Simple Jess

by Pamela Morsi

  Another snap of underbrush and they were gone, vaulting through the brush in a flash of movement that was both swift and elegant.

  "Hunt!" Jesse hollered and the dogs shot out from behind him as if fired from a pistol. Barking noisily they disappeared in the direction of the buck almost immediately.

  Jesse sighed nervously and began to whisper to himself. The words imprinted upon his memory from so many hunts.

  "Raise the gun smooth, slow, and sure," he said. "Don't fumble."

  He didn't.

  "Ease back the hammer."

  It made a slight clicking sound, letting Jesse know that it was ready.

  "Get the line of your sights at ready, watch the world right through the middle of the little metal crook."

  Jesse held the Winchester pointed directly into the empty spot where the deer and dogs had disappeared. He waited. The barking of the dogs was in the distance now. Not nearly as loud as the sound of his own breathing. The musk of deer was still strong and he let the scent fill his nostrils. He was the hunter. The deer was meat. He would bring home the meat for Miss Althea.

  In his mind he saw her, not as she had been that morning, but as she might be on a cold winter day, snow barricading the cabin door and with a hungry young son at her side. The boy would not cry and Miss Althea would not fret. She'd simply put a haunch of venison on the fire and it would feed their bellies. The venison that Jesse Best brought to them.

  The barking of the dogs was getting louder, closer once more. Jesse's finger curled around the trigger. He tried to still his mind from all thoughts. But the image of Miss Althea lingered.

  Sweet smelling Miss Althea with her warm smile and her so very round parts. She never looked at him mean or like she was afraid. She looked at him loving, warm and loving, like she looked at the boy. She looked at Jesse that way. And he liked it. He really liked it. But he wanted it different, too. He was not a boy. Jesse was a man. He wanted Miss Althea to see that. He wanted to put meat on her table. That's what men do for the women they love.

  The barking was almost upon him. Jesse stilled all thoughts as he held the gun at the ready. Like a flash of gray and brown lightning, a deer swept into the clearing. Jesse tensed. He had no time to reason, only to know. It was one of the does. He held his fire. An instant later the buck was right behind her.

  "Squeeze."

  The Winchester's retort was loud in the quiet stillness of the Ozark morning. Without even so much as a startled expression, the beautiful animal, the guarantee of Miss Althea's winter survival, dropped to the forest floor. Dead with one clean shot to the heart. The second doe sailed over him and vanished into the smoky silence of the killing's aftermath.

  Jesse raised the shiny, well-cared-for Winchester and sighed with relief and satisfaction. He had done it. All by himself with no other to help, no other man to remind him what to do or help him think his way, he, Jesse Best, had brought down the meat.

  It's what a man does, Jesse reminded himself. And Jesse is a man.

  The dogs surged immediately, surrounding the kill, assuring themselves that he was not about to get up and run. Jesse almost laughed aloud with the release of tension. If he didn't get one other piece of meat this winter, Althea Winsloe and her son would still survive. Perhaps not in great style, but they would survive. Jesse could almost taste the venison roast on Miss Althea's table. He wondered if he would really get a chance to taste it.

  "Whoopee!"

  The exuberant cheer from behind him startled Jesse. He turned in surprise to see Baby-Paisley hurrying out of the brush. The little boy had on his short pants and woolly socks, his heavily padded winter coat making him look strangely top loaded. His blond curls were covered by a gray glove hat that was big enough to fit low on his ears.

  Jesse was surprised to see him. He shouldn't be here. Something told Jesse that immediately. Little boys just didn't appear in the woods. Something was wrong about that, Jesse knew right off. But couldn't help smiling at the little fellow's excitement and enthusiasm. He let the vague feeling of unease pass without further scrutiny.

  The mystery of the noisy critter following them and why the dogs were uninterested was certainly solved. Baby-Paisley must have followed Jesse from the time he and the dogs left Miss Althea's place.

  "You done kilt him for sure! " the child exclaimed. "I didn't think you could, but you sure did."

