by Jeff Jackson
* * *
The buck breaks into a sprint. As it darts across the meadow, a rifle shot rings out. A thunderous echo ripples through the woods. Sparrows and finches scatter skyward. More shots. The other deer gallop after their compatriot and hurtle through the forest. For the moment, they’re still together. Pursued by spent shells tumbling to the ground. Careening around trees without a backward glance. Heartbeats pulsing in their eyeballs. Blurred hooves barely alighting on firm ground.
This is a mistake.
I shouldn’t be here.
The overcast afternoon bears down on them. A moist chill saturates the air, and heavy clouds sink lower every few minutes. A couple tramps along the dirt road leading toward the woods. They resemble a pair of listless, derelict troubadours. The girl has a guitar case slung over her shoulders and the boy hefts an oversize backpack. Xenie registers a series of signs tacked along the trees and keeps turning to Eddie, awaiting some reaction. He trudges doggedly ahead, fogged in by some concoction of pills that he claims are the only way he can muddle through this miserable day. The way ahead is choked with traffic cones. Men in orange flak jackets stand clustered in conference. One of them spots the couple and thrusts his rifle into the air. It’s not a salute, but a signal to halt.
* * *
A caravan of pickup trucks is parked up the road. A single dead deer lies lashed atop each hood, limbs splayed and stretched, hooves clasped together, heads wrenched in the same direction.
* * *
The forest is off-limits this weekend. Xenie reads the poster nailed to the bole of a nearby oak that states the habitat can no longer support the overpopulation of deer. The animals are short of food, and disease is spreading, so hunters have gathered to cull the herd.
—It’s not safe out there, explains a white-haired man in camouflage. The hunting club announced a reward for whoever kills the most deer, and more people showed up than anybody bargained for. It’s become a free-for-all. Even getting back, you’d better wear these.
The white-haired man passes orange flak jackets to Xenie and Eddie. She puts on hers, but Eddie examines the fabric as if it’s something an extraterrestrial just crapped in his hand.
Xenie slips the jacket over Eddie’s shoulders, but he barely registers its presence. She shakes his skinny biceps to snap him from his stupor.
—The area is closed, she says. We’ve got to turn around. We’ll come back and do this another time.
—No, he says. I know a different way.
In the distance, a hunter takes aim at a buck that’s wandered from the edge of the forest. There’s a deafening recoil, then the animal’s front legs collapse under it. The deer kneels awkwardly as another shot strikes a bloody blow to its head. As the animal tumbles to the ground, there’s a chorus of whistled appreciation.
* * *
They backtrack until they’re out of sight of the hunters. Then Eddie hunches his shoulders and leads them across a muddy field. He hums beneath his breath, an unconscious sequence of soft keens. Xenie finds it oddly reassuring that his noises stumble into a recognizable rhythm, echoing the sucking sounds of their boots as they lumber across the scrubby mire. She watches Eddie scratch the stubble on his chin. His face is speckled with stray hairs. This morning was the first time he wouldn’t let her shave him. The past two weeks he’s lived at her house. He’s been almost catatonic, barely responsive to her affectionate caresses. She’d wind him in an old blanket as if that might hold him together. Now he’s plodding toward the forest in a determined trance and she’s the one reluctant to follow.
* * *
The guitar case bounces awkwardly between Xenie’s shoulder blades. It contains Shaun’s guitar, the one she stole the night he was shot. She’s only brought it along because Eddie insisted. For his sake, she swallows complaints about the strap cutting into her back and chafing her chest. She worries how far she’ll have to take this to make things right.
—Hey, she calls. This isn’t safe. We’re miles from town and surrounded by hunters. Can’t we talk about this?
Eddie sets the backpack at his feet and unzips the front pouch. He removes a shiny black cylinder. Florian’s ashes. Some violent emotion fights its way to the surface of his cloudy eyes, but his voice maintains its druggy monotone.
—I promised Florian I’d do this, he says.
—I know, she says softly. I know.
