I am not a procrastinator and am generally of the opinion that the best time to do something is at the first available minute. As a result, I have started moving my things back to Virginia in an effort to empty my apartment before graduation so that (1) I can fully enjoy graduation without having to worry about hauling home three years worth of stuff, and (2) so that the people who love me and want to come watch me graduate will not be dissuaded by the daunting thought of having to move home three years worth of stuff.
To that end, tonight I was going through my closet to pull out clothes that I don't wear very frequently to take home on my trip next weekend. To take them home, I pulled out my smallest suitcase--which I havent used since I moved in. There's a collection of stuff in each of my suitcases, and since I really liked what I found in the smallest one, I saved the rest for the next trip home. In the smallest suitcase, I found a certificate I got for participating in an AmeriCorps program in college with a picture of all of the girls in the group. I also found a short story I wrote in one of my English classes and reading it took me down memory lane. After spending the afternoon yelling at the bar application wizard that makes applying to sit for the Virginia state bar about a million times harder than it has to be and drafting five new cover letters, it was nice to look at something non-law related.
I thought I had lost all (or at least most) of my stories. But I still have this one. I've hoped for awhile that my blog would turn into a creative writing outlet that would somehow inspire me to write short stories like I used to write in college--I loved it so much. But while the years since college have inspired creativity in some of my other friends (yes, I mean you, Erin, you creative genius, you), law school has done nothing but stifle the creative spirit in me. I guess that's an occupational hazard; creativity is not exactly appreciated in contracts. But, still, I really do miss it and, in that spirit, I am going to re-type the story for you here. Maybe it will inspire more stories from me one day, when I'm less immersed in legal education. Maybe.
Anyway, it's called The Browning, and here goes.
"Millie, are you goin' huntin' or are you goin' to the movies?" my father asked as I came sleepily out of the house at 4:30 that morning. I shrugged, tugging my long blonde hair back into a ponytail and pulling my favorite camo hat over top, sliding my hair through the hole in the back. I looked down at my outfit. Admittedly, pink wasn't the best choice, but they were the only fleece pants I owned and it was awfully chilly.
"I'm going hunting, Daddy," I replied. "The coveralls will go over top. Nobody will even be able to tell I'm wearing pink underneath."
"The deer don't give a damn what you look like, but they might notice what you smell like. You shower this mornin'? You might oughta. You ain't got any of that flowery smellin' perfume on, do you?" he asked.
"Yeah, I used that soap you told me to."
"Good. Get in the truck. And might you don't step on the boxes of ammo on the floor."
I climbed up in the front side passenger seat of my dad's truck and shut the door. It was too early for arguing and definitely too early for showers, but I did what I was told. I did everything I was told, carefully, superstitiously, believing wholeheartedly that one day my daddy's advice would get me what I wanted most: a big buck. Maybe, if I was lucky, we'd even get to go see the taxidermist and get his head put up on the wall with the rest of the trophy bucks. It'd be awfully nice when people came in if they complimented mine.
"Golly day," they'd say. "That there's a right big 'un. Black powder, was it?"
"Naw," my dad would reply.
"No?" they'd ask. "Oh well, then, archery? That's a might big 'un to shoot with just your bow! It's a Mathews, ain't it?"
"No," my dad would interject. "That there buck is Millie's. Got it last Thanksgiving. Shotgun."
This thought warmed me to my core, even more than the pink fleece pants did. Not being an early riser, waking up at 4am was a supreme testament to my willpower and desire to succeed at this. At thirteen, I was finally able to go hunting on my own, sitting in my own tree stand, without my dad or my granddad breathing down my neck, muttering things at me and scaring away any wildlife that might change to come near where I sat.
I was proud of this recent promotion. Being able to finally sit in my own stand, even if it was just a ladder stand, was an accomplishment of no small proportion. I felt ten feet tall, at least, and nearly invincible.
My younger brother, Jake, had shot and killed his first buck last year, and he was only 11. I was feeling the pressure, a little. I knew I had to sit in my own stand if I was going to have any chance of proving myself, any chance at all.
"You gonna let your little brother show you up, darlin'?" my grandpa had asked when my brother brought it home, tugging a little on my ponytail.
"You let her alone," my mom had said, defensively, pulling me to her side. "Millie is still really young. And you know Jake, he'd bulldoze down all the trees if that's what it took to get him a deer. He's so stubborn. But my Millie, she's patient. It'll come."
