Call Me Kid

by Billy Sharpe

  “Miss, you’re going to learn to shoot a gobbler. Or would you rather put salt on a wild turkey’s tail?” The Kid shoved Spiffy in the ribs, triggering a storm of coyote howls.

  Jennifer tightened her lips and dropped a stitch in her knitting. “Kid, not ‘bout to fire a gun in this house. Even the numb nut college girl in our dorm that gave me the nickname I.Q. would have better sense.” She shook her head and continued knitting without repairing the faulty stitch.

  “Listen, Jennifer. We can handle this. Spiffy, lower the window. Put this plastic soft drink bottle on the top of the frame. We’ll worry about the screen next spring.”

  He stiffened, and an uncomfortable hunch swept him. He tried to shake the intuition, but the cold blast from the open window reinforced his instinct. Had his reaction drawn attention? No.

  Ervin entered, laid the .410 and a box of shells on the Kid’s desk, and moved to the back of the room.

  His nimbleness improving, the Kid’s thumb snapped the release. The breach popped open, revealing an empty chamber. He displayed the shotgun for examination and, picking up a live three-inch load with his right hand, held the article up for stage management. He then laid the object in the palm of his left hand to allow additional inspection.

  The next move would be typical Kid. With his hands moving faster than the jump of a camel cricket, he ordered: “Everybody look at the bottle!” This statement redirected their eyes, preventing detective work. So the Kid palmed the red charge, and then snapped the empty breach shut before their eyes reconnected to the gun, the round of ammunition, or his movements.

  The Kid smirked: “Think you can shatter the container with this four-ten, Samantha?”

  She jumped from her seat, seized the shotgun away from the balance, and labored to bring the machine to her shoulder while spreading her legs far apart.

  He wiped his face using his right hand. “Mercy, what sloppiness!”

  She yanked the trigger. As the firing pin fell on an empty hole, a sound rang from the .410, since nothing lay in the orifice. Without a percussion cap to detonate and powder to burn, no explosion occurred, which resulted in a click originating from the chamber.

  Everyone but the Kid and Spiffy got the jitters. The Kid clicked often for emphasis, and he sounded like the firearm. All eyes darted back and forth from the firearm to him.

  He sucked in air. “I’m not sure which upsets me the most, Samantha, the icy wind or your gun handling skills.”

  “First,” said Samantha. “Why does the cold trouble you? Aren’t you the Tobacco Land Kid? The weather shouldn’t worry you.”

  The Kid nodded. “I don’t understand. The breeze just gave me an inner chill. Let’s talk about your unspeakable shotgun management. Had the chamber held a live load, you would’ve missed. The snatch pulls the .410 off target. You must concentrate on a firm, steady draw.”

  She gazed at him. “No more tricks, please. How do you cock the piece?”

  “All you do is draw the hammer back and keep the finger out of the trigger guard. You will hear the cocking mechanism connecting with the sear. It’s armed differently in a turkey woods. Listen. In the forest, bring the initiator to the rear. Pull the mallet all the way back. Release the starter. Now you hear no click.”

  “If I miss, I’ll snap open the breach like you did, insert a second shell, aim, and fire again. Correct?”

  “You won’t be able to chamber an additional round. The turkey will be fifty yards away.”

  “Gosh Kid, you serious?

  “Damn right, Samantha. Even those shooters with autoloaders or pump actions don’t get off a good second shot. So the first must count.”

  “Let me say this: I don’t like profanity. I’m a lady.”

  “Very well. Now, let’s get down to fundamentals. Now aim, then fire at the bottle with the empty .410.”

  After drawing a bead, she pulled the trigger. This time the barrel stayed in place.

  “Better?”

  “Yeah, you’ll be shooting number fours. Why? Because I say so. Most use fives or sixes. I disagree. Those woodsmen are wrong. Something is needed to not only break bone, but also to snap small twigs in the process of arriving at the target, which are the head and the top six inches of his neck. By the way, the fours will give you more range.”

  “I’m getting cold feet. Let’s wait until the spring so I can practice this stuff.” She hesitated. “No, I have cancer. Let’s go this winter.”

