang on. Each one looks like a little hand with stubby fingers.
She unloads Emily, who is not heavy, and covers her with snow. Then more snow, a tall mound of it. After that she arranges sticks and dead branches like a tepee. More and more sticks until there’s a perfect cone with Emily inside. When the snow melts, the branches will slowly come down to cover her.
When Sarah’s done making the big pile, she’s warm and sweaty. Then, cradling her gun, she sits down, leans back against the mesh of branches, and has a cry. No blubbering, just some silent chest heaving and a few tears. She sits there a long time, thinking about things. If she leaves now, the Emily part of her life is over, so she just sits there and stares across the woods....
A wink of light among the oaks makes her blink. She leans forward and squints. A patch of brown, then another—and a brief pale glint near the ground. Antlers. A huge deer with antlers low to the ground is easing silently among the oaks! He sniffs, paws beneath a tree, then lifts his head suddenly to look and listen behind—and afterward resumes his slow forward motion.
She tightens her grip on the .410. The snowmobile is behind Emily’s funeral mound, and Sarah is hunkered low against the tangled branches. Careful not to make a sound, she shrinks even lower. If he keeps coming, the buck will pass below her on the side hill about the length of a tennis court away. Whatever that is (she should know that distance—so many things back then that she never thought about!).
The buck’s body is tan and long, and thickens through the chest and neck. His antlers look fake—too tall and too perfect—like a stick-built headdress. Like a rocking chair screwed atop his head. Her heartbeat begins to slap inside her ears. When the buck dips his head again, she raises her gun and rests it over a knee. Puts her right cheek tight to the cold wooden stock. The buck lifts his shiny, spiky headdress and moves forward. He walks without sound—does not keep his head down for more than a few seconds. He keeps looking behind him.
And then he reaches the open spot below her; she takes a close aim, her right eye as low over the barrel as she can hold it … sights on his thick neck … and squeezes the trigger.
Nothing!
Squeezes harder—still nothing. She draws a breath, then eases up her thumb to nudge the safety button.
The buck freezes; his white tail goes up and begins to flicker. He looks directly at her.
Boom!
The buck flinches—then bounds away at full speed.
“Oh, my God!” she breathes. It’s like a real prayer—or an antiprayer. It’s not like she thought she could hit him—or kill him—but at least she tried. It’s something to tell Miles, and maybe, someday, her friends, whoever they will be. Not that anyone will believe that she shot at a giant buck.
She stands up in order to take some slow breaths—it’s crazy how fast her heart is beating. Below her the hillside is empty but for snow and red oaks. Setting the gun against the funeral mound, she walks down to the deer trail. She just wants to see his tracks. To make sure she didn’t dream the big buck.
The leaves are scuffed where he has pawed—and then his tracks disappear as if he has flown away. Which he has, sort of: His next scuff marks in the snow are several yards from the trail—like a world record long jump across the snow—and then again and again, this running track disappearing into the forest. About to turn away, her gaze falls to a red berry in the snow. It’s a cranberry, like the ones Miles picked earlier this fall; she looks around, but there are no cranberry bushes, which grow beside water anyway. On the snow are two more specks. Then another. Blood!
“Oh no!” she says.
The little blood spots are like crumbs. Red bread crumbs. She hurries forward to the next, and the next. The trail becomes easier to follow. Dots turn to blotches, then a fine spray every few feet. Head down, she hurries along through the forest, which is now brushier. In places the blood trail is like a spilled cherry snow cone.
She hears a short scream—her own voice—and she jumps backward. The big buck is lying down just ahead in the brush. She crouches low—as if to what? The buck does not move. She watches it for a really long minute, then creeps forward.
The buck lies long and brown on the snow, outstretched, antlers curving up.
Motionless.
She finds a long stick and, holding it with both hands, touches the deer on his leg. Nothing. Holding the stick at the ready, she leans forward to look at the buck’s face. Its skyward-looking eye is open and unblinking. She carefully reaches out with a bare hand and touches his heavy antler, which is cold and thick in her hand. Then she sits in the snow beside the big, silent animal and covers her face.