"Jake reminds me of a might bit younger version of myself," my grandpa announced proudly. "Gotta take what you want Millie, no mistake. You take it. You learn from your brother. You do us proud, darlin'. Sure, you're young, real young for a girl, too. You oughta be proud you're even hanging in there with us. There's lots a girls out there who'd be hard pressed to do that, sugar."
"Stop it," my mom said again, more forcefully this time. "You go on, you hear? That grass ain't goin' to cut itself and we didn't invite you over to hear you yap. Dinner's at 6."
I smiled to myself, despite the early hour, thinking of my mom's incredible ability to put my grandfather in his place. No one else could do that. Not even my dad, and he was his own kid. My mom was just an in-law. But, then again, no one else was quite like my mom.
My dad, finished loading the truck, finally hopped in the driver's side seat, released his emergency brake, and backed down our hill. Our street was covered in a thick, sparkly blanket of damp early morning and fireflies, which muffled even the rumble of the diesel engine. Even though they were pink, I was glad of the fleece pants. The cold from outside seemed to seep through the windowpanes; a chilling kind of cold that settled in your bones and stayed there.
My dad didn't speak; he rarely did. He was concentrating on the hunt. When it got near hunting season, he got "buck fever" he said; he could feel it in his veins, pumping to all the parts of his body. It really was like a fever, in my family, anyway. Round hunting season, you couldn't ever find any of the men at home. My dad, my brother, my granddad and my uncle were practically inseparable. They were either hunting, at the shop talking about hunting, or scouting for the "perfect spot" to set up a tree stand. They stopped coming round for dinner, getting most of their meals at whatever fried chicken place was nearest to the piece of property they were visiting that day. They even named each piece of property and practically had ever bit of them memorized. They could describe almost every rock by the side of every creek and knew where they'd placed every single bright eye on the tree trunks that led the way into the woods. They got up at ungodly hours, 3 and 4 am, and came back just after dark and crashed.
"You feel like today's the day?" my dad asked, in an attempt to make conversation. I smiled at him, at the worn creases of the smile lines around his eyes. "Jake said he's got a lucky feelin' bout you, 'bout today."
"Oh, did he now?" I laughed a little. "Yeah, I'm feelin' lucky. I think I'm fixin' to shoot Big Daddy today."
"Oh, are you, really?" This time it was my dad's turn to laugh. Big Daddy was the nickname they had given for this buck that lived on the back of our property. He was so big, he'd practically grown to mythical proportions. All the men had seen him at least once, or at least said they did. Not that you can set much store by that, of course, because in the summer each and every single one of them spends nearly as much time fishing as they do hunting in the spring, winter, and fall. And everyone knows fishermen are liars. Anyway, Big Daddy, he was the kind of buck that wins big game contests. The kind of buck that new deer calls are named after. The kind, in short, that makes reputations and I definitely had one I needed to make.
We rode in silence the rest of the way, my dad sometimes looking over to me and smiling. I knew, even if I didn't shoot anything, he was glad to have me there. He didn't say it, but he didn't have to. He was proud, proud to have two kids who were as into his lifestyle as he was. As we pulled up to the property, he turned off the headlights.
"You open and shut that door real quiet, you hear?" he whispered, even though we weren't outside yet. "Be as quiet as you can. Put your coveralls and your fleece jacket on and I'll get your gun. You warm enough? There's gloves in those pockets there."
I did as I was told. Daddy, after all, knew best. I slid into my hand-me-down coveralls. They used to be my dad's when he was in college, but now he had new ones. I loved the way they smelled. My mom washed hunting clothes in special unscented soap and then hung them to dry in the umbrella covering our picnic table in the backyard. Before a hunting trip, the picnic table looked almost like a tree, with all different kinds of camouflaged clothes hanging off of it. Drying in the outside air was supposed to make them smell more authentic, but I thought they had their own distinct smell. It was earthy, definitely, but masculine, like my daddy. They smelled warm and comforting and there was no way I'd ever want another pair of coveralls, even if these did drag past my boots and hang way past my fingertips.
He led me to my stand, carrying my gun for me, but handing me the shotgun shells, which I immediately put in my pocket. I followed him, not recognizing any landmarks in the dark. The branches of the trees pressed in on me, listening.
