Stories
Stories |
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Duck Story |
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As
we walked up the path in the fading light we could see someone pacing in
front of our cabin in the dusk. Unnerved by the events of the day, we
pushed our foreboding away and walked confidently forward to face this
person on our doorstep. It was Nick, the environmental preserve manager
who lived across the river. He was sweating and distraught. His hair was
wild.
“Nick, what are you doing here?” I asked. He looked at us oddly.
He actually had a .22 rifle in his hands. We had known Nick for years;
his time was mostly spent nursing injured wild animals or writing grants
for his preserve. In his spare time, he and his wife were often hiking
or otherwise communing with nature. A small man with pointed chin and
thin curling hair, his wire spectacles fairly vibrated now with pent up
emotion. Not a gun toting game warden, I was alarmed that he was
stalking my doorstep with a rifle. “Oh it’s…Bates.’ He said, recognizing me. “Do you know who
lives here?” “We live here’ said Thomas, from behind me. Nick’s face twisted reflexively, and he blurted: “I know that you
did it. I followed your tracks through the snow”. We were taken aback. We had expected trouble from the road end of the
property, and had purposely gone across the river. We hadn’t
considered Nick in the equation since we hadn’t been in the preserve.
But that still didn’t explain his level of disturbance. We held our
breath and waited for him to reveal more. He was dialing on his cell
phone with one hand and holding the gun like a stick he might strike at
us with. “I’ve already called the Sheriff, The Fish and Game Department,
and now I’m calling the Division of Wildlife.” For a split second I could feel us both weigh the possibilities of
escape. But growing up in a small mountain town, there wasn’t really
anyplace to go where we wouldn’t be known. Besides, how serious could
this be? Everything felt surreal, why was Nick taking this so hard? We
hadn’t done anything on his preserve. I heard Thomas exhale as he
settled to brace our fate. We kept our faces bland and tried not to look
at our cat, who had pulled the duck’s head out of the bushes and was
playing with it right at Nick’s feet. With some concern, and to keep Nick’s eyes up, I piped, “What’s
going on? What’s the matter?” With a baleful glare, the phone shaking in his hand, Nick replied
through clenched teeth, “You shot at my pregnant wife after she came
across you poaching in the preserve.” That took the air out of us. What an unexpected reply. Bad time to
ask if she was all right, although that was my immediate concern.
Barreling behind that thought came the worry that things were shaping up
into a complicated knot of dire circumstances that surpassed our crime.
Would admitting our actions absolve us, or place us into even more
trouble? My mind was crowded from the long day and the longer chest
cold. “What?’ stammered Thomas. This was beyond his imagination. “And then you came back here, and I followed your tracks in the
snow. I found the blood and the feathers.’ His voice trembled. He
looked behind us down the path for his sheriff and reinforcements. “Just
because I know you doesn’t mean I’m going to let you off. Last week
a trout poacher beat me up by the lake, and this is just too much; my
own neighbor. ‘ He stopped, chocked by a well of emotion that pulled
at his mouth like nausea. Night had overtaken us while we stood around, and my heels were
getting icy from standing around on the packed snow in front of the
cabin. I shuffled my feet and when I pet the cat I stole the duck’s
head back from him and pocketed it. “Nick, I need to split some kindling to warm the house up for the
night;” I said, “We’ve been gone all evening. He acquiesced and
moved away from the chopping block with his firearm. I made quick work
of cleaning the blood off the axe and block by chopping up some
kindling. “Babe,’ Thomas said gently, “ why don’t you build the fire
and go to bed? I know you’re not feeling good. I’ll take care of the
rest” We shared a grateful glance, and split ways to do our parts. I stoked the little woodstove and thawed my feet. I could hear the
trucks of wildlife officers and such pull up on the road and stomp
around outside with flashlights. When the fire was hot I tossed in the
duck’s head. What an amazing day of bad luck. __________________________ Thinking back to that morning, I had awakened to another day of a bad
chest cold, which must have been going on ten days now. Our tiny cabin
is so small that it’s unbearable to be inside with someone who’s
sick. Thomas had been laid off of work for about two weeks, and every
day he would go out to the river to pass the time fishing. Not being a
fisherman he never caught many trout, but as our funds dwindled he
became more desperate to provide for us. My having the flu only made him
feel more inadequate. Somewhere in his brain he developed the notion
that one square meal would make the difference. While I was napping in the afternoon, Thomas woke me with excitement.
“Get dressed. I need you to help me for a little bit.” While I
dressed he explained, “Every day, I go out there to fish and freeze my
butt off. In the morning the ducks fly overhead. There are birds and
chipmunks and I like the way it smells. I think about finding other work
during this layoff, but I can never decide because I really like this
work even if they do lay me off every time they’re low on money. I try
to think about fishing instead.” “I can see the fish, but I can never catch them. I stand there
peering through the icy water. The ducks fly overhead. I try fishing
here, over there, I fish until I’m numb and it’s getting dark.” “Yesterday I didn’t eat anything. I was going to get that big
fish. I can see him! But I didn’t get him. I was so frustrated that I
stood there on the bank and threw my head back. I didn’t know whether
to cry or scream so I just looked up at the sky. And the ducks flew
overhead. They fly right over my head and plop down in a little eddy. It’s
their hangout. They come and go all day. I never really thought about it
because I’ve been so busy looking at fish.” I had paused at tying my shoelaces and was eyeing him blankly. He
threw his hands into the air and happily shouted: “Bates! The ducks are FAT! And they’re almost close enough
to grab! In five minutes we can have duck for dinner!” I laughed at his exuberance. He bubbled on about where he would go
hide. There was the perfect spot for a safe shot. I just had to walk
down the river path on this side and the ducks would fly up toward him
on the other bank. Thomas left first so he could cross the river ahead of me. I lurched
outside and reflected idly, as I ambled down the path, that I never did
like being the game drummer for the hunter. Not that I didn’t
completely trust Thomas, but it’s just my instinct to dislike being in
front of the gun instead of behind it. Lost in thought I hardly noticed
the sound of wing beats until BANG I jumped and then froze for a second,
then turned around and trudged back to the cabin, the deed was done. I went back to bed, but started worrying right away. Were we inside
city limits? How loud was that? What if someone came to see, and we were
blissfully cooking a duck? How the hell do you cook duck anyway? I swung
my legs over the bed and sat up. We didn’t even have an oven. While I
was sitting there slowly puzzling, Thomas came back, breathless and
sticky. “I cleaned it and buried the remnants on the other side of the
road.’ He turned his back to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. ‘it’s
in my pack outside. I think we should go to Steve’s and use his oven.”
