“Dad, can we get this over with? I need to get back and practice for my lesson tomorrow.”
My God, he couldn’t even think about that woman without her apparition appearing.
“Mrs. Kimbrough can wait. But I’m curious. Why is it you can remember your violin lesson, but you forgot about our hike this morning?”
“How should I know? I told you. Mostly I can’t remember stuff, but sometimes I do. I can’t control which. All I know is I need to practice.” Pierre sat back down on the rock with a thump.
Claude smeared a crooked/ironic smile on his face, held his hand out—which Pierre grabbed—and pulled the boy back to his feet. They laughed a bit at their choreography and then began to hike toward the northern edge of the property. Soon they arrived at a clearing surrounded by white pines, the destination for their morning practice session. Pierre yawned and then gave Claude a “do we really have to?” look.
“We’re only gonna shoot in the air.” Claude poked his finger toward the sun and then into Pierre’s chest for emphasis, harder than he meant to. The boy staggered back on his heels.
“Won’t people hear the shots? It’s not hunting season,” Pierre said, rubbing his chest. “Even I know that,” he added.
Claude closed his eyes and forced himself to count to five. “We’re so far north nobody’ll know where the shots are coming from, even if they do hear them. Which they won’t. Stop worrying.”
“But why are we acting as if we’re hunting? Because we’re not. Not really—right, Dad?”
“We’re acting as if because hunting is serious business. Even if we mean to kill nothing. Like today. This is a test run for when we do it for real.”
Claude rummaged around in his backpack for two fresh pairs of earplugs from the stash he always kept on hand, both in plastic wrappers. Pierre made a small drama of ripping the package open and jamming the plugs deep into his ears. Then, when Claude next spoke, Pierre screamed, “What?!” For a moment, this little comedy sketch made Claude feel connected to his boy. Just as quickly, the giddiness evaporated, because he knew very well what separated them. Claude wanted to have a silly day and do boy-like things. He wanted to take risks and cut corners in every direction and then get away scot-free, doing things like shooting rifles off-season. But all of this potential camaraderie was now in question because his son had been damaged. Claude could not bring himself to fully acknowledge that since his accident, Pierre had turned odd and was interested in things that might as well have come from Mars. Like the violin and his lessons with Sandra Kimbrough, as just one example. And as if to pile it on, the Kimbrough property to the east now appeared as some wonderland worthy of a painter he couldn’t name. He knew Sandra Kimbrough was not personally responsible for nature’s bounty. But she loomed as omnipotent—over land, over Celine, and over his boy.
Claude beckoned to Pierre, who skipped over with the rifle and nestled against him. “Okay, let’s get some shots off.” Claude knew the boy’s face without seeing it: withered, reluctant.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” Pierre said with a sigh.
With Pierre in front of him, Claude crouched down and wrapped his arms around the boy. Then he cupped his own hands over Pierre’s, with both their fingers at the trigger location of the rifle. He guided it all around, aiming high and low, right and left, mentally urging the boy to relax. With every movement, he felt Pierre’s body—stiff and resistant.
“The safety is on, Pierre.”
With that simple assurance, the boy seemed to sag in a good way, and they continued making these motions so Pierre would trust the rifle, and Claude. Just as he was about to release the safety and aim into the sky, a large smudge of brown, off in the distance, stopped Claude.
“Dad?” Pierre, for once, seemed eager to proceed.
Claude said nothing, but squeezed the boy’s torso hard on either side with his upper arms, a signal to remain quiet. After several seconds the smudge began to move, and Claude knew he’d have this thing. He leaned down and whispered, “Hold still, boy. Looks like we got one.”
THE MOOSE HAD recovered physically from her ordeal. Lacerations at her throat soon healed, thin scarring now the only outward evidence. General trauma, though, produced stressor hormones in her milk, and this had diminished her calf. Since his birth a few days after her capture and escape, he’d grown at a slower rate and could not seem to fill out. Yet in spite of his scrawny build, the calf tested his muscles and dexterity by scampering about and jumping over downed tree limbs, never wandering far from her smell or calls.
