|
|
|
|
George drove his old pick-up truck down the highway expertly handling the twists
and turns. He'd been out this way too many times to count and was on his way to the diner
out on the old highway where he and his father usually met. He had mixed feelings about
seeing his father, it had been quite a while since he'd seen him, but he knew things
probably wouldn't be any better than the last visit. George's household had not been the
most positive environment for a child to grow up in. He could still remember the stench of
whisky and tobacco on his father's breath when he came in late at night to kiss him
goodnight; it turned his stomach. He remembered how he longed for his father to smell like
Aqua Velva or whatever nice, clean scent he noticed when he was around one of his friends'
fathers. George would pretend he was asleep when his father came in for fear he might say
or do something to set him off. His father would lean over his bed, breathing hard after
walking up the stairs to his room, and look at him for a few moments. "That's my
boy," he'd say, "just like me." But George knew differently.
During the drive George thought about the first time his father had taken him
out hunting. What a day that had been. His mom had packed them a big lunch, and they were
taking dad's pick-up truck, the piece of junk his father called a beauty. He remembered
how excited he was, telling all the boys at school that his dad was taking him hunting.
The boys all looked at him wide-eyed, for he was only nine at the time, and most kids his
age were still a little too much into Bambi to think about hunting. "He's really
gonna let you hold a gun, a real live gun?" they had asked. "Yup," he had
told them proudly.
The trip seemed to take forever to George and he finally stopped
asking, "How much longer?" when his father slapped his leg so hard he bit his
tongue and started to cry. The trip was off to booming start. George sulking, head against
the window watching the grazing cows whirl past him, a huge blur of green, black and
white. The ominous mountains lurking in the background, too young to appreciate their
grandeur. But his father was in a good mood and wanted him to snap out of it. "Come
on boy, lighten up. You’re too much of a sissy, that’s your problem. Whatcha
gonna do when another boy slaps you like that, think he’ll stop ‘cause you start
with the waterworks?" "I doughno."
"What do you mean you doughno? Of course not. And you better
be ready to hit him back or you’ll get your little ass kicked, you hear?"
"Yes sir."
"See that mountain up yonder? Well, when we get to the edge
of it we’ll almost be there." And that was his father’s way of making up.
His father spent over an hour just showing him the proper way to hold a rifle and how to
shoot and all the do’s and don’ts before he put any bullets in it. "Now
I’m telling ya, ya better do it just like I taught ya, cause if ya go and blow my
head off I’m gonna come back and haunt you ‘till kingdom come."
"Yes sir."
"Now let me see what ya can do with it. Aim for that tree up
yonder." George took aim, fired and completely missed the fat tree his father was
pointing to. "You ain’t even trying! Lookie where that damn bullet went to. You
got to aim boy, aim!"
"I’m trying Dad."
"Well try harder." And he tried again and again until he finally hit the tree. With this accomplished, George’s father told him he was ready to go hunting. "Now there ain’t no talking when you’re hunting cause you’ll scare the deer away. Got it?" George nodded. He was excited, but apprehensive more than anything. "Dad?" "What son?" "What happens to the deer after we shoot it?" "We gonna take it home and eat it, that’s what." "Will we hurt it?" "Not if you shoot it right away and don’t leave the thing to run off wounded." "Oh. Well, do we have to kill it? Can’t we just shoot it with a sleeping bullet then let it wake up later?" "What’s wrong with you boy? Huh?" "Nothing, I just thought maybe there was a way we wouldn’t have to kill it." "Well you thought wrong. Do you want to hunt or do you want to sit in the truck by yourself till I come back?" "I wanna hunt." "Well then be quiet and let’s go." George remembered that day well. He didn’t shoot anything except the tip of his father’s shoe when he accidentally dropped his rifle. Just missed his big toe. His father gave him a whippin’ right there in the forest and swore he’d never take him hunting again. But the following year they went out again and this time he did shoot a deer; he felt like a real man that day cause his father kept telling him he was. "Son, you’re a real man now, a real man just like your dad." His mother didn’t approve of their hunting, and she especially thought that George was too young to be shooting a gun. But she didn’t have much of a say