High Hunt

by David Eddings

  At least he’d be somebody to talk to.

  I wheeled into a tavern parking lot, went in and ordered a beer. I borrowed a phone book from the bartender and leafed through the L’s. He was there all right: Larkin, Stanley, and right above it was Larkin, Monica. Same address, same number. I remembered that he’d mentioned a girl named Monica something or other in a couple of his letters, but I hadn’t paid much attention. Now it looked like he was married. I don’t know why, but he’d never seemed to be the type. I jotted down the number and the address and pushed the phone book back to the bartender.

  I finished my beer and had another, still debating with myself, kind of working myself up to calling him. I have to do that sometimes.

  “Hey, buddy, you got a pay phone?” I finally asked the bartender.

  He pointed back toward the can. I saw it hanging on the wall.

  “Thanks,” I said and went on back. I thumbed in a dime and dialed the number.

  “Hello?” It still sounded like him.

  “Stan? I didn’t really think I’d catch you at home. This is Dan—Dan Alders.”

  “Dan? I thought you were in the Army.”

  “Just got out last weekend. I’m staying here in town, and I thought I’d better look you up.”

  “I guess so. It’s good to hear your voice again. Where are you?” His enthusiasm seemed well-tempered.

  “Close as I can figure, about eighty-seven blocks from your place.”

  “That’s about a fifteen-minute drive. You have a car?”

  “Just got one. I think it’ll make it that far.”

  “Well then, come on over.”

  “You sure I won’t be interrupting anything?”

  “Oh, of course not. Come on, Dan, we know each other better than that.”

  “OK, Stan.” I laughed. “I’ll see you in about fifteen minutes then.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  I went back to the bar and had another beer. I wasn’t sure this was going to work out. I wouldn’t mind seeing Stan again, but we hadn’t really had a helluva lot in common to begin with, and now he was married, and that along with a couple of years can change a guy quite a bit.

  The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. I went out and climbed in my car. I pulled out of the lot and headed off toward his house, dodging dogs and kids on bicycles, and swearing all the way. It had all the makings of a real bust.

  Oddly enough, it wasn’t. Stan had aged a little. He was a bit heavier, and his forehead was getting higher. He was combing his hair differently to cover it. He was still neat to the point of fussiness. His slacks and sport shirt were flawlessly pressed, and even his shoe-soles were clean. But he seemed genuinely glad to see me, and I relaxed a bit. He showed me around a house that was like a little glass case in a museum, making frequent references to Monica, his wife. The house was small, but everything in it was perfect. I could almost feel the oppressive presence of his bride. The place was so neat that it made me wonder where I could dump my cigarette butt. Stan gracefully provided me with an ashtray—an oversized one, I noticed. He obviously hadn’t forgotten my slobby habits. He had changed in more ways than just his appearance. He seemed to be nervous—even jumpy. He acted like somebody who’s got a body in the cellar or a naked girl in the bedroom. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  We sat down in the living room.

  “How’s Susan?” he asked me.

  My stomach rolled over. “I wouldn’t know really,” I answered in as neutral a tone as possible.

  “But I thought you and she—”

  “So did I, Stan. But apparently she shopped around a bit while I was in Germany. She must have found somebody more acceptable to her mother—you know, some guy who thought that the Old Lady was a cross between the Virgin Mary, Joan of Arc, and Eleanor Roosevelt.”

  “I’m sorry, Dan. I really am.” He meant it.

  “Those are the breaks, old buddy,” I said. “It’s probably all for the best anyway. Her Old Lady and I probably would have been at each other’s throats most of the time anyway. About the first time I told her to stick those chest pains in her ear, the proverbial shit would have hit the proverbial fan.”

  “Did she have a bad heart?”

  “She had a useful heart. It may have been rotten to the core, but it was as sound as the Chase Manhattan Bank—how’s that for mixing metaphors?”

  “Scrambling them might be a little more precise.”

