The Testament of Harold's Wife

by Lynne Hugo

  “Sure, honey, that’s fine.” Her voice trying to mask that she meant fantastic!

  After that, his mother left for Bardsville all cheerful, kissing them both and saying, “You men have a great time. Take care of each other. Don’t forget you have to heat up that tuna casserole. I’ll have dinner with Mom but I’ll be back by eight thirty or so.”

  “Get outta here,” Larry said, and slapped her ass, which gave Brandon the creeps. Then he had a sudden bad feeling that his mother wanted to marry Larry, thought there’d be some kind of trickle-down fairy dust that would make a mean, loud, pinch-faced dude with a rat-tail into a dad. Not gonna happen, Brandon thought. This guy hit his mother, Brandon was pretty sure. His mother confused him. Sometimes he felt like they were in one of the novels Mrs. Powell kept recommending last year, all the times she’d said, “Brandon, please think about a four-year college, get the degree. You can do it.”

  She’d recommended him for Honors English this year. But the characters in the novels were easier to understand than his mother. He thought about what novel Larry would fit in, and couldn’t come up with one. Mrs. Powell said that characters had to have good and bad qualities to be real human beings in a novel because that was like life. She hadn’t met Larry, though. He wanted to argue that maybe some people don’t have much good in them. Or it’s been so long since they’ve exercised it, that the good dried up and blew away long ago, like, say, dandelion fluff, and all that’s left is dead. And a dandelion was a weed to begin with. That was Brandon’s hypothesis, not that he saw a way to prove it like in geometry class. He hadn’t said any of this to Mrs. Powell at the time. He hadn’t been sure she’d like it if he hadn’t thought it through well enough. His biology teacher would probably ask both Brandon and his mother if they’d gathered all possible relevant data. Okay, maybe he needed to work on that. But damn, was his mother even trying?

  * * *

  “What’s that you’ve got on? Shorts? Jesus, kid, we’re not goin’ to the damn beach. Man, don’t you have any boots? You can’t hunt in sneakers.” Larry snorted disdain.

  “Thought you said we were just finding ’em.”

  “Well, not exactly finding them, but sort of. Never heard of scouting, huh? But, kid, you don’t go out like that. Lookit you, lookit me.” Larry displayed his camouflage with a sweeping hand, then pointed to his hunting boots.

  For the first time Brandon heard himself go back at Larry hard, pissed off. “Sure, I got camouflage. I just told Mom to pick it up for me and she was so happy to do that. She asked your buddy there to help her get the right kind, being as how he’s the expert.” He pointed to one of the trophy bucks, the one mounted above the brown sofa. There was a picture of Larry, all proud, overweening Mrs. Powell would call it, posed over the body with his gun, right across the room.

  “Okay, back up, whoa. Didn’t think of that. You gotta at least wear jeans. Lotta brambles, y’know.”

  “Too hot . . .” Mumbled, backing down because for once Larry had.

  “I know what I’m talkin’ about. At least go with jeans. Sleeves. Got any high-tops?”

  “Old ones.”

  “Wear ’em. Ankle support. We’re gonna check some new areas today. And here,” he said, tossing him a can, “spray yourself down with this, too. It’s so you don’t leave a scent.”

  * * *

  That day they’d hung three trail cameras, one of them new, out in an unhunted area Larry said no one knew about. The road had looked familiar to Brandon, but the roads around here all looked the same, always like déjà vu, pages of cornfields punctuated by silos and old houses. Mrs. Elzey, the Honors teacher, would like that he thought of that; maybe he could use it when she gave the next descriptive writing assignment.

  He asked Larry where they were and Larry said some nutso old widow’s woods, don’t worry about it. Brandon hadn’t been out in woods before, not really. Before they moved in with Larry, they’d lived in Elmont, and a while before that in Indy, buildings all around like crooked teeth. Out here, nothing but different trees and tangled underbrush that finally backed up to a wide creek, nearly a river. Across that, more of the same.

