Don Hoesel

by Hunter's Moon (v5. 0)

  The only cold he feels is on his nose, and he rubs it with a gloved hand, unconcerned now about giving his position away to any lurking deer. He’d left Graham in a tree stand about thirty yards to the north, and Eddie was supposed to have picked a spot southeast of there, which would have allowed them to box in anything that came over the ridge and started down into the depression over which CJ has been sitting watch. But it sounds like Graham is out of the stand and, the morning now wasted, CJ rises on stiff legs, brushes the leaves and dirt from his pants, and starts toward the voices.

  Leaves crunch beneath his boots as he walks. He keeps the gun pointed up and over his left shoulder, but even at only ten years old, his eyes scan the forest as if he were a veteran. The joke is that you never know when you will run into a deaf deer.

  CJ is still too far away to hear clearly what his brother and Eddie are shouting at each other, but he catches bits and pieces and isn’t surprised to hear the name Jennifer mentioned more than once. Graham and Eddie’s long friendship has been suffering for the last month with the introduction of this new element, and while even CJ suspects that Jennifer Caldwell is all right as far as girls go, he can’t understand how she could come between two best friends on a morning like this.And now she has—albeit unknowingly—insinuated herself into what is to CJ almost as holy an activity as any of the duties he performs as an altar boy at St. Anthony’s. CJ thinks that if Graham is going to get him up at four in the morning, he could at least stay quiet until they get a deer.

  He follows the sound of the boys’ voices, the path of his boots arcing slightly as he adjusts his course in response to the noise they are making.It seems to take a while to get there, and at some point the voices give way to silence—only it isn’t silence, but maybe the half sounds people make when they’re giving and receiving punches.

  CJ sighs and considers turning around and heading home. What stops him is knowing that Graham will undoubtedly look for him once the fight is over, and would return home angry at CJ for leaving. And since CJ has noticed Graham’s growing inclination toward violence over the last few months, he is hesitant about giving the older boy any reason to exercise this new trait. Although CJ isn’t even sure if violence is the right word; the word cruel might be more appropriate, especially after what Graham, with an odd calm, did to the cat. And last week he hit CJ for the first time.

  The whole thing is over before CJ steps into the clearing, and as the report still echoes in the air. When CJ comes out from behind the tree separating him from Eddie and his brother, he has only enough time to see Eddie’s eyes widen, and to hear an ungodly gurgle come from somewhere inside the boy. Before he can fall, it seems that his eyes seek out CJ’s. Then he topples, and it is as he’s falling to the ground that CJ finds his voice. He screams for his brother. Graham’s eyes track from Eddie to CJ, and after an interminable moment, he brings the gun down.

  The silence in the woods is the kind that happens when all living things hold their collective breath in the face of danger. CJ finds he is holding his only when he feels an uncomfortable sensation in his chest. He stands at the edge of the clearing—his own gun forgotten, held over his shoulder—watching his brother, this stranger, who has just killed someone. CJ is shivering, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

  Time ticks on while Graham stares down at the body of his friend. Then he releases a deep sigh, and something seems to let go of him with the exhalation. When he looks over at his frightened, still-shaking younger brother, he even smiles.

  “It looks like we had a little accident,” Graham says.

  Chapter 7

  There didn’t appear to be an empty seat, which was what CJ had expected after two hours of standing in the receiving line. It seemed that every resident of Adelia had come to pay his or her respects, filling St. Anthony’s to overflowing. The sheer number of people who had formed a line that wrapped around the building and then stretched down the School Street sidewalk was impressive, and a testament to how well-liked Sal had been, as well as to the place the Baxter clan still held in the town’s collective consciousness.

  It turned out too that CJ’s presence might have figured into the attendance. His books were understandably popular in Adelia. He was arguably the most famous former resident of the town (CJ thought that spoke poorly of the town), and they appreciated his success, even if CJ knew they had over-inflated any notoriety he commanded. And with the charge that much of CJ’s material was drawn from his own life, his books had the tenor of a soap opera in which these local readers had a behind-the-scenes view of all the characters. Part of the draw today, then, could have been to watch the family dynamic in action.

  At first, the attention embarrassed CJ, coupled as it was with effusive praise. But not long into the visitation he’d decided to enjoy it, especially after he saw the way it affected Graham. The brothers hadn’t spoken since the near garroting. Graham had left him on the ground, and once he could breathe without tears coming to his eyes, CJ and Thor had driven off. He’d taken the basketball as a minor assuagement of his anger, briefly considering the possibility that, since he had technically stolen Thoreau from his own house, theft was his coping mechanism.

  He was staying at the Seven Oaks Hotel, the only one in town that accepted dogs. CJ had discovered that was because Thoreau was a higher class of occupant than the hotel normally serviced. The dog was cleaner and, in all likelihood, smarter than the revolving door of junkies and prostitutes that frequented the place. The sign listing hourly rates should have been his first clue. Thor was back there, and his bark should make anyone think twice about trying to steal CJ’s few belongings.