  “Ervin, here’s my drivers’ license. Go online and get me a Virginia hunting license. Call Warren. Tell him to order a Virginia license. The season has a couple of days to run there. Have one of his boys bring the permit. She is a minor; she can hunt on his. Now, all leave except for Spiffy.”

  The group filed out of the game room. Spiffy, resembling a squire for a knight or else a plain nut job, jumped from his chair and knelt on one knee to await orders.

  The Kid touched Spiffy’s shoulder. Like a jack in the box, Spiffy sprang back.

  “Spiffy, what do you think of this situation?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  The Kid sat with his chin resting on the thumb and index finger of his left hand. Leaning forward, he told him to go to a sporting goods store and outfit her from head to toe with the best of clothing. Pausing, he wiped his brow before changing course.

  “This venture may produce no fruit. Nevertheless, the child will earn some memories, but above all, when her dad comes to get her, she must be in good health unless she declines due to her disease.”

  Though seated, he jacked up his pants. He asked Spiffy to join the hunt; if he stuck to the end, at the conclusion, a prize would be his.

  With his black-bear teeth and mule-like shredding motions, Spiffy tore at the chewing gum. Using his linebacker hands, he swept back his straight shoulder-length, jet-black hair, causing his biceps to swell to softball size. “Stick with you? Put it in the bank.”

  “Success is doubtful, yet, something crawling in my subconscious says, ‘maybe.’”

  Spiffy stopped chewing. “Remember your faith in God.”

  “Mine is deep and strong, but some things aren’t meant to be. I’m glad for the memory of the eighteen bull’s eyes at Fishburne. The past is better, since the future doesn’t exist for me. Anyway, I need to shake these tremors about this first hunt.”

  “Aw yeah, sure you can, but the weatherman says we’re in for a reinforcement of this cold air. A low pressure system from the Gulf of Mexico is cranking up, putting its snout into all that water.”

  “Gonna’ get rough, huh?”

  Halting the gum whacking, he smiled. When he grinned, his mouth took the shape of a vampire priming the pump for a midnight snack. “Your health good enough for this venture?”

  “Think so. If for some reason I can’t carry her out of the woods, can you?”

  Spiffy thumped The Last of the Mohicans on his right knee. “Like a sack of onions. Hey, I liked that misdirection trick using the goat.”

  “Used that stunt in bar fights. If ever in a death fight, I’ll use the maneuver. Wait. In case you’re on the scene, put the method into play.”

  ***

  The Kid crawled into bed. With a grab, he covered himself and then, pulling the spread back, he stood and sank to his knees; he begged the Almighty for strength to stay away from the bottle. With the completion of his plea, he lay down.

  The doorknob squeaked.

  “Come in, Jennifer. What took you?”

  She laid an afghan she had knitted on top of him. “How did you know to expect me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “You doing better. Hang on. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you and Samantha go hunting. Kid, remember…”

  “I can tell…Heck. Go ahead.”

  “You don’t mind me telling you ‘bout Sarah from my college days?”

  Silence.

  “You sure, Kid?”

  Silence.

  “Sarah never called me I.Q. or Basketball Ass. She was sweet to me. She married a den
tist who was a stud. She said he could really ‘pull and fill’.” She chuckled. “‘Sarah, doctor in the house?” More chuckling. She broke wind. More chuckling.

  He shook his head and pulled the pillow over his face while mentally seeing the afghan loaded with defective stitches and Jennifer’s head loaded with…

  Chapter 11

  The red six-year-old 1905, four-by-four pickup, fully loaded, careened from the driveway with tires screeching and Spiffy at the wheel. The Kid rode shotgun and Samantha lounged in the backseat, her left arm cradled around the three-foot clown doll with the tear-streaked face. She enjoyed herself, smiling and stroking the doll’s purple hair. The Kid swiveled in his seat to prepare to indoctrinate Samantha with the fact that complete authority in this operation belonged to him.

  “Did you pack the medicine, ah, for depression?”

  “Yes; don’t pester me.”

  “I assume you also carry your dad’s hunting license. You’d better, because turkey season’s out in the area of Virginia we’re planning to hunt. We don’t need further complications.”

  “Yup, Kid. I understand... What! Out of season!”

  Yes, I’ve never hunted the other part. Don’t know the territory. Not to worry. Nobody can find me in the forest.” He stroked the back of his neck. “Perhaps one.”