  Larry was all happy when he said, Yep, nobody’s been back here, he was sure of it, but Brandon didn’t know how he knew. Larry had Brandon wear a pack that was pretty heavy because supposedly he had a bad back and his job was spotting deer trails, day beds, and scat, which was another word for deer shit. Wouldn’t be many fresh rubs on trees now, he said, but he found a couple old ones. Brandon got interested when they scared up a doe with twins. “You gotta think of ’em as prey,” Larry said. “You’re the hunter, they’re the prey.”

  “Why do you wanna kill ’em? Live and let live.” He didn’t really say it as a question.

  “Not the idea,” Larry said. “Not the idea at all. See, it’s what we call a primal instinct. Say there was a wild boar—or a bear. It’s hunt or be hunted. It’s how the world works.”

  “I dunno.” Brandon busied himself re-tying his battered high-top, which hadn’t come undone.

  The other thing Brandon got interested in was the trail cameras. “Cool,” he said. “Low tech and high tech at once. Can I see?”

  “Sorta like Nintendo, huh?”

  “Lar, for the last time, it’s an Xbox.”

  “Whatever. Same difference.”

  Brandon checked the playback on Larry’s newest camera, a Moultrie Trace, making sure it was set right when Larry had trouble figuring it out and hadn’t brought the manual.

  The kid glanced up at him. “And not like Xbox. You just gotta set this here, and then this one here for the date and time stamp, see? The batteries go here. Cool. It gives a panoramic view. You want video or still?”

  “Not like my other ones. Do video. So, anyway,” Larry couldn’t resist a dig, “better than sittin’ on Grandma’s little patio sippin’ tea and listenin’ to the ladies’ fascinating discussion of fashion, shoes, and recipes, after all. Huh.”

  “Batteries won’t last as long. Just so you know.” After that, Brandon—overheated in jeans and long sleeves—set and hung the other cameras, following Larry through the woods as he second-guessed the habits of deer, looking for their secret places, where they felt safe. The guy was right about one thing, even though he was insane. The underbrush was wicked; he’d have been a mess in shorts and a T-shirt.

  After the last camera was secured in the bifurcating tree trunk where Larry had followed what he said was a deer trail to the creek, Larry had them move away from the spot and told him to take the pack off again. He rooted around in it and brought a six-pack up from the bottom. He’d wrapped it in some kind of insulation with an ice pack.

  “Smart, huh? That’s the thing I had to ice it when my knee was messed up. See, if ya gotta stay awake sittin’ in a blind, ya drink real Coke for the caffeine. Hangin’cameras? Movin’ around? Beer. Here ya go.” And he’d tossed one to Brandon. “Now, ya gotta say, this is way better than the wussy stuff you do, huh. Readin’ books and Nintendo. Gah.” It wasn’t a question and Brandon didn’t answer.

  Brandon caught the beer, hoping it wouldn’t explode in his face. It wasn’t his first. One more thing his mother would go batshit crazy about. Then he wondered if she’d dump Larry if she knew, if eventually he could use this. He filed the thought in a shiny new drawer in his mind.

  “We’ll find out by the cameras where there’s the most traffic. See, we’ll build us a blind in the one or two best spots. A little elevated. You gotta make sure there’s cover behind you, but you also gotta have something to lean against. So then ya get some deadfall and make a little wall-like thing around us. But not in the way of the shooting line. You listening?”

  “Yeah,” Brandon said, wondering who “we” was supposed to include. He popped the top of the beer. He’d gotten a lot tougher since he’d been working for Mr. Pelley, and he’d even bulked up a little. Well, his biceps were definitely bigger and maybe his chest. Thinking of that made him wonder if he could take
Larry Ellis down if Larry tried to hurt his mother.

  30

  Louisa

  The corn hadn’t silked until August first so instead of reaching full dent around September first, here it was the middle of September and it wasn’t ready for Al to harvest. We were going to leave it in until October for extra drying time. Al said he thought we might get as many as a hundred and sixty-two bushels to the acre; it had been a good season, and I was grateful. The drought had come late enough that the crop wasn’t damaged, and then, just in time, a couple of drenching rains. The girls don’t care much for rain because I leave them in the coop instead of giving them the whole yard, which borders the first field, to range in. They like teatime best, though, and now we begin it at two instead of four, the way we did in late spring and summer. To take advantage of the sunshine, of course. No other reason.