—So I’m doing this now, he says. You don’t have to come.
I do. It’s my fault we’re here.
A massive tree lies diagonally across the entrance to the woods. She tries to read the green paint sprayed across its leprous bark. It’s impossible to tell if the words are vestiges of an urgent municipal message or a vandal’s sloppy tag.
—How far is the cemetery? she asks.
Eddie shrugs.
—I sometimes went this way with Florian when he’d visit his mother’s grave, he says. He loved the old family plot in the middle of nowhere. I could never stand this place.
Before going any farther, Eddie unpeels his flak jacket as if it’s a hair shirt and heaves it into a puddle. Despite the danger, she adds her jacket to the murky water, the two pieces of fabric floating atop each other, a gesture of solidarity.
* * *
The path is a tunnel of green. Fallen leaves slick the soft ground. There’s the cloying smell of fresh rot. Eddie maintains a steady pace, ducking under thorny branches, shaking through thick brambles. Xenie keeps getting snared, vines ripping the wool of her purple sweater. She feels guilty as she listens to him mumble a monologue of amputated phrases, the static of his private thoughts taking shape. If she could trace the signals to their source, she’s sure this sad broadcast originates with her.
* * *
… Sometimes you have to teach them a lesson … hide in the forest … talk me out of going home … make sure I stay the night … be more vocal about the show … need my help to convince the guys … teach them a lesson … seriously damaged … terrified by every sound … I’m in over my head … teach me a lesson …
* * *
Xenie unwraps two hard-boiled eggs from a sweaty napkin. She offers one of the white orbs to Eddie, but he either doesn’t hear or doesn’t want it. Or then again, maybe he’s pissed at her. During the past two weeks, they haven’t talked about what her revolver was doing at the club. She hopes there’s no reason to talk about it now. She figures Eddie must know. Or he can guess. Or he knows enough to guess that no good can come from talking about it. She can’t muster the courage to put her shame about that night into language. Those words are an avalanche she’s waiting to call down upon herself. A weight from which she’ll never be unburied.
That night, if I’d stopped him from going to the show,
Shaun would still be alive.
That night, if I’d had the guts, Florian would still be alive.
I should’ve shot myself.
Eddie is quiet now. The only sounds come from the thrash of his limbs as he clears the way. Xenie turns her attention to the birdsong volleyed from tree to tree. She alternately tries to pick out the individual strains and listen to the diverse voices as a unified tune. The refrains are faithfully recorded and redoubled by the mockingbirds, their echoes added to the insistent chorus. Tucked inside her sweater, a sheet of song lyrics and chords itches against her like a rash.
* * *
Black clouds of gnats whine around her face. Knee-high ferns and scrub hardwoods press closer. Unseen creatures patter and rustle around them. Xenie can’t shake the feeling that she shouldn’t be here. There’s an uneasy sensation her presence is being monitored. Even the pine needles seem to be conversing. Each needle a tongue too small to be seen.
* * *
She dreads arriving at the cemetery because she’s going to have to keep her promise. The path ahead is scored and banded by heavy shadows. As the branches sway, the specks of brightness dotting the forest floor shrink. She stares up at the dark canopy. Trees eat light.
* * *
She stops to stretch her spasming back. As she slings the case over a different shoulder, she jostles Shaun’s electric guitar. They’re both spooked to hear it emit a few fugitive twangs. A panicked expression bobs to the surface of Eddie’s face.
—You have the song? he asks.
Xenie produces the yellow sheet from inside her sweater. She unfolds the legal-sized page and holds it out as further proof. There’s a precocious neatness to the penmanship of the lyrics and chords. It’s one of the first songs Florian and Shaun wrote together as kids. She remembers how rapt Shaun became when he talked about these early tunes, describing them as if they’d been conjured supernaturally.
Eddie discovered the song combing through Florian’s things at the Bunker. He asked Xenie to sing it as part of the last rites, and she agreed out of a crippling sense of guilt. There’s so much guilt spread across the living and the dead that she isn’t sure to whom she feels most beholden. Though she’s resigned to this performance, even touching the paper fills her with nausea.