  “Clue me in. Put me on the know wagon, Kid.”

  “Later.”

  “Samantha squirmed and smirked. “Later, later, later.”

  The Kid ignored her disrespect. “Some new orders for you. If I say, fingers in ears, eyes shut, you comply without question. Do you understand?”

  “I guess.”

  “You never make any decisions or attempt to influence mine.”

  “I need to go to the bathroom now.”

  “Stop at the next suitable place, Spiffy.”

  The Kid was quick, smart, and perceptive. These attributes grew like spot-welds into his DNA, and as a result, he would guard future statements to prevent backfires. Being human, he laid his frustrations on the good-natured, easygoing Spiffy.

  “For heaven’s sake, chew something else.”

  Spiffy replaced the chewing gum with two garlic cloves, and his gnawing released the aroma of the vegetable into the cab. The smell sent the Kid into a sentimental mood. While tears formed, a lump inflated in his throat. He gazed down, because the odor reminded him of his late father’s welding business. The acetylene producers added a garlic odor to the fuel tanks for safety. This scent disappeared when the hand held striker ignited a fiery torrent at the torch tip; nevertheless, the fragrance brought memories. He shuddered. One day, he and his nine-year-old twin sister, Faith, had finished their cleaning chores at the shop. They slipped away to swim in a pond. Halfway across, she slid beneath the surface. Terrified, with arms thrashing, he swam to the spot, but didn’t find her in the murky water. He vowed if anything like that happened again, he would die trying to change the outcome. He mumbled. “Can still hear the arms flogging, the water splashing.”

  Spiffy’s lips tightened. “What, Kid? You okay?”

  “Yeah, be quiet. Keep driving.”

  ***

  A search located three motel rooms in Danville, Virginia.

  The next morning at four the Kid knocked first on Samantha’s door. Afterwards he woke Spiffy. In five minutes, he returned to her room. He tapped, and she admitted him.

  “Samantha, the temp’s dropping. Heck, the chill numbs me. Let me say this, Sam.”

  “Don’t ever call me Sam. I am a woman. You spell the name S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A.”

  “The thermometer shows thirty degrees outside. Another cold front’s coming behind this one. The weather report says a snowstorm will start around dark tonight, because a low-pressure system is moving up from the Gulf of Mexico. The system’s sticking a leg in the water, which will pick up moisture to sling snow from Georgia to New York. The coast has to prepare, too. Whatcha’ say we write this trip off to business? Go home and concentrate on strength training and wait for winter to end.”

  “I might be dead before next spring. Are you forgetting?”

  “No, Samantha, but I may lose you before tomorrow morning if the weather’s as bad as they say. I’m so weak, carrying you out will be too difficult.”

  With each hand, she clutched her hair. Her voice lifted to a crescendo “I’ll meet my ancestors and cherish the fact that at least I tried to bag a trophy gobbler. Running’s not in the game!”

  “Gotcha’ gun, shells, and everything?”

  “Yup.”

  “Wait by the truck,”

  Eight minutes later, the three were navigating Piney Forest Road in Danville, Virginia.

  ***

  The quick hands of Spiffy, allied with the directions of the Kid, steered the red four-by-four into an ascending rocky path.

  “Stop here, Spiffy.” He put a foot on the ground before the vehicle halted.

  He opened the smaller back door. “Are you chilly, Samantha?”

  “What do you think, oh Wise one?”

  He thought. Ignore her smarty-pants talk. “Take the chill as best you can. Even your ancestors shivered. They hunkered down sometimes, too.”

  She gave a nod. “As long as the departure from these woods is honorable.”

  The Kid thought. Did the statement link to her depression? Don’t ask.

  “Here’s the deal. Spiffy stays here.” As the Kid spoke, Spiffy’s head nodded while he crammed a pack of chewing gum into his mouth. “Samantha, carry this black pouch, the .410 and five shells. One shell is all you’ll need.”

  A quiver ran up his spine. “Spiffy, grab the blaze orange roll of marking tape out of the glove compartment. Cram the ribbon into her bag.”

  “Why five shells?”