We rustled through our meager kitchen and came up with an apple for the
stuffing. Edgy to take the evidence elsewhere, we left for Steve’s
apartment in town right away, and our tension eased block by block. In our hurry, we hadn’t called ahead, and were surprised to find
that it was a football night. The State team was on a winning streak,
and the attic apartment was filled with men. It looked and smelled like
a locker room. We pushed our way through the crowd to the kitchen.
Borrowing a stick of celery and two cans of beer from the fridge we
minced the apple and celery, dressed the duck and installed it in an
iron pot into the oven. We set the timer. Picking our way across bodies, we looked for a place to sit. I found
a couch end and folded myself in, snug and warm. I saw Thomas, who feels
nervous in crowds, find an acceptable place with his back against the
wall collecting money for the betting pool. In the lull of voices I
dozed. Awaking some time later to the noise of social activity, I forgot all
about dinner. My consciousness struggled awake with the immediate
problems of: who are all these people? What are they talking about? What’s
the score? What time is it? I sought Thomas’ gaze, and heard his angry
voice from the kitchen. Struggling to escape the recesses of the couch,
I tottered across the room. Thomas looked across the counter at me
bleakly. The oven was off, the empty pot in the sink, and on the cutting board
was a little pile of picked-clean bones. A twice-poached duck! I swayed
in disbelief and cheap beer on an empty stomach. “I didn’t hear the timer go off over all the noise,” he said
with downcast eyes, crestfallen. A dark-haired man nearby looked over, “Was that yours? Hey man, we
thought that it was food for the party. It was really good.” ……”No
man, I don’t know who took it out of the oven.” Sweeping up the bones, I washed the cutting board and the pot, and
fetched the pot lid from where it had been left on the counter. When I
picked up the iron lid, I saw that underneath the Formica counter had
scorched and peeled from the heat. The whole countertop was ruined.
Thomas looked stricken when he saw the damage. We thought about the counter top. Not exactly our fault, but still
not the kind of thing we would just leave in our friend’s kitchen.
Thomas went looking for Steve to let him know we’d be back to fix the
damage later. I went to look for our shoes and coats in the pile by the
door. Leaving the steamy apartment, our noses were pinched by the crisp
winter afternoon air. Thomas drove slowly, our tires crunching the ice,
and making that peculiar dry-snow squeak when we got to our long
driveway down to the river. The shadows were long and blue; tree
branches black and sharp against the snow. And Nick, stamping to and fro
in front of our door. ______________________ The sound of truck doors slamming and engines coming to life in the
dark winter stillness roused my mind from its’ reverie. Alarm spread
down my limbs as I felt the emptiness of the cabin without Thomas as if
it were a chill wind. My ears sought him out as I hurriedly pulled on my
coat. But then I heard Thomas’s familiar footsteps squeaking in the
snow as he came up the path. Relieved to hear that his steps were alone,
relieved to hear his steps come home. Thomas opened the flimsy door and
threw his boots mittens and whatever else into a pile on the floor. The
cabin was warm and rosy now, our little den of animal warmth and
shelter. Stripping as if to rid himself of the events of his day, he talked
while bent over his frozen boots; “They never found any evidence, so
they can’t charge me for hunting out of season or without a license.
We’re within City limits, though, so I have to go before a judge and
be fined for discharging a firearm. Maximum penalty is $100. I had to
admit firing the gun so I could show them where I was, and what
direction, and talk them out of pressing charges against me for shooting
at Beth. We went and looked at tracks and recovered shotgun pellets.
Even Nick finally agreed that I wasn’t inside the preserve or shooting
at her. They all know that I shot a duck though.” We stoked the woodstove up too hot and basked in the heat for awhile
until we were sleepy. The cats came in and lay on the bed. Thomas, with
his hands behind his head said with eyes closed, “I almost died when I
saw what the cat was playing with.” We burst out laughing and turned
off the lights. Wakening later in the night, I listened to Thomas’s quiet breathing
and knew that he was awake. Propping my head up on my elbow, I could see
the moonlight from our window glistening across his open eyes. I could
feel the tension emanating from him. I felt overwhelmingly lucky that we
were safe and at home. I reached out to smooth his forehead. Turning towards me he murmured; “I was just thinking about the
countertop. With that and the fine, I believe this is the most expensive
duck dinner that I never ate.” His brow wrinkled under my fingers. “I
sure am glad to be here with you and not in jail.” Thomas sighed and
closed his eyes. “This was the scariest day I’ve had in awhile. Damn
fish! I’m going to get him tomorrow. After I buy a license.”
Authored By Jess Bates
www.jessbates.com |