Now in the woods farther north, the moose and her calf roamed among and around thick trees as she searched for food suitable to bolster her newborn. Rounding a bend, she came upon an exposed land depression with a clump of desirable trees in the center. The moose fed on branches, stripping the greenery in one motion and gnashing them with her back molars. Her calf ran up to nurse, and she stopped to allow his head to come in between her hindquarters. He sucked hard for several minutes and then went still. It was as if his month-old instincts were now sharper than hers. Perhaps her vigilance no longer served her. Because what could the moose do but relent when the unnatural world presented her with an experience like that place of death? So it was only when her calf backed away from her udder that she raised her head high. And only then did she see the patch of orange.
THOUGH CLAUDE DIRECTED every inch of movement, they aimed the rifle in tandem toward the brown smudge. Then he carefully released the safety.
“Squeeze it, boy,” he ordered in a soft voice.
Pierre froze.
“I said squeeze,” Claude whispered tersely.
“It’s illegal, Dad.”
The boy’s voice took on a whiney tone with some amount of defiance. This meant very little to Claude. Not while he was hunting. When it came to animals, he would demand a lot from his son. Trust, of course. Bravery would be a wonderful bonus. But it was important for Pierre to understand that this was a collusion. Like a business deal that, though a gamble, would eventually benefit everyone.
“We’re gonna do this.”
Pierre began a louder protest, but the sound of his voice was obliterated by the blast Claude forced by squeezing Pierre’s finger against the trigger.
ONE DISCHARGE RANG out. The calf’s front legs flew out from under his small body while his back legs remained rigid and straight, causing his rump to protrude in the air. His head landed hard on a rock, causing his neck to take on an unnatural slant. Red gushed from his mouth and spewed across a thin patch of snow, the contrast in color stark. Within a few seconds, his back end shivered and collapsed. He lay on his side, eyes open, tongue extended past his lips, which curled up as if in a snarl. Blood, mixed with milk, continued to express from his mouth and saturate the ground. The moose felt all her energy wither as she watched her calf negotiate the shock of his wound with useless writhing. She pushed her snout into his midsection. He rolled in one direction, then immediately lolled back. She observed his skin twitching but knew death was near. She took to a full gallop from a standing position.
CLAUDE COULDN’T BELIEVE he’d missed the thing. The animal, and at this distance it looked to be a large deer, took off at a speed he’d never get used to—probably thirty miles an hour or so. In spite of knowing he didn’t have a chance in hell of hitting it, he began, on instinct, to reload. Anyway, it was good for Pierre to see what hunters did, what steps to take. Never give up on the animal. That was a hunter’s implicit responsibility. His hands shook as he pulled more bullets out of his vest pocket. That’s when he noticed the boy sprawled on the ground, pointing toward Kimbroughs’ land.
“I see red!” Pierre yelled, with one hand covering his left ear, the pain of the blast obviously intense despite the plugs.
“Nope.” Claude shrugged, shaking his head.
“You hit something, Dad.”
“It took off,” Claude insisted.
“That’s red!” Pierre rose to his knees and
extended both arms, pointing as if he were shooting. The boy’s hunter stance struck Claude as ironic, and he almost chuckled.
But there was red. Looking across his land from higher ground into Kimbroughs’, Claude saw the bright liquid spreading. He completed reloading knowing that whatever it was, he’d have to put it down. Claude pulled Pierre up by his hand and together they raced down the slope. About two hundred feet from the animal, Pierre broke ahead. He squatted down by its head and placed his hands on the rib cage.
“It’s a baby,” Pierre said, looking back and testing a smile.
Claude knew that Pierre imagined they could somehow save it from death. He set the gun in the crook of his arm. “Move away from it, boy. It could be diseased,” Claude advised quietly.