  “Perhaps you’ll get a shot,” said the Kid. “If we do, and you miss, we change locations and try again, after we allow time for the forest to settle down… Enough talk. Snap the breach open, chamber a shell, close the mechanism. Don’t shoot yourself, Spiffy, or me.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Very funny, Kid.”

  He thought. She shows accurate and quick fingers. “Your handling of the exercise impresses me.”

  “Thanks, Kid. What does ‘let the outdoors settle’ mean?”

  “You’ll learn, Spiffy. Samantha, you listen, too. Check the eastern sky, at sunrise— if clouds conceal the sun, the weatherman’s timetable comes into question. The snowstorm may arrive sooner than they think. Spiffy, we’ll be about a mile or two back in the woods. In case I need you, I’ll ring your cell. Do not come stomping into the forest unless I call. A tom turkey might lurk near us. You’ll spook him. Now, how can you find me?”

  Spiffy pulled at his belt buckle. “Easy, which way are you going?”

  With a nod, he signaled. “Dead south.”

  “With the compass, I sight to the furthest tree, then the next, and so forth until I find you.”

  “Okay. Crank the engine if you get cold.”

  “Once the sun rises, the truck will get warmer,” said Spiffy.

  “Don’t bet on the fact, Spiffy. Let’s go, Sam.”

  “Don’t be a dorkster. My name’s Samantha.”

  He dropped to one knee. His companions followed suit. “We’re an odd pair. An alcoholic and a dying Native American girl. You, the Mysterious One, distinguish whether or not we succeed, but also what is in store for us. God, we implore, help us. Her quest kindles a thirst in her mind and in her heart. If not triumph, death quenches her desire. Nevertheless, to go without fear is in itself a proof of faith. With humility, we place ourselves in your hands.”

  Eager yet reserved, confident yet cautious, happy yet not maudlin, they ventured forth with the Kid leading, over a fallen tree, around rocks, across thin brushwood while enjoying the light of a three-quarter moon shining through the whisper of a coming storm.

  With sound and the grip of his coat, she followed the prodigy. “You’re something.”

  They stopped. He took her arm. “I’m a
failure. Let’s stay until dawn.”

  “Why here, Kid? To make sure the one person who can track you isn’t slipping up on us? What’s-his-name?”

  Whispering, he delivered a sketch of the Chameleon and his actions, as revealed to him by a friend who worked at the police department. “He’s a man of secrecy, a master of camouflage and, using these qualities, he moves in the forest like a wisp, sometimes leaving food with a card to sleeping turkey hunters. But he has another side: murdering people. Killing because he sensed some justification. Furthermore, he recognized a call to duty. These standards—-perhaps erroneous—-left law enforcement with one word—vigilante. He sliced two men’s throats, he inserted his card in their mouths, probably before they bled out. First, he drove a spike to create a pilot hole. Using a sharpened length of three-eighths-inch rebar threaded on both ends, he hammered from the peak of their skulls, angled to exit near the throat. To show finesse, to demonstrate art, to do the ultimate final additions, with four round pieces of metal with a hole in the center— washers— an adjustable wrench, and two nuts, he bound the victims’ jaws. The nuts and washers secured the rebar at the top and bottom.

  “Oh me, my gosh, Kid, I can’t believe you.” With wide eyes, she took a breath.

  “Show no concern, Sugar. You won’t meet up with him. In fifteen minutes, the light will be brighter. This is a good place to listen for turkeys flying down. You cold or tired?”

  “Both. I’m fine. I’m alive.”

  With misty eyes, warmth, love, and kinship swept him. “Samantha, in the truck, I imagined you, me, and my twin sister played. You were the youngest.”

  “You belong to me. Think of me as a daughter and a sibling, too. Jennifer told me about her.”

  They lingered for first light. In ten minutes, the fingers became visible at fifteen inches. In thirty, the black had switched to gray. In forty, the nudity of a December woods appeared.

  From a tree, a hen clucked.

  “That cluck is their talk for ‘where are you׳,” whispered the Kid into Samantha’s ear.

  The hen repeated the cry. She flew. Nearing the ground, she pierced the forest with a chattering fly-down cackle. Nak, nak,nak,nak. The helicopter like whump-whump of her wings promoted a soft landing fifty yards from their position. She stood invisible in the dim light.