  With a whoop of victory the little boy went charging down into the gully, a yard-length stick held before him like a lance. He raced toward the downed animal screaming like a wild Indian. Jesse watched, momentarily amused and then shocked as the young boy began brutally jabbing the dead deer with the stick.

  'Take that ... an' that ... an' ... "

  His eyes widening and thoughts whirling, Jesse cried out, "Stop!"

  The child ceased immediately and turned toward Jesse, stunned by the authority in his voice. The two stared at each other. Jesse hurried down into the gully.

  Jesse was agitated. The youngster was defiant.

  "You mustn't do that," Jesse told him. "You mustn't."

  "Why not?" the child asked contentiously. "I'm just playing. Why do I have to stop?"

  Jesse's brow furrowed and he looked at the boy mutely. There was a reason. Jesse knew that there was. He searched his brain trying to find it. There was a reason.

  "You mustn't," was all Jesse could think to say.

  "I was just playing," Baby-Paisley protested once more, his tone taking on a whiny cadence. "The stupid deer is already dead."

  Jesse searched his brain, knowing the answer was there, not being able to find it.

  "You mustn't," he told the little boy firmly. "I can't say why. Sometimes I can't remember the whys of things, but I know you mustn't."

  "You just doan want me to have no fun," Baby-Paisley declared, his bottom lip protruding obstinately. "You're mean. You ain't my pa. You cain't tell me what ta do! I'm having fun and you cain't tell me what ta do. You think you're like my pa, but ye ain't!"

  "No, no," Jesse assured him quickly. "It's not that. It ain't like I'm your pa, it's . . . it's . . ."

  Still he struggled. There was something wrong here. Something really wrong. Jesse knew that it was wrong. He just didn't know if he could say why. He became angry at himself, angry and frustrated.

  Stupid mind, he thought to himself. Stupid Jesse's mind doesn't work right. Doesn't think right. He clenched his teeth and tightened his fists in frustration. Stupid, stupid mind.

  Then, within the midst of his self loathing, he noticed the hounds at his feet. They were high spirited, but sedulous as they surrounded the kill.

  "See the dogs," he said to the boy. "See how the dogs act?"

  Baby-Paisley glanced down at them and nodded, puzzled.

  "They don't stab or poke or tear at the kill," Jesse said. "They know to respect the meat. You've got to respect the meat, too."

  Baby-Paisley looked at the well behaved dogs, not totally convinced.

  "It's nature for dogs to grab and tear at the meat. I guess it's nature for us, too," Jesse said. “To get excited about outsmarting a deer, to feel like the winner and wanting to show off or something. But the dogs have learned better and we got to, too. The kill isn't for killing. It's for food."

  The little boy's brow furrowed thoughtfully, but he wasn't totally convinced. "You just doan want me in on your hunt," he accused.

  Jesse shrugged. "But you were in on it. You've been behind us all the way from your house, ain't you?"

  The child nodded.

  "You were quiet in the brush and following the dogs, just like me."

  Baby-Paisley nodded again.

  "I took the shot, but then you didn't have the gun. I've been hunting lots of times with my pa when I didn't have the gun. That didn't mean I wasn't on the hunt."

  The little boy's eyes widened and his look was respectful. "You mean part of this kilt deer is mine?"

  "Half," Jesse answered. "There's just two of us, that makes it half. When there'
s more, each gets less."

  Baby-Paisley broke into a delighted grin and stared down at the fallen buck with awe.

  "I got meat," he declared and stepped back a respectful distance from the kill, no longer needing the childhood thrill of poking it with a stick.

  Jesse smiled at him, knowing exactly how the young boy felt. He felt like a man. Jesse felt like a man, too.

  But neither was allowed to linger over the moment. Jesse set the Winchester safely against a tree trunk and removed the knife from his belt. He bent down to dress the deer. As he did so, he showed the child how it was done.

  He widened the wound in the animal's chest, allowing the blood to flow out freely.

  "You've got to tie off the bung," he told Paisley, in the same calm, patient tone his father had always used with him. His father always talked through the gutting of an animal, explaining over and over how it was done, impressing it upon Jesse's mind. It seemed natural for Jesse to do the same with the boy. It seemed natural for the boy to follow his directions.

