Bumper Crop

by Joe R. Lansdale

  He had a lot more clippings. He had his mother's picture in the scrapbook. The photo used to have me in it too, but he had cut me out.

  Guilt or not. Grown man or not. I had to know where he went on those walks.

  I put on my raincoat and pulled up the hood and went in the direction he took. I am getting old, but I am not getting slow or weak. In fact, I am probably in better condition than my boy. I do exercises. I can still walk fast and I can still walk quietly. My old man's legacy, walking quietly.

  After a short time I saw him way ahead of me, walking over toward The District, where the poorer people live. It is a very bad place.

  It was very dark because of the rain and it was getting darker because it was closer to nightfall.

  He went into a bar and I crossed the street and stood under an old hotel awning and looked across the street at the bar and watched him through the glass. He ordered a drink and sat and took his time with it. I started to feel cold.

  I waited, though, and after a bit he had yet another drink, then another.

  Now I know where the money I give him goes.

  I was about to give up waiting when out he came and started up the street, not wobbling or anything. He can hold his liquor, I guess, though where he got a taste for drink I'll never know. I do not allow it around the house.

  I followed him and he walked deeper into the bad part of town, where the Choker murders take place.

  It grew dark and the sun went down and the neon came out and so did the hookers. They called to me from the protection of doorways, but I ignored them.

  I thought of my son. They had to be calling to him too, and up ahead I saw him stop and go to a doorway, and though I could not see the girl, I knew she was there and that he was talking to her.

  I felt very nervous suddenly. It hurt to know that my son was frequenting the bad parts of town, the way his mother had. Perhaps he knew about her. Perhaps he was trying to understand what she saw in places like this. And perhaps he was very much like her. God forbid.

  I stopped and leaned against a building and waited, pulled the hood tight around my face to keep out the rain.

  Then I saw my son go into the doorway and out of sight.

  So now I knew where he went when he took his walks. He liked this part of town like his mother liked this part of town. Maybe, if he had a job, less to worry about, he would not need it anymore. I hoped that was it. Whores and whiskey were a sad way for a man to live.

  A girl called to me from across the way. Something about "old man do you want to feel younger." It bothered me she could tell I was old from that far away. I had a raincoat and hood on, for Christ sake.

  Guess it is the way I hold myself, even though I try to keep my back straight and try to walk like a younger man.

  But I guess there is no hiding it. Even though I am strong and healthy, I have always looked old, even when I was young. My wife used to say I was born fifty years old. She used to tell me in bed that I acted eighty.

  I do not miss her at all. If she were alive, I wonder what she would think if she knew her son was seeing whores. Would she feel proud he liked this part of town the way she had? Or would she feel ashamed?

  No, I doubt she would feel ashamed. She loved the boy, but she was a bad influence. When I thought of her I always thought of her coming home with whiskey on her breath, her skin smelling of some man's cologne.

  I crossed the street and the girl smiled at me and talked about what she could do for me. She reminded me of my wife standing there. They all do.

  I smiled at her. I thought of my son and what he was doing and I felt so sad. I thought of his mother again, and how she had been, and I was glad I had done what I did. A woman like her did not deserve to live. Just a little push at a dark intersection at the right moment and it was all over. It was not as good as getting my hands on her throat, which is what I would have liked to do, but it was easier to explain. More efficient. The police believed it was an accident.

  And now, when I am with the others, I pretend each of them is her and that it is her throat I am squeezing.

  But my boy, does he know what I do? Is that why he collects my press? Maybe he takes his walks not only for the whiskey and the whores, but because he suspects me and does not want to be around me, thinks what I do is wrong.

  I hope that is not it.

  God, I hope he does not get a disease from that slut. Can he not find a nice girl?

  I smiled at the whore again, got under the doorway with her, peeked out and looked both ways.

  No one was coming.

  I grabbed her and it only took a moment before I let her fall. I am old, but I am strong.

  God, I hope my son does not get a disease.

  As I went away, walking my quick but quiet walk, I told myself I would talk to him when he came in. Try to decide what he knows without giving myself away. Maybe he does not know it is me. He might collect the articles because he likes what he reads. Sympathizes with the Choker.

  If so, if he would talk to me and try to understand, I think we could have the relationship I have always wanted. One like we had when he was little and we talked about the weird things that interested him, anything and everything under the sun.

  I certainly hope it can be that way.

  I do not want to have to choke him too.

  Author's Note on Last of the Hopeful

  Another old one that's hung around in my files forever. This one was written under the influence of what I call Bradbury's middle period. This was when he had consciously moved away from horror and more and more into fantasy. I'm not as fond of that period, but I do like it.

  This was my attempt to write a Bradburyesque type of fantasy story.

  It ain't bad. Kind of charming, actually.

  Last of the Hopeful

  Nigh up, on the edge of the cliff, green wings strained, gathered the wind and held it. But the breeze-bloated device did not lift the girl who wore it aloft. Two men, one old, one young, stood on either side of her, held her, served as an anchor for her lithe, brown body. They were her father and brother.