  CJ was watching the audience through the half-open door to the left of the altar. He didn’t recognize most of them; even the ones he used to know had changed so much in the intervening years that he’d had trouble putting names with faces in the receiving line. One person he’d been pleased to recognize was now sitting in the back of the church. Mr. Kadziolka had given him a warm handshake as he’d made his way down the queue. CJ would have liked the chance to speak with him, to talk shop a bit, to see how the old place was holding up, but the press of people hadn’t made that possible.

  He didn’t realize his sister was at his side until she spoke.

  “They’re only here because of his last name,” Maryann said.

  CJ hadn’t liked Maryann when they were growing up. She was the middle sibling, older than he was by three years, younger than Graham by an equal margin. Yet in some ways she’d taken on the role of eldest child in that she’d grown up faster and had perfected a late teen’s contempt for adults while still in middle school.

  It appeared the passage of time had not pressed a diamond from this lump of coal. It probably wasn’t fair for him to make that determination after only two days, but he was pretty good at snap judgments. And where Maryann was concerned, there was much obvious material with which to render a verdict. The fact that she still talked like a sailor didn’t help her case.

  Too, he’d heard rumors that Maryann had taken on a new gig—stealing from the store she managed. The only ones he’d heard speak of it were immediate family, and CJ had learned enough to understand the theft had been occurring for years, and the only reason they were concerned about it now was because of the potential for damaging Graham’s campaign. It said a lot about both Maryann and CJ’s family.

  The problem was that despite Maryann’s obvious failings, in this case she was probably right: most of these people were here because of the Baxter name. Not that it mattered much. All of them were here for their own reasons, and that included Sal’s family. This day meant different things for each of them. He was in no position to judge the various motives represented by the sea of bodies.

  “Then worry about those who knew him,” he said before leaving his sister at the door.

  The priest was talking to CJ’s father, another family member CJ had only briefly addressed. But unlike Maryann, CJ would have to talk to his father ev
entually. He just didn’t have to like it.

  All of a sudden it seemed too warm in the room. CJ saw a door on the other side and headed for it, passing by his father without looking at him and hitting the metal door harder than necessary.

  The air outside was crisp; it was the kind of air that made him wish he hadn’t given up smoking. Except for the occasional cigar, he didn’t light up anymore, and he normally didn’t miss it, but right now he really wanted a cigarette. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket and took a deep breath, which was one of the things they taught you to do when you were hit with a craving. It didn’t help.

  “Tough day?”

  He hadn’t heard Julie come out, but she was at his side like a specter appearing from nowhere.

  “Try getting a manuscript back from your editor,” CJ said. “That’s a tough day.”

  Julie’s laugh was light and it matched the look in her eyes.

  CJ started dating Julie when he was a junior, and she a freshman. They’d remained a couple until the summer before CJ left for Vanderbilt. By then, CJ’s relations with his family had driven a wedge between him and the whole of Adelia which, as CJ regretted for a long time afterward, encompassed Julie. When he’d left for Tennessee, he didn’t even say goodbye. She’d sent him a single letter, to which he hadn’t responded. He hadn’t even opened it. It was amazing how the passage of so much time had not helped to diminish how much one could feel like a heel.

  “I can imagine,” she said. “If I remember correctly, you never liked to be told you were wrong.”

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “I’m not sure where you’re getting that from,” he said. “I’m usually pretty agreeable.”

  She gave a half smile—more of a smirk—then said, “Second grade. The BB gun.”

  He didn’t remember right away; it took one long look at her amused, expectant face before it came to him, and with the memory came a smile of his own.

  “It sank in there pretty good,” he said.

  “A half inch is what you said after they dug it out.”

  “I still think that’s the most pain I’ve ever been in,” he laughed.

  “Shooting yourself, or when they dug it out?”

  “Let’s just say the experience as a whole.” CJ shook his head. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “One seldom forgets teaching moments,” Julie said. “After watching you do that, I can say that I was never tempted to shoot myself in the foot.”

  “At least something good came out of it, then,” CJ said.

  Julie smiled at that, but the expression didn’t last long. A gust of cold wind whipped around them, and she folded her arms, looked down at her boots. Then she looked up at CJ. “I’m going to miss him.”

  CJ didn’t answer right away except to give a thoughtful nod. From what he’d been able to gather from listening to the family conversation over the last two days, it was quite possible the only two people who would miss the old man were standing outside the funeral home in the cold, listening to the start of the organ music through the closed door.

  “I will too,” he answered.

  When they went back inside, it was to find that everyone else had taken their seats and the priest looked ready to begin. So when CJ and Julie walked past Father Tom to get to their spots in the second and third pews, CJ knew how it must have looked. Julie had a spot on the end, next to her husband, while CJ had to work his way past several family members to take his place next to his brother, which in itself was an awkward arrangement. But it was either that spot or several rows farther back, where his mother sat, and he suspected the town already had enough gossip fodder, not to mention that he’d walked in late with a woman he used to date, and who was now married to his cousin.