  Jesse pulled all the innards out onto the ground and deftly removed the liver.

  "Put this on a clean flat rock," he told Baby-Paisley. "We'll get your mama to cook it for you for supper."

  "For me?" Baby-Paisley asked, his tone one of awe.

  Jesse nodded. "It'll make you a fast runner," he said.

  "I'm already fast," the child boasted. "Sometimes I can even beat Gobby Weston."

  Jesse eyed the boy with appreciation. "When you can run as fast as the deer, you'll beat him every time."

  Reverently, and with great care, Baby-Paisley bore the deer's liver to a cooling place on the rock. Jesse gifted the remaining offal to the dogs who eagerly shared their reward.

  The little boy hurried back to the man's side as he continued to use the hunting knife surely and with deftness.

  Baby-Paisley watched curiously and asked questions whenever Jesse paused in his recitation of instructions.

  "How come you didn't follow da dogs when they took after the deer?" he asked. "How'd you know they'd come back this way?"

  "Deer run like rabbits," Jesse answered. "They like to stay in their territory and so they run in circles. The dogs just get on the outside of the circle and make it small so they return to the spot that they started from."

  Baby-Paisley accepted this notion thoughtfully.

  "Why didn't you kill the first deer? It was almost as big as this one."

  "The first was a doe, a female," Jesse answered. "We need the does more than the bucks because they have the babies. She'll find herself another buck and we'll have more baby deer next spring."

  The little boy pondered those words as well. "So we can kill all the buck deer 'cause they doan have babies," he said.

  "No, not all of them," Jesse corrected. "Babies need daddies, too."

  "Why?"

  "It's just that way," Jesse said. "It takes two to make a baby."

  The boy was looking at him curiously, clearly expecting further explanation. Jesse blushed a little. The child obviously didn't know about bucks and does or men and women or about the propagation of all things that crawl or walk or swim.

  In truth, Jesse didn't know that much about it himself. He'd seen hogs bred and hounds mating. He'd even watched a couple of slow old turtles locked in nature's embrace one long ago afternoon. But he had never touched a woman. He had never spilled his seed inside one.

  Pa had said that he couldn't, not ever. Pa said that no daddy on the mountain would ever want Jesse for a son-in-law and that it was best if he just not think about such things.

  His brother-in-law hadn't been quite so certain.

  "The feelings you get in your body, Jesse, they are the same feelings that other men get and they have nothing to do with your mind." That's what Roe had told him.

  Jesse was a man and he had a man's feelings. But Baby-Paisley was no man, it was years before he'd need to understand those things. There was no need for Jesse to try to explain them today.

  "Be sure not to cut or scrape these hocks," Jesse told the boy, changing the subject abruptly. "And stay clear of the dewclaws. This is where the scent of the deer comes from and if you clip them with your knife you'll spread it all over the meat and give it a bad taste."

  Baby-Paisley nodded.

  Jesse let the boy help as he raised the kill by the backbone and shook it vigorously to free the last of the blood and guts. The little fellow had a death grip on the deer antlers and was actually more a hindrance than a help, but Jesse didn't shoo him away.

  "He don't weigh near as much when you get him gutted," Jesse pointed out. "There's no way the two of us could have lifted him with all his guts still inside."

  The little boy nodded in agreement. He was barely able to stand under the weight of the antlers as Jesse shook the deer to drain it completely.

  This was how a man learned to dress game. It was how Jesse had learned, by helping even when he was no help. By the time Baby-Paisley was big enough to hoist a buck on his own, he'd know exactly how to do it, just as Jesse did.

  "If you can help me get him around my shoulder," Jesse told the little boy. "I think I can carry him myself."

  The child ineffectually patted and pushed as Jesse heaved the carcass across his broad shoulders like a very weighty shawl. Slowly he rose to his feet, gingerly balancing the weight evenly. The burden, heavy as it was, lightened considerably as he imagined how proud and thrilled Miss Althea would be with her winter meat.