I should have ripped up the song the first time he showed it to me.
As Eddie leads them along the winding curve of a creek, they’re jolted by a gunshot. Xenie realizes he’s sobered up enough to be worried, though stoned enough to keep moving. He shuffles through the rank, spreading weeds and stalks of burrs. She lets him round the bend a few steps ahead of her.
A hunter stands on the bank over a young doe. It looks badly wounded, its hooves twitching feebly at the air. He keeps circling it, rifle barrel extended, and pumps a fresh shot into its small belly. He maintains a wary perimeter, as if afraid to get too close to the dying animal.
* * *
As Eddie and Xenie approach, the hunter removes his cap and flashes a bashful grin. He’s a scrawny teenager decked out in baggy secondhand camouflage. He has a bulging Adam’s apple and cheeks full of tobacco. His bland green eyes glitter in his thin face. They’re as opaque and empty as jewels.
He has the same expression as the other shooters.
The so-called zombies.
Maybe it takes someone like me to recognize it.
The boy stands the barrel of his rifle in the dirt and spits chaw on the ground. He says: You hunting deer?
—Not us, says Xenie.
—Neither of you is wearing the orange.
—No, says Xenie.
—Sure you’re not hunting deer?
—Absolutely, says Xenie.
—That’s my trick for sneaking up on deer, the boy says. Not wearing the orange. But it isn’t working so well. They’re hiding from me. Except this one, but it was hurt when I run across it. Any deer the way you came?
—No, Eddie says. He stares quizzically at the boy, like he’s having trouble pulling him into focus.
—Actually, I think we heard a few, says Xenie. In fact, I’m pretty sure we did.
She stares meaningfully over her shoulder and waits to see if the boy will set out on the trail of her hint.
—I can see the sickness that’s ruining these creatures, the boy says. It’s a gift I got. Somebody has to put them out of their misery.
—Somebody has to do it, says Xenie.
—There’s a cash reward for the person who kills the most, the boy says. I’m thinking maybe I’m going to burn down the woods and smoke the deer out. They’ll have to come running. That way I’m sure to get every last one of the herd.
The boy smiles, a lopsided contortion reminiscent of the aftereffects of a stroke.
—You’re funny, Xenie says.
—You all are the funny ones, he says. Look like you’re aiming to serenade the furries.
—We’re here for a funeral, Eddie says.
—I didn’t see no dead people, the boy says.
—They’re everywhere, Eddie says.
The boy’s laughter sounds like leaves crackling underfoot.
—As long as you’re not hunting, he says. I can’t have no competition.
He hoists up his rifle and heads in the direction they came.
—Don’t you want this deer? Xenie calls.
—It’s too small, he says. You can have it.
* * *
Eddie and Xenie stand over the doe. Its stomach has been blown open, displaying slick and viscous inner organs. Its body radiates warmth. Xenie kneels next to the animal and smooths its blood-matted fur. She strokes its neck and looks into the large wet stones of its eyes. A reflection of herself swims in the black expanse of its pupils. Then the deer seizes, a sudden jerky exhalation, a spasm of its nervous system and a final rasping breath. Its last shudders shake loose a white rope of intestines and Xenie screams.
I’m the last thing it saw. I watched it change
from something living to something dead.
She bends over the creek, wrings her hands in the water, and frantically tries to slough off the warm blood. She watches as the ruby hues and musky smell dissipate into the current and disperse downstream. Let’s get this over with, she says.
* * *
Eddie says it’ll be quicker to walk up the shallows of the creek. They hang their shoes round their necks by the laces, roll up their jeans, and tighten the straps on his backpack and her guitar case. Eddie wades out a few yards and establishes a foothold in the slippery sediment. He helps Xenie take the first awkward steps into the bracing water. As they start upstream, neither lets go of the other’s hand.