  “Anyway, the old bag would get this pained look on her face, and the old hand would start clutching at the maternal bosom anytime Sue and I were about to leave the house. One of the great weapons of motherhood, the fluttery ticker. My Old Lady never tried it. I don’t think she was ever sober enough.”

  “You still haven’t much use for motherhood, have you, Dan?” he asked me, an amused look on his face.

  “As an institution, it ranks just downstream of San Quentin,” I said sourly.

  Stan laughed. I think that’s one of the reasons he and I had gotten along. With him I could be as outrageous as I liked, and he was always amused. I’d never really offended him.

  “Could you drink a glass of wine?” he asked suddenly. The perfect host.

  “I can always drink—anything,” I told him.

  “Alders, you’re a boozer, you know that?”

  “It’s part of my charm.” I grinned at him.

  He went out to the kitchen and came back a minute later with two glasses of pink wine. “This is a fairly good little domestic rosé,” he said handing me one of the glasses.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Your manners, charm, and impeccable good taste are exceeded only by your unspeakable good looks.”

  “Steady on,” he said. He glanced at his watch. I seemed to catch that edginess again. Maybe I was imagining things.

  “How’s your gun eye?” I asked him. Oddly enough—or maybe not, when you think about it—Stan was a spectacular shotgunner. He’d started out on skeet and trap—gentlemanly, but not very nourishing in terms of meat in the pot—and had moved on up to birds. I’d actually seen him triple on ducks once—one mallard coming in high, another on a low pass right out in front of the blind, and a widgeon going away like a bat out of hell. He’d just raised up and very methodically dumped all three of them, one after another.

  “Probably a little rusty,” he said. “I’ve only been out to the range a few times this summer.”

  “You’d better get on it, old buddy,” I told him. “The season’s coming on, you know.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll get the chance to go out much this year,” he said regretfully. “Monica and I are pretty busy.”

  I got another flash of that nervousness from him. Something was definitely wrong. I decided to let it drop. I didn’t want to be grinding on any open sores.

  “Say,” I said suddenly, “do you ever hear from Maxwell?”

  “He was in California last I heard,” Stan said. Maxwell had been a sometime visitor when we had roomed together. He was a nut, but we’d both liked him.

  “Did he really burn his draft card that time?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Stan snorted. “He was just trying to make a big impression on a girl who had an acute case of politics. He told me later that he just pulled out one of those printed ID cards—you know, the kind that comes with the wallet—and set fire to it before anyone could see what it was. The real joke was that he was really 4-F or whatever they call it.”

  “You’re kidding. A hulk like that?”

  “He had a kidney removed when he was eleven. The military wouldn’t touch him.”

  “Man”—I laughed—“what a con artist. Did he ever make it with the girl?”

  “I suppose,” Stan said. “He usually did, didn’t he?”

  “That’s why he flunked out of school. If he’d spent half as much time on his classes as he did on those elaborate campaigns of seduction, he’d have chewed up the department.” I took a belt of his wine.

&nb
sp; “Alders, you know, you’re a beer drinker at heart. You drink a fine rosé like you would a glass of draft beer in a tavern two minutes before closing time.”

  “Baby, I’ve had the best. Liebfraumilch, Lacrima Christi, Piper Heidsieck—you name it, I’ve swilled it.”

  He winced. “What a word—swilled. All right, now that we’ve gotten past the amenities, tell me, how was Paris?” I should have known that was coming. Paris is always the favorite city of anybody who hasn’t been to Europe.

  “It’s a dirty town, Stan,” I said sadly, telling him the truth. “I think that all my life I’ve wanted it to be great, but it’s just another dirty town with a lot of dirty people trying to stick their hands in your pockets. Berlin was wild, very sad; Florence was lovely—but the flood—” I shrugged. “Venice is a crumbling slum in the middle of a sewer, Naples is still in rubble; Rome is—well, it’s Rome—a monument. If you can get clear of the tourist traps, it’s fine. London is dignified, honorably scarred, and—where the action is supposed to be at—cheap. The plays are good, but the eating and drinking are rotten. You want my vote, try Vienna—or Heidelberg—or Zurich. And that completes the Cook’s toenail tour.”

