The bear feigned a move left and caught Darnell circling around against it He picked the man up, hugged him, and threw him down hard.
“He’s down,” said Ed Johnson.
Darnell pulled himself up. Shaky, he took a couple of wild swings at the beast.
“Well, I’m impressed,” said Rufus Winslow.
The bear got a hold on him again and threw him down in the same fashion.
“He’s down, again,” said one of the Hayes children.
“Course he is,” mumbled Mitch. “Gotta be a damned fool.”
“What’s happening?” asked Clomer.
Darnell Aimes was buried on the edge of his property. Some people claim they’ve seen him up on that ridge at night, his knife in his hand, looking for that bear. Clomer says she hasn’t seen a thing. No one doubts this.
This story originally appeared in Callaloo, Number 27, and is reprinted here with the permission of the editors of Callaloo.
Still Hunting
Thanksgiving came with much rain and chilly winds and an invitation to join Laura’s parents in Washington, D.C., for turkey dinner and pumpkin pie. We drove down on Wednesday. I was nervous. Laura had spoken of her parents infrequently. I did know that James Reskin was a born-again endocrinologist, the son of Jewish parents, and an avid hunter of upland game. Edith Reskin was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat who had fantasies about FDR and she was still a Jew; this was her final line in any argument with her husband: “At least I’m still a Jew.” We arrived late that evening and I was surprised to find that Laura and I would be sharing a room and a bed. Certainly, I knew that they knew we slept together, but still we were not married. And, after small conversation, of course Laura wanted to make love. I could only think of her mother and father in the room next door, but she would not relent. I made love to her with my hand cupped over her mouth and this only served to excite her more. She screamed into my hand and the bed banged against the wall. I imagined Dr. Reskin on his knees praying for us all.
I awoke to the sound of movement in the room. I rolled over to see Dr. Reskin standing before the window and a day that had not yet begun, holding a broken-down shotgun. I reached for Laura, but she was not there. Reskin engaged the barrels with a clack and looked at me. “Good morning?” I said.
“You ever hunt turkey?” asked Reskin.
“No, sir.”
“The turkey is a good, big bird. A wise and clever bird. You can hunt a band of turkeys for a week and never see one Meleagris gallapavo.” He glanced out the window. “Quite an animal.”
“Yes, sir:’
“Well, get up and get dressed and we’ll see if we can’t bag us one.”
“Do I have time to shower?”
He frowned. “No.”
“What if we don’t get one?”
“We’ve got a Butterball in the freezer. We’ll microwave that sucker and that’ll be it. Besides, wild turkeys are cunning and few and far between. Can’t count on them.”
I sat up. “I don’t have the right clothes.”
“You’ve got jeans.” He pointed to the floor by the bed. “There’s my new pair of shoe pacs. I’ve only worn them once. What size do you wear?”
“Ten-and-a-half.”
“Elevens. Well, up and at ’em. There’s a wool jacket for you downstairs.”
He left and I sat up in bed. I pulled on my jeans and a shirt, laced up the boots and went down to the kitchen. Laura and her mother were sitting at the table, in their robes, drinking coffee. I joined them.
Reskin came in from outside. “Gear’s all packed,” he said.
“Don’t we need a dog?” I asked.
“Nope. Turkey is still hunting.” He bent and kissed his wife’s forehead, then Laura’s. “We’re off.”
The women waved from the driveway as we rolled away in the old International Scout. There was no traffic in Georgetown so early, which made the morning seem even colder. We crossed into Virginia, drove past Manassas, and parked at the edge of a large pasture, Reskin took the shotguns from the rack and draped a shell-sack over his shoulder, handed another to me. He looked out over the pasture and said, “A man named Killer owns this land.”
“Pardon?”
“Nice enough fellow, but that’s some name. Jack Killer.’
“Yes, it is.”
“Here, put this on.” He handed me a bright orange skullcap and pulled one on himself. “Gotta know where the other is.”
We walked out across, then beyond the pasture, uphill and along a ridge. The sun was up now and a bit of the chill was taken out of the air.
“The turkey is some bird,” Reskin began again. “A noble creature. Benjamin Franklin wanted him as the national emblem.” He stopped, looked at the ground, then walked on. “You’ve got to hunt him as you would a deer or elk. Find some sign and wait him out. That’s all you can do.” He stopped and pointed to a place where some leaves had been scratched up. He took me a few yards away and got me down behind a tree. “Now, you just wait here, and when you see — pow! You let him have it.” He left and stepped down the ridge to find a stand of his own.
I tried to get comfortable. I started with the gun aimed at the area where the bird had been feeding, then set the weapon down beside me. I wished I had brought something to read. I fell asleep.
I sprang to my feet at the sound of a shot and grabbed my gun. I followed the direction Reskin had taken down the ridge and through a laurel patch. I found him leaning against a small oak. He was shaken.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I shot him,” he whispered.
“A hunter? Killer?”
“No, a turkey.”
I didn’t understand. “Where is he?”
He looked at me with the strangest expression and said, “I hid him over there.”
I saw nothing. “Where?”
“Over here.” He walked over and pulled up some brush. There was a dead tom.
“Why’d you hide him?”
“He’s so large. He’s just so damn big.”
Edith balked at the prospect of plucking the bird, but a stern look from Reskin sent her stomping to the sink with the carcass, cursing him, saying, “The man is a lunatic, a New Testament-thumping lunatic.”
This was the first time in twelve years of Thanksgiving Day hunts that the good doctor had returned with a kill. An actual wild turkey had never been expected. Reskin didn’t know quite what to make of it. He was a little nervous and of the mind that I had brought him considerable luck. He sat silently in his study awaiting dinner. Laura was thrilled with the bird. She cornered me upstairs in the bathroom as I stepped out of the shower. I grabbed her by her shoulders and looked her in the eye.
“Not in this house,” I said.
“I want it,” she said.
“Not in this house.”
Her eyes grew moist and she ran out and down the hallway to the bedroom. I finished drying and followed her. She was stretched face-down across the bed, crying.
“I’m sorry, Laura, but I don’t like it. This is your parents’ house.”
“Don’t you think they know we sleep together?”
“That’s beside the point. Don’t you want me to be comfortable?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Okay then.”
She was silent while I dressed. The tears went away and she sat up. “Do you ever think of marriage?” she asked.
I looked up from buttoning my shirt. “I guess.”
“What about us?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you think we’ll be together for a long time?”
“That’s hard to say, Laura. Ours is a young relationship. We’ve got a lot of growing to do.” I liked that response.