Part 05
After struggling to wade out to the
fallen deer, Gramp secured the rope around Buck’s body and began to
pull his way to solid ground.
“Nice deer, Willard,” said a voice.
“That it is Ben,” said Gramp,
stopping halfway between the deer and the shore.
“Nice deer your Gramp has, boy,”
said Ben Morrison.
“It’s his,” said Willard looking at
Ron.
“Old Buck. Fancy that,” was Ben’s
response.
“Got it hisself,” Gramp said.
“That so, boy?” Morrison asked
turning to Ron.
Speechless, Ron could only return an
awkward gawk.
“Well, he aint claimed so, Willard!
So if it ain’t his and it ain’t yours, then by God it must be mine.
Ain’t that right boy?”
“Morrison, we don’t want no truck
with you,” Gramp said.
“You got truck with me, Willard! Me
and my brother,” said Morrison, raising his own shotgun to shoulder
level.
“You’ve got to give a man half a
break,” pleaded the old hunter.
“You’ve had yours,” said Ben,
aiming at Gramp, “and you won’t get no second chance neither.”
Gramp Willard heard the explosion and
saw the flesh leap off Morrison’s chest: the blood and bone exposed.
Morrison’s right arm was lying fourteen feet away from his body. The
lower right half of his face was missing; the bloody tongue flopping
out between the remaining exposed teeth. Gramp saw Ron, who still had
two fingers on both triggers lying on his back.
“Ron! Ron!” yelled Gramp,
struggling to pull himself up the bank. “Ron,” said the
grandfather, kneeling beside the boy.
“Is he… is he dead?” the youth
whimpered.
“He is.” said Willard, holding
Ron’s head.
“I… I killed him, Gramp. I killed
him. I killed him…”
“You did right. It was right,” said
the old deer slayer, taking the shotgun from Ron’s hands. “You did
right.”
Gramp and Ron pulled Old Buck out from the bog and strung him up. The deer had to be dressed out. First however, the took the remains of Ben Morrison’s body down into the bog. Gramp tied the dismembered arm to the body and weighed them down with semi flat stones. He pushed the body into the mud. Down, under the surface, gone.
***
She handed him a glass of wine. It was
red. Hearty Burgundy. He didn’t want to drink it. Wine and beer
didn’t mix in his system. He drank.
“It’s good,” he said.
“I like it,” she said. “What
would you like to hear?”
“Anything, he replied.
She put several records on the stereo,
walked to the couch and sat beside him.
“You’re a quiet guy.”
“I’m a good listener,” he said.
“Sometimes you have to do more than
listen.”
“I know,” he said.
As she kissed him, she slid her hand
along the inside of his thigh. His legs felt numb. He had to piss. He
was nauseated. His head was starting to throb.
“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked,
breaking away.
“Through there, second door on the
left.”
When he returned, he saw her sitting on
the couch. She was naked. She was holding her glass of wine. She
smiled. He was drunk. He slumped into the space beside her. He wanted
it. For sure. Damn wine and beer!
“Well, aren’t you going to do
anything?” she demanded.
He didn’t do anything. He didn’t say anything. He saw the bog mud.
***
Ron helped hang Old Buck from a rafter in Gramp’s barn. It was a prize deer. A legendary deer that hung in a dark, dank, empty stall. Gramp, unlike he had planned, never told anyone about the deer. No. The very next day after their return, Gramp butchered Old Buck without so much as a word.
***
Ron sat back in his black leather swivel chair and looked at his books. He thought he could hear them speaking. He thought one of the authors said something about hay bags, but he wasn’t sure. They were all talking at once; it was impossible to understand. He was still drunk. He begged them to be silent. The clamor continued. He took a novel from the shelf. The rest of the works became silent. He loved his books.
End
