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Jake picked the A string, heard the cold air bending the note and walked to the door. He thought maybe now that he'd left the fiddle, he'd find a deer. Hoping, he moved through the night back to the truck.
The orchard was empty, the trees looking like skeletons in the overgrown rows. Each tree trunk was pockmarked by woodpeckers. The snow was too deep to see what he knew was there, the decaying apples and pears—fruit that Dale had wanted to can but hadn't had the equipment. He'd promised her that next summer, he'd find a way. He wouldn't have her borrowing the stuff from that scrawny JW woman, Joella. He walked from tree to tree, looking for deer signs. Two sets of faint tracks paralleled the fallen wooden fence, but it looked like they were passing through, not nosing the snow for fruit like he'd hoped. As always when he came here, he thought about the family who had tried to homestead seventy years before. Maurer, that's all he knew, their last name—that they'd moved away after fifteen years, after planting these trees and building a house that was only an ash pile and a few rusted cans now. Jake shined the flashlight up; snowflakes glowed as they passed through the beam. He wanted to know what had happened to their dream, where they went from here. So stupid, he thought, to leave the fiddle—as though the world worked that way. He walked back to the truck and drove recklessly home, his earlier cautions about scaring deer, about spinning off a cliff, gone. The truck whined up and down the hills, and Jake turned his situation again and again in his mind. There seemed no way out until the spring and the work came. The other rifle from Kyle was in the pawnshop. Jake needed to get it back in the next two weeks before the owner sold it. He thought about pawning his chain saw but knew that didn't make sense, especially if a firewood job came up. He could put the fiddle in with the gun, but the thought caused a sharp pain in his belly. He remembered the animals he used to trap with Kyle, the raccoons, the coyotes, sometimes even skunks. The traps Kyle used were metal and snapped shut on a leg when the animal reached for the bait. As he drove, Jake wished for the sudden snap. Less than a mile to the house, something pulled him from his thoughts. He slowed and the headlights revealed her, twenty yards ahead, standing in the middle of the road. The doe watched him, one foreleg poised for action, tail flashing its warning white. Jake left the engine running and climbed out, rifle in hand. Her eyes glowed brown and the petals of her ears stood erect. He leaned across the hood, bracing his elbows on the cold metal. He brought the rifle to his shoulder, right index finger on the trigger, left hand on the barrel rest.
Waiting, she watched him. He lined up the sights, switched the safety off and breathed, like Kyle had taught him. She lowered the leg and her ears flicked once. He pushed his glasses back and sighted again, looking away from her face. When he pulled the trigger, the silent night exploded with the sound and the deep orange flash of the shot. She crumpled where she stood, her front legs folding underneath her as if she were kneeling.
Jake walked to her, sliding the second bullet into the chamber in case she wasn't dead. But he knew he'd shot her between the eyes. Blood ran from the wound, staining the snow around her ears. His head rang from the bullet, but he could still hear the snow adjusting to her weight. He knelt and placed a hand on her neck. The hide was scratchy and warm under his palm. He followed the arc of her neck to the body, and his fingers felt a little less on fire.
Justy woke suddenly and watched Dale worry her wedding ring. Dale stood when she heard the sound of the truck, and Justy remembered dreaming the river. The headlights curved out of sight as the truck neared the house. Dale paced the room, hoping against herself and her promises that he'd gotten a deer. Her shadow leaped in the candlelight. Justy wanted to tell her not to worry, but she caught herself and placed a hand over her mouth. Her tongue licked the edge of the penny she still held in her teeth. Dale sat back down on the couch and picked up her Bible.Jake walked into the house, blood on his hands, his knife and his jeans. Dale calmly set the book aside and stood. Jake walked to the kitchen and washed his hands, dried blood flaking off in the water. Dale worked her palms together, fingertip to fingertip, her mouth hovering above the steeple of her hands. Justy watched her face, wanting to know how to compose her own.
Copyright 2002 by Charlotte Gullick. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the publisher, Blue Hen.
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