“We can nurse it, Dad. I know we can,” Pierre reasoned with the naïvety of a child promising to take a new puppy out like clockwork four times a day, having no clue as to the commitment. He repositioned himself behind the animal to avoid the blood that continued to drain from its mouth. Then he reached over and covered the animal’s eyes with his hands to protect it from seeing its own fate. The calf shifted its head about an inch, an involuntary motion, Claude knew. But now Pierre began to stroke the animal’s flank as if encouraging it to wake up.
“You’re making it worse. Move away from it, Pierre,” Claude said calmly.
Pierre scooted back a few feet. “No gun. Please, Dad.”
“Okay, son.” Claude set the safety into position and placed the rifle behind him. Pierre snuffed back tears, smiling broadly toward the sky as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Now Claude knelt to inspect the animal. A cloud of white mucus had moved over its eyeballs, still open but vacuous. The fur was slick with wet and had begun to steam up from the differential in temperature, inside and out. Claude winced; the animal had just involuntarily evacuated its last meal and the odor floated around them. And yet blood continued to flow from the bullet wound. These concurrences of bodily functions were perplexing, and Claude was momentarily mesmerized. Though he had caused this, he felt in awe of the rituals of the body as it moved toward death.
Killing a deer wouldn’t have been a catastrophe, even off-season. It happened more often than not, and if the opportunity knocked, local wisdom held that you might as well answer that door. But Claude now grunted with discomfort because this was a moose calf, and that was about as bad as it got. It was something no Mainer, including Claude, would ever consider, if only to ensure future hunting seasons. Beyond that cynical reasoning, a moose calf was sacred in a population that continuously dwindled due to all manner of challenges. Looking at the calf now, Claude saw that it was no bigger than a very large dog. Its flank was gaunt, with ribs protruding and weirdly separated. Claude took hold of the calf’s hoof and gently flipped the animal over. The bullet had entered its neck on the other side. He dragged his hand across the body and pressed hard onto the flesh to make sure it was truly dead.
“It’s gone. Lucky we didn’t need the gun. But we’ve got to get it on our land,” Claude said, worried about potential blowback if Kimbrough discovered what he’d done.
“Why?” Pierre asked.
“You want the front legs or the back?” Claude said, ignoring his question.
Pierre only shrugged.
“What’s it weigh? A hundred pounds or so? Not even. Between the two of us we can handle it,” Claude said, smiling to encourage Pierre.
Together they picked up the carcass by the hoofs and trudged back up the slope. The thing slung like a hammock, its body flattening the grasses with blood dribbling behind like a trail of liquid crumbs. Claude directed them to a cluster of trees, surely recognizable for when he’d later make arrangements to deal with the body. They lay the animal down and piled dirt and leaves on top.
“Are you sure it’s dead?”
“It’s dead,” Claude assured him, nodding gravely.
“You’ll bury it?”
“Tomorrow, most likely.”
“I want a picture.” Pierre already had his phone out, aiming at the dead animal.
Claude quickly grabbed the phone from Pierre and pulled the boy to him. “Why don’t we take a selfie instead?” he suggested.
Pierre fit perfectly into the crook of his body, and Claude stretched his arm out to take the shot. They both inspected the picture, which appeared as a typical memento of a father-and-son outing on a Saturday morning in the Maine woods. Then Pierre pulled out the slip of paper he’d secreted in his shirt pocket just an hour before and jotted a few more words.
“Oh, no. Gimme that,” Claude said, trying to pluck it from Pierre.
“It’s private,” Pierre protested weakly, but allowed his father to look at what he’d written on the paper.
First:
Falcon call
44.25 – 70.50
5-29-19
Then:
Rifle shot
THE ACCOMMODATIONS
SANDRA LET HERSELF INTO THE ROY HOME through the back door, which was always unlocked—a Maine custom. As she made her way through the mudroom, she could hear Pierre in his bedroom at the far end of the house attempting to tune his violin, not an easy feat for a young boy. She stopped to listen as he twisted the pegs back and forth until perfect fourth intervals slid into place. Sandra smiled and shook her head with amazement. After just a few weeks, he was getting the hang of it and all she could think was—wow. No doubt, the kid had it.