On the snowmobile she heads back to the cabin, at first slowly, then with increasing speed. She flies down the hill like Miles would have—skids to a stop by the porch.
“What’s wrong?!” her mother asks with alarm as Sarah bursts into the cabin.
“I got one!”
“Got what?” Artie asks.
“A deer!” she calls.
Miles appears from the bedroom; he looks half asleep. “Say again?”
“Get your coats,” she says to her family. “We have a deer to bring home.”
“No way!” Miles says groggily. He squints against the light from the doorway.
“It’s true,” Sarah says. “A buck.” She checks her gun to make sure it’s unloaded, then leans the .410 in the corner. Its work is done for today.
“Did you dress it out?” Miles asks.
Sarah freezes. “You mean, like, take the guts out?”
Miles nods—then winces and puts both hands to his temples.
“No! I didn’t even think about that,” she answers.
They are all silent. Miles makes no move to put on his winter coat.
“I’ll do it,” Art says.
They look at him in surprise.
“No. I can. Just give me a minute,” Miles mumbles.
“You stay here,” Art says. “That’s an order.”
Miles blinks in surprise.
“Yes. Listen to your father,” Nat adds as she bundles up.
“We can do this,” Sarah says; she crosses the wooden floor and gently pushes Miles back toward his sleeping bag. He doesn’t resist.
Outside, she fires up the snowmobile. “Hurry—hop on,” she calls. Her mother quickly claims the jump seat, while Art takes the sled. “You won’t believe how big the deer is! Miles is going to be amazed.”
“How do we gut a deer?” her mother asks.
“I kinda know,” Sarah says. “Miles told me all about it the first time he did it.”
“I’m sure he did,” Nat says.
Sarah accelerates forward to make the hill and then follows her own track deep into the woods toward the dead buck.
Which is being gutted by two hunters; one is holding open its rear legs while the other crouches down and works with a knife. They wear winter-white camo jackets and have rifles slung over their backs—it’s the same two guys she saw during the actual deer season.
“Stop! Get away!” Sarah shouts, and speeds forward.
“What?” her father calls from the bouncing sled behind.
She brakes at the kill site and hops off. “That’s my deer!” she shouts. “What are you doing?”
The men stand up. Both have dark beards. The one doing the gut
ting has bloody, bare forearms and is holding a large knife in his right hand. Its blade glistens red.
“Your deer? We’ve been tracking this guy for days,” the nearer one says.
“So what? I shot it,” Sarah says. By now Art is standing beside her, with her mother on the other side.
“Shot it? With what?” the man with the knife says. “I don’t see no gun.”
“Me neither,” the second man says. “Besides, y’all don’t look much like hunters.”
“I shot it with my .410,” Sarah says.
Both men laugh at this. “A .410? This buck? Yeah, right, honey!”
“Listen, you—,” Nat begins.
Art puts a hand on her shoulder and steps forward. “I’ll take care of this.”
“He’ll take care of this,” the taller hunter mimics.
“What she says is true,” Art says. “She has a .410, this is her first deer, and you’re stealing it from her.”
The men are silent.
“Stealing from a girl,” Art says.
“Kind of a cute one, too,” the one with the knife says.
“That’s for sure,” the other hunter says. He swivels his rifle around so that its stock rests on his boots.
“Her mom ain’t no dog either,” the closer hunter says.
They both laugh hoarsely.
“Takes a real man to threaten a woman,” Artie says, and steps forward.
“Dad—just let it go,” Sarah breathes.
“That’s a good plan,” the hunter with the knife says. He points it at Artie. “Little man, why don’t you just get back on your sled and leave.”
Art sucks in a long, slow breath—tenses his body.
Suddenly the dark eye of the rifle muzzle is trained on him. “Maybe you didn’t hear me,” the gunman says. “We don’t want to have some kind of shooting accident.”
“Yeah,” the knife man says. “Out in the woods they happen all the time.”
“Come on, Dad,” Sarah murmurs urgently. “Let it go.”