  “Germanophile,” he snorted.

  “No,” I said seriously. “The others are out to make a buck, any way they can. Most of them would sell you their little brother if their little sister or their mother wasn’t to your taste. The Germans don’t give a shit if you like them or not, and God knows they don’t need your money. Benson—this guy I knew—and I used to ride bicycles across a small mountain to a little farming village—a kind of no-name sort of place with only a church, a Gasthaus, a few other shops, and a dozen or two houses, maybe two-three hundred people all together. We were the only Americans in the whole damned town. We rode through one afternoon and stopped for a beer. We just kept going back. The people there really got to like us, and we liked them. They had a big party for the oldest guy in town—everybody knocked off work for the whole day. The old boy was about ninety-seven or so. Benson and I were the only two outsiders invited to that blast. Not just the only two Americans—the only outsiders. It was absolutely great.”

  “Ah, the pleasures of rural life,” he said. “Swains and maidens in the first flower of youth.”

  “Larkin,” I said, “you’re a phony bastard, you know that?”

  “I know,” he said, and I think he was serious. He had a habit of going into those “I’m not really real” depressions. As I recall, that’s one of the reasons we parted company. Too much of that stuff can get on a guy’s nerves.

  Then Monica came in. I vaguely remembered seeing her around school when I’d still been there. She was a sleek brunette; and, I don’t know—polished is the word, I guess—or maybe brittle. I’d seen a couple of girls like her in Germany—the hundred-marks-a-night sort of girl. At first she treated me like a piece of garbage on the floor, but when she learned that I’d been to Europe, her attitude changed. She started poking the usual bright questions at me, trying to make sure I’d really been there—though how in hell she’d know is beyond me. She wanted to talk about Paris, naturally, and mentioned a lot of names I remembered only as the tourist-trappy kind of places to stay away from. About the only thing we agreed on was the Rodin Museum, but I think it was for different reasons. It began to sound as if she’d been there and I hadn’t. I think she was a little peeved that I didn’t fake it for her as others I knew did so often, gushing about places they really couldn’t stand, simply because it was the “thing to do.” I listened to her chatter politely. There was something sort of odd here, but I couldn’t quite get hold of it.

  “Stanley,” she said, turning to him. “Did you run those things through the washer that I asked you to this morning?” There was a threat in her tone, a kind of “You’d better have, if you know what’s good for you” sort of thing.

  “Yes, dear,” he said meekly.

  That was it then. The whole thing fell into place. She had the big stick, and he knew it—and he’d been ashamed to let me find out. Married not more than a couple of years on the very outside, and he was pussy-whipped already. Poor Stan.

  “Good,” she said. She turned back to me and smiled briefly—like switching on a light in an empty room and then switching it off again. Click-click. “I’d love to stay and talk with you, Dan, but I’ve really got to run. We’re trying to set up a little drama group, and there are a million details. You know how it is.” Click-click went the smile again. That room was still empty.

  “Oh, Stanley,” she said, “don’t forget that we’re going over to the Jamisons’ for dinner this evening.” That was obviously for my benefit. She didn’t want me hanging around the house. “Wear the blue suit. You know how conservatively Mr. Jamison dresses, and we do need their support if this little theater group is going to go anywhere.”

  He nodded. Stan needed instructions on how to dress like I needed instructions on opening beer bottles. It was just a little dig to keep him in line.

  “I’ll be back about fourish,” she went on, “and I’ll be in the mood for a Manhattan by then. You will be a good boy and mix up a small pitcher, won’t you?”

  Click-click went the smile again. What a phony bitch!