  Most of the vegetables had quit producing so much. I was still getting some tomatoes, but the vines were tired and the leaves yellowing. The zucchini and beans had surrendered. I put in fall plants: lettuce, spinach, peas, kale, but it didn’t take long. One widow doesn’t eat all that much, you know.

  It left me time to walk the land, checking different sections to look for sign. At the entrance to my driveway, I pounded a little notice I got at the Tractor Supply into the ground with Harold’s mallet. PRIVATE PROPERTY. I put in two more that said NO HUNTING at the property lines between my land and the neighbors’. Enough that there’d be no question that it was legally and legibly marked. Although I dreaded winter, how I wanted the days to hurry to hunting season now. I had my own hunt in mind.

  As much as I’d been looking, I couldn’t believe it when I first realized I had a bite on the bait. If I hadn’t looked up at the exact right moment, I’d have missed it. And worse, I’d have been seen myself. I was following a thready deer trail that went between Rush Run and the area of corn I wasn’t letting Al harvest, leaving it for the deer. I’d been looking down, watching my step; it was pure luck that I looked up and ahead in time to see a brown strap around a tree trunk not five feet in front of me, right about eye level. Attached to the strap was what looked like a box with bark-colored camouflage covering. If I hadn’t done all that research in the spring, I’d have had no idea what it was. But I did know, from pictures in the literature. It was a trail camera.

  I’d approached it not quite from behind, but almost. It had been placed at something of an angle; another step and I’d have been in range. I didn’t think the camera would have picked me up, although I couldn’t be sure. I stepped back and stood rigid, thinking it would capture sound, too, but then I remembered, no, not unless this was a very unusual type. Still, I moved backward slowly, trying to be soundless. I didn’t want the hunter who’d snuck onto my land to scout prey to know I’d so much as ventured beyond the chicken coop. I thought I knew who he was. I believed I did because I’d snuck onto his land and eavesdropped on him. Had he really eavesdropped on me exactly when I wanted him to? I needed to be right about this, so I silently gave thanks to Harold The Buck, who must have helped me that night at the Lodge after all.

  I wanted to re-read the hunting laws I’d copied, even though I thought I remembered. It was only the third week of September. The firearm season didn’t start until November 16. And then it occurred to me: was he doing more than scouting? Could he be that greedy? That stupid? Could I be that lucky? Could The Plan actually work that well?

  Once I cleared the area, I picked up the pace as much as I could while keeping a head up for another camera I might have missed. I didn’t see any, but there were so many deer trails on my land now I knew I’d have to figure them out more systematically than I had so I could look. I was distracted enough thinking about how to map them and mark where I’d found the camera, that when the trail opened into the field where I’d planted the winter root crops for the deer at first I didn’t see the man walking the perimeter opposite me. And when I did see him, I didn’t recognize him. This is what happens when you don’t wear your glasses.

  I ducked back, but not quickly enough. And it wasn’t the hunter anyway.

  “Mom?” Gary shouted across the field. It was his voice I knew, then I realized who he was. (Well, to be honest, it was his calling me Mom that was the giveaway.) “Mom!” And he came toward me, crossing over and through my hand-planted rows with his heavy walk. Oaf! I thought. I know that’s not very motherly, but I was really irritated. Anyone could see it had been planted. Behind him to the right, field corn rippled silver in the light breeze, the high sea waves. You can’t imagine how much I wanted to call, “Don’t mess with your mother’s work! You’ll be in over your head, boy.”

  “Watch where you’re stepping,” I called. “Go around,” but of course he didn’t.

  “I was following you!” he called, pointing behind himself to the edge of the field. Indeed, that’s how I had come. Dammit, of course, the garden shoes. Now he was much closer. “It was great. I could follow you and follow Jesus at the same time.” He laughed, all pleased with himself, his cheeks red even though it was a cool afternoon. He doesn’t exercise nearly enough, it’s obvious. Right then he reminded me of Cody when he was first put in as a receiver and he couldn’t help his own face from lighting up when he caught a pass, and oh, how love can mix itself into irritation and melt you like chocolate, just like warm chocolate. Even though it made me want to throw those comfortable garden shoes right into the trash bin. I probably hadn’t left tracks on the deer trail—too many leaves down—but it was possible, and why on earth hadn’t I thought of this? Stupid damn comfortable shoes.