  As Father Tom began the mass, CJ tried to ignore the feeling of hundreds of eyes on the back of his head. Instead he tried to concentrate on Father Tom, which was something of a necessity anyway. It had been so long since he’d set foot in a Catholic church that he couldn’t remember all of the audience participation parts—when to stand, when to kneel, what to say in response to Father Tom’s words. Most of it was there in his brain, packed away like winter clothes in summer, only he couldn’t recall any of it quickly enough to keep in time with most everyone else. He realized, when he was the only one who responded to some part of the liturgy by kneeling while everyone else sat, that he’d retained virtually nothing from his days as an altar boy. So he was relieved when Father Tom started into his sermon, even though that meant having to listen to the man talk.

  Father Tom had been a priest at St. Anthony’s ever since CJ could remember. Even then he’d seemed old, although he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five when CJ was in middle school. He’d been an altar boy for Father Tom, as well as for Father Paul, the younger priest who was now a bishop in Arizona. And, listening to the sermon now, CJ remembered why mass had seemed so interminable back then. To say that he was a poor public speaker would have been the height of generosity. The fact was that his voice had the sound of sandpaper doing a slow drag across rusted metal.

  It was a voice that had, ironically, probably prompted more sin than repentance. For all of the altar boys forced to take their cues from Father Tom, the voice became something one could not simply ignore, a luxury afforded to the people in the pews. With all of the tasks the boy had to perform, he couldn’t risk dozing off and missing the ringing of a bell, or the dousing of a candle. Yet it was such an insufferable voice that more than one boy had found their irritation turning to anger the longer the priest talked. This emotion, depending on the boy, and the number of masses with which they assisted, was easily nudged toward mischief, a planning of some recompense against the offending priest—a man whose only crime was to share the Good News with an instrument ill-suited to the task. Over the decades, Father Tom had suffered through his share of indignities, committed at the hands of his black- and white-clad helpers, such as the release of a skunk in the church—a feat which had impressed CJ, since the boy who’d released the animal, Theo Erwin, had done so without getting sprayed himself.

  After that incident, CJ experienced a burst of creativity. He wrote a short story titled The Skunk in the Church. It was the first time CJ had written for pleasure, and once he’d begun, he couldn’t stop. In a way, CJ owed his career to the sore-bottomed Theo Erwin, who had earned the distinction of being the only boy ever punished for a plot against the priest. CJ suspected he also owed his career to the sandpaper-voiced Father Tom, and to a certain white-striped mammal. As he considered this, he found himself hoping that his writing would never inherit the animal’s smell.

  The VFW hall was as fitting a place as any for the post-funeral gathering. It was large enough, it was centrally located, and most important it smelled of the unusual, but oddly pleasant, mingled aromas of pancakes and cigars.

  Sal had been a VFW member for more than fifty years, and to have heard his wife tell it, he had spent more time here than at his home. He would bring Graham and CJ here for the Saturday morning pancake breakfast, sitting at the long tables, sticky syrup spots on the red tablecloths. Sal brought the boys here on other occasions too, when the men would sit around playing cards, and Graham and CJ would be free to play foosball, or the pinball machine that was rigged so they didn’t need a quarter to play.

  When he walked in the place following the procession from the cemetery, CJ couldn’t help but smile. This was one of the most solid memories from his childhood, and being back here made everything else seem more tangible. His only wish was that he would not have to spend every moment dodging well-wishers, acquaintances, extended family, and fans.

  It seemed everyone was a fan, and each of them wanted to tell him which of his novels was their favorite, or which character they most identified with. And while it was flattering, and even as he wondered why all of this interest didn’t seem to translate to steadier sales, there was a limit to how many times he could hear someone confi
de that Julian McDermott had mirrored their own childhood, or that they’d had a mother like Shannon Easterling. It almost came as a relief, then, when someone wanted to talk about his arm rather than his books—lamenting that he’d never made it to the majors. Even so, after a time, his eyes developed a glazed look, and he found himself nodding his head and muttering “hmmm” to everything.

  As he fielded this steady stream of bodies, he kept an eye on the members of his immediate family, particularly Graham and his father. As at the funeral, CJ had been next to Graham at the graveside, but they’d hardly made eye contact, much less spoken. As for his father, the ride from the church to the cemetery found most of the immediate family, CJ included, crammed into Uncle Edward’s Expedition, where CJ and his old man exchanged a few pleasantries. His father had never been much of a talker anyway, except when he was yelling at CJ’s mother, so what CJ had gotten in the Expedition was about as much as he’d have expected to get had he still lived here and saw the man daily.

  CJ extricated himself from his latest conversation—an older woman who looked familiar, who said she used to teach his English class in middle school—and worked his way over to the table that held the drinks, where he approached another familiar face.

  “Hello, Gabe,” CJ said.

  For as long as CJ could remember, Gabe Donnelly, in his overalls and navy blue work shirt, had been a constant presence in town. When something needed doing, Gabe was there to do it, aided by whoever happened to be his assistant at the time. And in a town like Adelia, where a sense of identity is cultivated and maintained by community events, Gabe’s role made him synonymous with the events themselves. It was hard to think of the town fair, a school play, a parade, the Fall Festival, or anything else that happened in Adelia without recalling a picture of Gabe making sure everything went off without a hitch.