  “Of course,” he said. She was humiliating him, and she damned well knew it. I guess he wasn’t allowed to have any friends that she hadn’t passed on first.

  “I’ve really got to run,” she said. “It’s been lovely meeting you, Dan.”

  We all stood up, and she left. We sat down again.

  “Well, Dan,” Stan said, rather quickly, I thought, “what are you going to do now that you’re a civilian again?”

  “Graduate school, I guess,” I said.

  “Up at the U?”

  I nodded.

  “Going into Education?”

  I shook my head. “Straight English. Education courses are a waste of time.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I went on and took my MS.”

  “Hey, Stan, that’s really fine,” I said, ignoring the defensive tone in his voice. “I didn’t know whether you’d finished or not.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “about a year ago. I’m teaching high school now, but after I get a little more experience, I’m going to apply at several colleges. Monica’s working on her master’s, too, and we’ll be in excellent shape as soon as she finishes.”

  “That’s fine, buddy,” I said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “We should get together a few times before you go back up to Seattle,” he said.

  “We’ll do that, Stan. I’m a little tied up right now. We’re getting ready to go hunting in early September.”

  “Hunting?” Stan said with sudden interest. “I didn’t know there were any seasons open this early.”

  “We’re going up on the High Hunt—high Cascade deer season—way to hell and gone back up in the mountains. We’ve got a guide and horses all lined up. We’re going up to the Methow River into the country on the back side of Glacier Peak. We’ll be in there for about ten days.”

  “God,” he said, “I’d really love to do something like that.” He meant it. I must have hit a nerve. “It must be pretty expensive though.”

  “Not bad—fifty skins apiece for the whole deal—food extra. There are five of us going altogether.”

  “That would be just great,” he said longingly. “I’d been hoping to get a chance to get away this year, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be able to make it even for birds. Monica’s going to be pretty tied up during the regular season this year—her drama group and all—so I’ll have to manage the house.” He hesitated a moment. “I imagine your plans and arrangements are all made.”

  “No. We’re pretty fluid.”

  “You know, I’ve been working pretty hard for the last few years—getting my degree and then getting the house here and setting everything up just the way Monica and I want it. I haven’t had much of a chance to really take a look at myself—you know, stop and really see wher
e I am.”

  “That happens to all of us now and then, Stan,” I said.

  “Something like this, you know—getting away for a while, going way back up into the mountains away from all the rush and pressure. It would give a man a chance to really think things through.”

  “That’s why I’m going,” I said seriously. I lit another cigarette. “I’m at loose ends—kind of in between the Army and school. It’s a good time to do some thinking.”

  “That’s it exactly,” he said. “And the hunting is something just thrown in extra really. It’s the getting away from things that counts—oh, not Monica, of course—but the other things, the pressure and all.”

  “You ever been out for deer?” I asked him, trying to cover it over a little so I wouldn’t have to see the naked trapped look in his eyes.

  “Just once,” he said, “a few years ago. It was just absolutely great, even though I didn’t even see any. I certainly envy you, Dan.”

  “You could probably come along, if you feel like it,” I said. I think I really threw it out to see if he’d bite at it. I didn’t really expect him to go for it.

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” he said. “I’m sure the others wouldn’t want a stranger horning in.” But he was hooked. Suddenly I wanted to do him a favor. Stan and I might not have agreed about much, but I figured he deserved a better break than he’d gotten. Maybe if he got away from her for a while he could get his balance again.

  “I doubt if these guys would give a damn about that. It’s just a bunch my brother knows, and we just decided to take off and go.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t get away at the school!”—he paused thoughtfully—“although I have got some sick leave accumulated, and in a way it would be for health reasons, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You’re doing the talking.” I laughed.

  He sat back, smiling sheepishly. “I guess I do sound like I’m trying to talk myself into something,” he said.

  “I don’t think the deal with our guide is really very firm yet,” I told him, “and it could just be that another guy would help swing it. I’ll talk with the others and see what they say, if you want me to.”