We got to the bottom of the stand and my dad handed me my shotgun. It was my pride and joy, a Browning, which used to be made in Belgium, given to me by my grandpa just a few months ago for my 13th birthday. I had asked for a cell phone, but when I unwrapped it and my grandpa said, "A girl's got to have a gun," with a little tear in his eye, I forgot all about it. I knew what it meant to give it to me, how special it was to him, and I treasuered it.
"It doesn't miss, that gun," my dad said, gruffly, turning to leave. "You just have faith and shoot straight. You can make it up from here, can't you?"
"Yeah, definitely," I replied, trying to sound more sure of myself than I felt.
This was the first time I had been alone, the first time I'd actually be in my own tree stand and, now that I was here, I was pretty uncertain. My dad patted my shoulder, turned, and left. After a few steps, I couldn't see him, but I could hear his boots lightly treading on the layers of leaves that covered the ground. He was walking as quietly as possible, I knew, so that he didn't disturb any wildlife. I stood there until I couldn't hear him anymore.
Turning towards the tree stand, I looked up towards the top. It had never seemed so high before. I looked at the gun in my hands and wondered how on earth I'd climb up there with this in one hand, a harness in the other, and my too-big coveralls slipping every which way.
"No choice," I muttered to myself. I tilted my head awkwardly towards my left shoulder, holding the gun between the inside of my arm and my chin. My harness I slipped over my shoulder, hoping it would stay and not slip inconveniently out of place. Stepping up on the first run of the ladder, I started to climb. Tree stands, I noted, were trickier than they looked. Not to mention higher. As I struggled upwards, I held tightly to my gun, determined not to fall. I looked down, trying to watch each foot secure a safe spot on the next rung while still holding tight to my gun. The view of my left foot, though, was obscured by the butt of the gun, so every other step was one of pure faith.
"Don't let me slip," I whispered to the trees. Clearly, they were ignoring me. About two-thirds of the way up, I finally lost my footing. My too-long coveralls slipped under my boot. When I transferred my weight to that foot, it slipped out from under me.
"SHIT," I cursed, in a loud whisper. My right leg banged up against the side of the ladder and I bit painfully into my lip. I felt my tooth tear through the flesh and tasted the metallic taste of blood. My first panicked thought was of my gun.
"Did I hit it?" I worried out loud, "It is dinged? Oh, please, don't let it be, it's brand new, grandpa would be so upset..."
I looked at it as best I could in the dark and, from what I could tell, it hadn't even hit the side of the ladder. I had used my body as a shield, protecting it. My lip still hurt, and I knew my entire side would be bruised, but I had protected the gun. Thank God for that. Maybe I was no Artemis, but at least I wouldn't have to come home with my priceless gun all banged up.
I finished the climb with relative ease, but my mouth was full of blood before I reached the top. Leaning over, I spit. After admiring the way the blood formed a perfect sphere, a beautiful, brilliant red glob, then smacked a leaf and splattered, I began to arrange my things, turning every so often to spit another glob. I wasn't completely comfortable on top of the tree stand; it wobbled when I moved and swayed when there wasn't even the tiniest bit of wind, but I was determined to sit still and focus. I fastened my harness around my waist and around the tree trunk, though what help it would be if I really fell, I didn' twant to think.
I sat my gun across my legs, feeling the hard coldness through my layers and running my fingers over the shiny wood. I touched where my grandfather had my name engraved and smiled. My daughters, my daughter's daughters, would see my name there when I passed it down. They'd know what kind of woman they came from and what kind of woman they could grow up to be. I loaded it in the darkness, so that the memory of the sound of the metal slamming shut would be distant by the time the deer woke up. Noise had to be kept to a minimum, after all, and I couldn't risk making a noise at a crucial time. I didn't take the safety off, though. Sitting there, alone, with the gun across my knees, I suddenly felt overwhelmed its power. Guns were powerful. I got goosebumps, thinking about the power of what I was holding in my hands.
Every so often, my mouth would fill with blood and I'd spit, but soon my lip didn't even hurt. "I'm so tough," I praised myself. "Practically one of the guys already. I don't even feel it, I'm like steel. None of these squirrels even know that I'm wearing pink fleece pants underneath."
Sitting there, I could feel the cold metal of the seat seeping in through my coveralls and even my fleece pants, chilling me. I was finally alone, finally finished organizing my things, finally on top of my own tree stand. The silence crowded around me, amplifying everything. The wind blew eerily through the trees, causing the branches to bend and scratch against each other and against me. As I listened intently as I could, the scampering of the squirrels seemed almost painful to my ears. Whenever they took a few steps, I'd perk up, certain sure that it was a deer heading my way. It didn't seem possible that something so small could make so much noise.