  The hounds, having finished their treat, were effectively cleaning the area, sated and satisfied.

  Jesse retrieved the Winchester.

  "Get your supper," he told the boy.

  Baby-Paisley hurried to the smooth rock and grabbed up the squiggly, slippery liver. Fearing he might drop his precious booty, the little boy pulled off his hat and deposited his trophy within it.

  "Come on, Runt, Queenie, Sawtooth, Poker," he called to the dogs. "Let's go show Mama what we kilt."

  The boy and dogs headed into the brush and Jesse followed in their wake. The dogs knew their way home and the youngster would never get lost staying with them.

  Jesse felt as excited as the little boy.

  "Yep," he whispered to himself. "Let's go show Miss Althea what we killed."

  Chapter Nine

  Althea Winsloe was frantic. Her whole body trembled in anxious terror and it was only sheer force of will that kept her from bursting into tears. One minute the day had been cool and crisp and fine and he had been right there and the next minute he was gone.

  "Baby-Paisley!" she attempted to call out once more. The sound came out more a croak than a cry. "Baby-Paisley, answer me!" Her throat was raw and sore from calling, crying, entreating, even begging. Where was he? Was he all right? Her baby? Her precious, precious baby?

  She had tried to be methodical. She'd checked the barn, the shed, the smokehouse. She'd looked under the porch, and in the trees near the cabin. She'd climbed the ridge to scan the distant field. He wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. Baby-Paisley had wandered off. Somehow when her back had been turned he had just strayed away.

  Circles, ever widening circles, that's how searches were accomplished. She couldn't allow herself to panic, to get so frightened that she couldn't think. She had to search for him. Circles, ever widening circles. Where was he? Where was her little baby?

  She'd said she could raise him all by herself. That's what she'd told Granny Piggott and Beulah Winsloe and anyone else who would listen. She'd said she could do it alone. Althea Winsloe didn't need anybody else.

  Pride goeth before a fall. Had she truly been so prideful? She could take care of him. She could. And she could watch him. She had been watching him. It wasn't that she hadn't been watching him.

  Her guilt was nearly as strong as her terror. It helped, only barely, to keep her worst fears at bay. Had he fallen from a rocky ledge? Been attacked by a bear or panther? Drowned in the stream and whisked toward the rushing river? Was he lying hurt, bleedin
g, helpless, dying? Was he calling for his mama? Mama was supposed to protect him. Mama had promised to protect him. Could Mama protect him? Why hadn't she seen him leave?

  She'd been washing. She always kept him at a distance when she was washing. It was dangerous to have a little one close to the fire pit or the boiling laundry. It wasn't her regular Wednesday for laundry. Perhaps he had known that she'd been irritated at that. Every bedsheet in the house had been peed upon and a half week to go before washday. She had been irked about it. But she wasn't angry with Baby-Paisley. She never said a word to him about it. Surely he didn't leave on purpose 'cause he thought she was angry. No, that was foolish thinking. She had done nothing wrong. Baby-Paisley had just ambled too far from the yard and was lost. She had to find him.

  Circles, ever widening circles, that's how searches were accomplished. She could not panic. She couldn't give in to fear. She must make ever-widening circles until she found her lost son. She must find him and bring him home. She must bring him home and keep him safe.

  Being a mother was a big responsibility. She knew that. After those first months of endless days and midnight feedings she'd finally been able to get some sleep. But sleep for a new mother brought dreams, sometimes bad dreams, even nightmares. Her baby would be in a burning hut and she couldn't get to him. Her baby would be falling from a ledge and she couldn't catch him. Her baby would be choking and she couldn't help him. And the worst dream of all, she would be going about her business and suddenly realize that she'd forgotten her baby and left the child somewhere. She would try to find the baby again, but she never could.

  Circles, ever-widening circles. She felt like that last awful dream had finally come true. She thought of Paisley. It was not something that she did often. She could see him in her mind. Not as she usually did, dressed in his best suit and lying cold and still on the kitchen table. Today in her memory he was standing tall and straight, his stance angry and his tone cutting.