  "Will I fly like a bird, father?" the young girl asked. Her voice was weak with fear. The wind seemed to clutch the words from her mouth and toss them out over the glistening green land of Oahu.

  "No," her father said, "you will not fly like a bird and you must not try. Do not flap the wings. Let the wind rule and take you where it wants you to go. Glide. Do you understand?"

  "Yes father," she said, "I understand."

  "Good. Now tell me one more time what you know."

  "I know all the songs of our people. I know all the hulas. I know where we lived and how it was when we lived our own way and were not controlled by others. I know all of this. I know of all the things before the coming of Kamehameha."

  "You are the last of us, daughter. You are the last of our hope. I have long expected this day, dreamed once that we would be driven here and forced over the side, down to death on the rocks. But in the dream we did not scream, and we will not scream this day."

  "And the bird, father," the young boy said.

  "Yes, and there was a great bird in the sky, green and brown, and I came to understand what it meant. This day could not be avoided but there was still hope for our people. That is why I built the wings and taught you all these things, some are things that women have never been taught before."

  "But maybe," the young girl said, "it was only a bird in your dream—a real bird."

  The old man shook his head. "No."

  "Perhaps it was my brother?"

  "No. You are the lightest, you are our hope. If the wings bear anyone, it is you, the daughter of the king."

  "Maybe we will win this day and there will be no need."

  The old man smiled grimly. "Then you will not fly and things will be as they were, but I do not expect that. The time of our people has come to an end, but you will carry our thoughts, our dreams, our hopes with you."

  The young girl's long, bla
ck hair whipped in the wind. "Oh father, let me die with you. I do not want to be the only one left, the only one of us still alive."

  "While you live," her brother said softly, "while you hold all the old songs and stories to your heart, we all live and we will never die. Somehow, some way, you must pass these things on."

  "But there are none left to pass them to," the young girl said.

  "The war will end this day," her father said. "You must make a boat in the manner I have taught you, sail to one of the other islands and wait until the hate and fear have died. Then return. You will find a young man among them, one too young to know their hate, and he will give you children and you will teach them the ways of our people. Not so that these things will rule again, for that time is passed, but so that the memory of us will not die."

  "Hold me," she said.

  Brother and father pulled closer.

  Down below, moving up toward the cliff, came the sound of battle, the cries of men, the smashing of clubs against clubs and clubs against flesh.

  "These wings," the old man said, "they will make you a goddess in the sun. You will soar over the valley and turn with the wind toward the sea, and down there, far from them, you can hide."

  "Yes father." The wind strained at the wings, tried to lift the girl up.

  "Lift the wings," her father said.

  She did as he asked.

  The sound of yelling warriors was very close.

  From where they stood, the trio could see a fine line of brown warriors falling back, being forced toward the edge of the cliff.

  "Soon," the old man said, "we go over the cliff with the others."

  "But not before we fight," said the boy. He looked into the face of his sister. "You are the last of the hopeful. Carry our hope far and wide."

  Tears were in her eyes. "I will."

  The warriors were very close now. You could smell the sweat of battle, feel the heat of hate and anger.

  "Ride the wind," the old man said.

  She turned to look out over the beautiful green valley. She spread the wings. The wind billowed them.

  "You must go now," her brother said.

  "Our hopes go with you," her father said.

  And they released her into the wind.

  It was a powerful wind. It caught the great green wings and pulled her up and out over the valley. For a moment her father and brother watched, then, picking up their war clubs, they turned to join the last of the battle.

  A moment later, along with the rest of the warriors, the old man, who was known to his people as King Kalanikupule, went over the cliff and down into the green valley without a scream.

  And moving out over the valley, slave to the wind, went his daughter.

  Kamehameha, the sweat and blood of war coating his body, watched her soar.

  Clubs were tossed at her, but all fell short.

  The wind whipped her up high again, and then seemed to let go.

  She plummeted like a stone.

  But only for a moment, an updraft caught her, took her up again, and even as the victorious forces of Kamehameha stood on the cliff's edge and watched in awe, the slim brown girl glided down and over the tree tops, around their edge toward the shore line, shining in the sun like a great, green and brown bird before coasting behind tall trees and out of sight.

  On the wind, for a brief instant, there floated the sound of her sweet, hopeful laughter.

  Author's Note on Duck Hunt

  This story came to me because I often meet male hunters who somehow think hunting defines them as a man.

  I grew up on hunting. I've hunted. My father once told me if you get so you like to do it just to do it, and not for the satisfaction of food, maybe you shouldn't do it. He also told me, and I think rightfully, it is not a sport.

  The idea of shooting something to put an animal's head on the wall, or even a fish's body, struck him as stupid and wasteful.

  Me too.

  Anyway, I probably came across one of these hunters, heard their line about how it made them one with the universe or something, and I thought, no, I don't think so.

  I bet it was something like that.

  Anyway, at some point, that kind of thinking inspired this.

  Duck Hunt

  There were three hunters and three dogs.

  The hunters had shiny shotguns, warm clothes, and plenty of ammo. The dogs were each covered in big, blue spots and were sleek and glossy and ready to run. No duck was safe.