She saddled her purse straps over a wooden wall peg and turned to find Celine at the kitchen table with a cup of tea steeping in front of her. Close-cropped strawberry blonde hair mashed at odd angles from bed head framed Celine’s oval face and large green eyes. She was a small woman with no discernable bones, wonderfully smooth and round. Even her knuckles, as she lifted the cup to take a sip, hid under adult baby fat. Sandra, about as thin and boney as could be imagined, envied Celine’s apparent ability to feel comfortable with her plump beauty. She was without pretense and thoroughly likable, Sandra had found. Though it had taken them years—and more recently through Pierre’s travails—for the women to locate ease with one another.
Sandra helped herself to a cup of hot water from a copper kettle, threw in a lemon wedge, and cocked her hip at the counter. Celine trained a sly smile her way.
“What’s up?” Sandra asked.
“Claude’s working an extra shift today,” Celine announced with satisfaction. The idea of his absence made both women snicker, as if a prank were about to be played.
“It’s Sunday. What’s that … time and a half?” Sandra mused.
Celine rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in the money gesture. “Yeah. And I have the whole day to myself … till three, anyway. I should clean the house, but I feel like going back to bed,” she admitted, stretching her arms toward the ceiling while yawning.
Sandra noticed her white nightgown was badly yellowed under the armpits. Their eyes met and Celine, embarrassed, drew down her arms and pulled the teacup toward her. She lowered her head to meet the cup halfway, then tipped it to her mouth and took several gulps in a row.
“Why don’t you grab a nap? I’ll be with Pierre for the next hour,” Sandra suggested.
Celine nodded and palmed her lips of moisture, fingers jittering in front of her eyes, then released a sigh, as if even that effort drained her.
Sandra dragged out a chair and sat opposite Celine, whose face glistened with sweat despite a chill in the room. She reached over, took her neighbor’s hands and squeezed. Bolstered by this quiet kinship growing between them, Celine had gradually revealed to Sandra the difficulties Pierre was facing due to his memory loss. To a public Oslo, Pierre appeared as affable as ever. But at home, Celine confessed she didn’t recognize her son anymore. Pierre used to find amusement in everything. His cockeyed irony, hilarious. Now he’d stopped smiling, almost as if the muscles around his mouth were disabled. The one and only bright spot that had made a dent in Pierre’s otherwise gloomy disposit
ion had been learning the violin. And now that Celine was fully onboard with Sandra, the women had begun a persistent campaign to back off Claude. He was the third rail, like an unpredictable electrical spark, who refused to believe that music could ever influence his son for the positive, or even admit to Pierre’s considerable talent. As Sandra examined Celine’s tired eyes, she couldn’t help but wonder how, or even why, the Roys’ marriage remained intact.
Celine plucked a small white pill from beneath the saucer and tongued it down. “I’m gonna take a nap. A short one … I promise. But if I’m still asleep, wake me when you’re finished with Pierre?”
“Sure.”
Sandra grabbed a dirty sponge from the sink and was wiping some milk stains off the kitchen table when Pierre came barreling down the hall toward the kitchen. He stuck his head around the corner, violin in hand.
“I got it. I think,” he said, waving his bow at Sandra.
“Got what?” Sandra asked, rinsing her hands of sour smell.
“My bow arm!” Pierre sputtered, as if it were obvious.
“We’ll see about that,” Sandra said with a chuckle, though she had little doubt that whatever Pierre set his mind to, he’d accomplish.
Celine had already dragged her arms onto the table and settled her head. She began to snore her way into a pill-induced nap. Sandra quickly guided Pierre out of the kitchen. As she walked behind him, he swung his violin precariously low to the floor, back and forth as if sweeping leaves from their path. Sandra tapped Pierre on his head.
“Cut it out. Violins will bite if you don’t treat them with respect, you know.”
He propped the instrument on his shoulder like a baseball bat.
Oslo, Maine Page 3