My thoughts wandered to my dad, my grandpa, and finally, to Jake. I remembered the fuss they made over him, the excuses they made for me. "Millie's just a girl," they'd say, sympathetically. They love dme, they wanted me to come, but, on some level, they all recognized that there was a different standard for me than there was for them, for Jake. Even though Jake was younger than me, he was still a guy. He had my grandpa's "spirit," as he liked to call it. And me? Did I have no spirit? I had never asked. Sure, they were glad to have me around. My dad always put me in the best stand, better even than Jake. He said he'd shot all he cared to shoot, everything else was just showing off, and now he'd love me to shoot something, more than anything in the world. But did he believe in me? He treated me differently, that was for sure. HE loaded the truck and carried my things, I wasn't expected to do that. I didn't cut the grass or wash the boat after we went fishing. I didn't clean the guns after the hunt, either. I could gig frogs with the best of them, but I didn't clean them afterwards. When they croaked their last sad, terrified little death croaks, I was already inside, those frogs a distant memory. My dad called me his flounder pounder, proud that I consistently caught more than either he or my brother ever did, but not once was I ever expected to scale or clean my own fish. I baited my own hook, but only because Jake teased me when I turned 12 and Dad still tried to do it. He said if I didn't bait my own hook, I wasn't a real fisherman and my flounder didn't count. He was just jealous.
But, at the same time, my dad bought me a fishing pole for my third birthday. There are pictures of us catching bass and brim and crappie on the banks of the lake at our farmhouse. There's even pictures of me shooting guns when I was practically knee high to a grasshopper. My dad has always begged me to come along, tried to teach me the secrets of scouting, how to recognize the tracks that different animals make and how bucks, when they are in velvet, scratch against trees. He taught me the best places to fish and all the techniques. We practiced casting in the street in front of our house, from the bank, and off the side of the boat. I'd been learning ever since I could remember. When I messed up and got caught in a tree, he laughed and said it required "finesse," but that I'd get it eventually.
Distracted by my thoughts, I almost didn't hear the quiet rustle that came behind me. I sat at attention immediately, trying to look behind my shoulder without moving. Without looking, I moved my fingers over to the safety switch on the gun and pushed it off. A small buck, a six pointer, stepped out of the shadows. He moved slowly, cautiously towards me. Lifting his head up, he sniffed the air daintily, willing it to warn him of danger.
I felt shocked when I realized that I was the danger he was afraid of. Me, with my pink pants. Only, from what I could tell, he had no idea that I was even there. He stepped forward again, and again, with more confidence this time, coming over to the right of me. Within moments, he was next to me, within my line of vision, within easy range. My heart started to pound in my chest so hard and so loud that I could hear it in my ears, it had seemed to swell so big that it was banging against my eardrums.
I had made shots from this distance before. I knew I could do it. Without thinking, I raised the gun to my shoulder and borught my face down against the cool wood, lining the sight pin at the tip up with the buck's vitals. I had done this hundreds of times on targets. I had shot bright orange skeet down from the air and I had annihilated coke cans. I was primed and, suddenly, I knew I could do it.
"Have faith," I could hear my dad's voice echo in my ears. "Shoot straight. It doesn't miss, that gun."
My pin lined up, I took a deep breath and touched my finger to the trigger. The gun exploded, as if it had just been waiting for me to ask it too. The deer staggered a bit, dropped, and got up and ran. The blood, I saw, was deep, dark crimson. I had gotten vitals. He wouldn't last long. Sure enough, within a few feet, I heard him crash.
I wanted to jump up and scream, but I knew better than that. Even though the years I spent with my dad and my grandpa, crouched in the underbrush, had been unproductive in terms of the number of deer I had shot (a grand total of 0), I had learned a thing or two about hunting. Rule #1 is that you do NOT get up and run after your deer after you shoot it. If you do, it may get scared and get up and run. When they've got all that adrenalin pumping in their veins, they can run and run and run. And then you've got to trail them. IF you give them some space, some peace and quiet, they'll just die right there, and then you've got an easier time of it. No sense killing a deer that gets lost and then can't be used.
I immediately pulled out my cell phone, which my mom had gotten me the day after my thirteenth birthday. I liked it, text messaging in particular, but it was nothing compared to my Browning.
I typed two words to my dad. Just two.
"Got one."