* * *
The water laps at their shins. As the weight on their backs shifts, they strain to stay balanced while striding against the current. As she sloshes alongside Eddie, she tries to imagine Shaun carrying out this sort of pilgrimage and has a hard time picturing it. Maybe her mind balks simply because time doesn’t flow that way. She keeps her eyes on her feet, maneuvering around loose branches, moss-slicked rocks, rubbery strands of lichen. The creek bed feels terraced, a series of silt steps. Each movement leaves a wake imprinted on the water.
* * *
The creek turns a muddy emerald green, full of dubious sediment, an augury of the coming seasonal change. A chill breeze whisks their bodies. Xenie hugs her sweater tight. Eddie’s unruly hair rustles across his forehead, revealing his recently retouched blond roots. She kept fumbling with the dye, but it turned out halfway decent due to his patience. She’s grateful he still trusts her after everything that’s happened. She kisses the back of his neck, turned on by the faint odor of ammonia that clings to him.
* * *
Eddie has become increasingly alert, swiveling his head to acknowledge the landmarks along the shore.
He says: Florian’s mom belonged to this church that believed music should only be used for important ceremonies. That way it’d keep its power. Anything else was a waste. When we sang at the funeral, it was so intense that Florian passed out.
—His mom believed music could guide the dead person’s soul on their journey, he says. Let them know they weren’t alone. Sing them home.
—I guess that’s what Florian wants us to do for him, he says.
It’s always about paying tribute to the dead.
It’s never about trying to make the living feel better.
Xenie spots a noose tied to a branch, dangling over the water. Then she realizes it must be the remnant of a rope swing from when this used to be a swimming hole. They stand in an expanse of water whose glassy surface is undisturbed. The only suggestion of current is the slight tickle between their toes. Yellow leaves tumble from surrounding trees, and their reflections hurry to meet them out of the watery depths. Xenie snares one of the spinning leaves and is surprised how it crumbles beneath her fingertips.
—These leaves must’ve been dead a long time, she says.
Eddie isn’t listening. He’s scrambled onto the grassy bank and is headed toward an expansive clearing. She moves after him through the shallows, the song a persistent itch in her pocket.
* * *
The hinges of the cemetery gate are rusted shut. They swing their legs over the knee-high i
ron fence that encircles the graveyard. The rows of burial mounds spark uncomfortable memories of the mound they encountered in the homeless encampment. Their bare feet register the warm terrain, the sodden ground stretching out a soft carpet of grass, dotted with spongy moss and mulched leaves. Nature has overrun everything. The plaques, the marble crosses, the angels with upturned eyes are swaddled in coats of orange lichen. The epigraphs have been scrubbed away by obstinate years and insistent weather, so it’s impossible to make out more than the inscribed echo of family names.
* * *
Despite herself, Xenie is affected by the defiled beauty of the place. She can understand why Florian loved to come here. There’s a serenity to the effaced stones and sunken rot. The only thing that hasn’t been reclaimed by the earth is the black granite marker of the most recent resident. Eight letters are emphatically etched into the center of its shiny surface: JEANETTE.
* * *
They stand before the grave of Florian’s mother. The headstone is ringed with cherub dolls, plastic bouquets, and half-melted candles, alternately bleached and blackened by the weather. Xenie stares at the ornamental rose chiseled into the granite tombstone. The sculpted lines of its petals are already becoming smooth. Soon the stone will express nothing about its resident and signify only its own resilience.
—Who was she? Xenie asks.
—Florian didn’t talk much about her, Eddie says. I remember her being calm and kind. She had a lisp, but it disappeared whenever she’d sing and play the piano. I thought maybe she was practicing hymns, but Florian said she made up most of the songs.
—Her death was a big deal in town, he says. Even people who didn’t know her well came out for the funeral. This whole place was filled with mourners and wreaths of flowers.
—The burglar who killed her was just a kid, he says, but he shot her in the face. People were shocked by the brutality of it. They had to have a closed casket.