  The hunters were Clyde Barrow, James Clover, and little Freddie Clover, who was only fifteen and very excited to be asked along. However, Freddie did not really want to see a duck, let alone shoot one. He had never killed anything but a sparrow with his BB gun and that had made him sick. But he was nine then. Now he was ready to be a man. His father told him so.

  With this hunt he felt he had become part of a secret organization. One that smelled of tobacco smoke and whiskey breath; sounded of swear words, talk about how good certain women were, the range and velocity of rifles and shotguns, the edges of hunting knives, the best caps and earflaps for winter hunting.

  In Mud Creek the hunt made the man.

  Since Freddie was nine he had watched with more than casual interest, how when a boy turned fifteen in Mud Creek, he would be invited to The Hunting Club for a talk with the men. Next step was a hunt, and when the boy returned he was a boy no longer. He talked deep, walked sure, had whiskers bristling on his chin, and could take up with the assurance of not being laughed at, cussing, smoking, and watching women's butts as a matter of course.

  Freddie wanted to be a man too. He had pimples, no pubic hair to speak of (he always showered quickly at school to escape derisive remarks about the size of his equipment and the thickness of his foliage), scrawny legs, and little, gray, watery eyes that looked like ugly planets spinning in white space.

  And truth was, Freddie preferred a book to a gun.

  But came the day when Freddie turned fifteen and his father came home from the Club, smoke and whiskey smell clinging to him like a hungry tick, his face slightly dark with beard and tired-looking from all-night poker.

  He came into Freddie's room, marched over to the bed where Freddie was reading THOR, clutched the comic from his son's hands, sent it fluttering across the room with a rainbow of comic panels.

  "Nose out of a book," his father said. "Time to join the Club." Freddie went to the Club, heard the men talk ducks, guns, the way the smoke and blood smelled on cool morning breezes. They told him the kill was the measure of a man. They showed him heads on the wall. They told him to go home with his father and come back tomorrow bright and early, ready for his first hunt.

  His father took Freddie downtown and bought him a flannel shirt (black and red), a thick jacket (fleece lined), a cap (with earflaps), and boots (waterproof). He took Freddie home and took a shotgun down from the rack, gave him a box of ammo, walked him out back to the firing range, and made him practice while he told his son about hunts and the war and about how men and ducks died much the same.

  Next morning before the sun was up, Freddie and his father had breakfast. Freddie's mother did not eat with them. Freddie did not ask why. They met Clyde over at the Club and rode in his jeep down dirt roads, clay roads and trails, through brush and briars until they came to a mass of reeds and cattails that grew thick and tall as Japanese bamboo.

  They got out and walked. As they walked, pushing aside the reeds and cattails, the ground beneath their feet turned marshy. The dogs ran ahead.

  When the sun was two hours up, they came to a bit of a clearing in the reeds, and beyond them Freddie could see the break-your-heart blue of a shiny lake. Above the lake, coasting down, he saw a duck. He watched it sail out of sight.

  "Well, boy?" Freddie's father said.

  "It's beautiful," Freddie said.

  "Beautiful, hell, are you ready?"

  "Yes, sir."

  On they walked, the dogs way ahead now, and finally they stood within ten feet of
the lake. Freddie was about to squat down into hiding as he had heard of others doing, when a flock of ducks burst up from a mass of reeds in the lake and Freddie, fighting off the sinking feeling in his stomach, tracked them with the barrel of the shotgun, knowing what he must do to be a man.

  His father's hand clamped over the barrel and pushed it down. "Not yet," he said.

  "Huh?" said Freddie.

  "It's not the ducks that do it," Clyde said.

  Freddie watched as Clyde and his father turned their heads to the right, to where the dogs were pointing noses, forward, paws upraised—to a thatch of underbrush. Clyde and his father made quick commands to the dogs to stay, then they led Freddie into the brush, through a twisting maze of briars and out into a clearing where all the members of The Hunting Club were waiting.

  In the center of the clearing was a gigantic duck decoy. It looked ancient and there were symbols carved all over it. Freddie could not tell if it were made of clay, iron, or wood. The back of it was scooped out, gravy bowl-like, and there was a pole in the center of the indention; tied to the pole was a skinny man. His head had been caked over with red mud and there were duck feathers sticking in it, making it look like some kind of funny cap. There was a ridiculous, wooden duck bill held to his head by thick elastic straps. Stuck to his butt was a duster of duck feathers. There was a sign around his neck that read DUCK.

  The man's eyes were wide with fright and he was trying to say or scream something, but the bill had been fastened in such a way he couldn't make any more than a mumble.

  Freddie felt his father's hand on his shoulder. "Do it," he said. "He ain't nobody to anybody we know. Be a man."

  "Do it! Do it! Do it!" came the cry from The Hunting Club.

  Freddie felt the cold air turn into a hard ball in his throat. His scrawny legs shook. He looked at his father and The Hunting Club. They all looked tough, hard, and masculine.

  "Want to be a titty baby all your life?" his father said.