  “Why were you following me?” I said, and I’m afraid my tone didn’t make him think I was happy about it.

  Now we were almost face-to-face. The blue of his eyes was almost the color of the cornflowers that had fringed the sides of our back roads through August. Like CarolSue’s. No, like Cody’s. “Oh, I was just kidding. I was really just . . . visiting,” he said. His voice was too hearty and something in me was uneasy.

  “Visiting the field?” I said, though I wanted to put my arms around him to hold that moment that I’d seen our Cody.

  “No, I—what are you doing in the woods?”

  I should have realized at the time that he’d deflected my question with one of his own, but I was so busy not wanting to answer him that I didn’t catch how much he’d not wanted to answer me. Clearly, he’s learned from the best.

  “It’s time to feed the girls, son. Will you walk me back? I’ll bet they are hopping mad I left them cooped up. They so prefer to have the whole yard as their run, but this time of year I worry. There’s been a hawk I’ve seen a bunch of times, and, well, you know, hawks won’t bother them if a person is right there, that person being me. . . .” I rambled on like this, taking his arm, and heading for the edge of the field.

  “I’m glad you decided not to put corn in this field after all, Mom,” he said. “Good decision.” At the time, I was annoyed that he was walking over the winter root crops I’d planted, which were in the part of the field that wasn’t in clover. Farther on were the oats, but they’d been cut once and I wasn’t going to let Al do a second cutting. They, too, were for the deer now. I didn’t answer that because I didn’t want to open the subject of why I hadn’t. So I babbled about how many bushels Al figured to get per acre this year, which was high. Gary walked alongside with his head down until we reached the edge.

  “I’ve got Charlie on the prayer list. He’ll be okay,” Gary said then, a propos of nothing I’d been saying.

  “I’m glad you think so. But did you send them a card like I asked you to?”

  “I’ll do that. Since she can’t come here, I’ve been thinking, you should go visit Aunt CarolSue in a couple weeks. I know you miss her, and she must need you. How about it? I’ll make your reservations online.”

  “Not right now. I don’t have the extra money until after harvest, and I have things to do. I’ll wait and see how he does.”

  “I’ll pay your way.�
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  This made me swing my head sideways to look at him. He just kept going.

  “That’s very nice of you. Not now, though. Later on would be wonderful. Why don’t we both go for Thanksgiving?” Surely it would be over by then.

  “It’ll be okay, Mom. It’ll be fine.”

  I let it go then. I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t know. Much later, too late, I registered that Gary’s head had been down and he’d let me ramble on because he was counting his own steps, from the center where we’d come together, to the edge. I’d half noticed but not asked, figuring it was some sort of religious ritual. I doubt he’d have told me his plan for that very ground, though, since he hadn’t given me the opportunity to say what he must have known I would: over my dead body. It was ridiculous, each of us busy hiding our own Grand Plan. But I’m getting ahead of the story, aren’t I?

  31

  The next morning, I had to go out and buy a cheap pair of sneakers before I went back to where I’d found the trail camera. I brought a lightweight leafy branch with me, one from the maple tree Harold had planted in memory of his father, in case I needed to obliterate any ridiculous footprints I might have left. I didn’t find any, except the ones all along the edge of the field. There were enough dry leaves down on the trail. Still, though, I was so mad at myself that I hadn’t thought of something so obvious. What else was I overlooking? I couldn’t afford any mistakes.

  I stuffed down fear by telling myself one enemy was nothing compared to the number Harold had in Vietnam. For him, I went on reconnaissance missions for five days, looking for flattened areas where deer had made their day beds, for the telltale scrapes where antlers had been sharpened on trees, for scat on the faint and feathery new trails I found when I made my way along the edges of Rush Run. The deer were there; the signs were everywhere, and I saw the creatures themselves more and more often, too, though usually it was the arcing white of their upraised tails that would catch my eye as they leapt away from my approach. My buck stood still a few seconds, though, just once, in fleeting light. I love you, I whispered. Tell them all. Did I tell Mom and Harold and Cody enough? Does Gary know, after all? I’ll tell him. And CarolSue, again and again. I need to help her more with Charlie—the minute this is over.