about anything, and when she did a good crack across the mouth usually shut her up. "But George, he’s just a boy." "Well he’s gotta learn some time." "Why does he have to? Can’t you let him grow up first and decide whether or not he even wants to hunt?" "What’s to decide, hunting’s in his blood just like it’s in mine. Besides, I don’t see you complaining when we’re eating deer meat." "That’s not the point." "Well what is the point? You want him to grow up and be a sissy?" "What are you sayin’? That every man who doesn’t hunt is a sissy? Why my daddy . . ." "Your daddy nothing. I don’t have to explain hunting to no woman. You just mind your business and go clean up the supper dishes." George could hear them like it was yesterday. Later in the night, after his father had drank one too many, he’d start in on her. Picking an argument with her about the subject she was smart enough to leave behind. He’d pick and pick until he struck a nerve. Suddenly his mother would snap. She’d scream every ugly thing she could think of, forgetting for the moment the price she would pay for such an outburst. Through the crack in his bedroom door, George could see his father look over at his mother. Then he’d slowly get up from his chair, put his beer down on the counter and grab his mother by the hair. "What’d you call me bitch? Huh? You’re not so tough now, are ya? Not so tough with me right in your face, are ya?" George closed his eyes for he saw the hand go back and the next thing he heard was his mother’s scream. When he looked out his door his mother lie crying on the floor while his father stood over her proud-like and triumphant. George ran from his room screaming "Momma! Momma!" fearful for himself, but worried more about his mother than anything. Each time he thought his father might have killed her. "Get back in your room right now before I do the same to you!" "Momma, are you alright?" "She’s fine. This is all part of the act Georgie. She just wants you to feel sorry for her." When his mother looked up at him her cheek was swollen and she had a cut below her eye. "Daddy, she’s bleeding." "She’s ok. Now I told you get back to bed. NOW!" "Georgie, Momma’s ok. Listen to your daddy and go back to bed sweetheart." George couldn’t remember how many times he’d witnessed scenes just like that. Too many, that much he knew. He put the rifle back it the case and headed out to his car. It was opening day for hunting season and he was meeting his father as he did every year. Their relationship had become a bit strained during his teenage years when he realized what type of person his father was, and now it still wasn’t the greatest. But at age 22, he thought it better to have some type of relationship with his father than none at all. His parents had split the day after his fifteenth birthday, as if by some prearranged agreement. They told him the following morning and by that night his father was gone. He had felt a mixture of sadness and relief. He was relieved for his mother knowing she’d be safe from his abuse. But what would become of them? His mother had no skills, she had never worked a day in her life. He felt now that he was the man of the house he should quit school and find a job. But his mother wouldn’t hear of it. "Now Georgie," she had said, "I will have you do no such thing. You’ll finish school ya’ hear. And if you do real well, maybe you’ll even get a scholarship for college. Don’t you worry ‘bout nothing. I already got me a job lined up down at the market. I won’t be making half what your father was, but he’s supposed to pay alimony and child support. You know what alimony is?" "Yes maam." "So don’t you worry, we gonna be just fine." She hugged him then, and held him for longer than he was comfortable so he had to pull away. He smiled at her and said, "I love you momma. I’m sorry ‘bout the way daddy treated you. Why if I was bigger than him I woulda ..." But she cut him off. "Let’s just forget that. It’s all behind us now Georgie. Just remember, don’t ever raise your hand to a woman." "I would never do that!" "I know, you’re too sweet," she told him brushing his cheek. "But sometimes we learn things growing up that ain’t so good but we think that’s the way things are. I just want you to know that hitting a woman is cowardly and wrong." "I know momma. Don’t worry ‘bout me. If I hit anyone it’ll be him." "Shhhhh. Now stop that talk." Following their divorce and separation George would see his father from time to time, mostly to go hunting. They didn't talk about anything significant, and George realized the sad fact that his father knew as much about him as the security guard at his apartment building. As he drew nearer to the diner, he tried to put all his grudges behind him. When he saw his father he actually felt somewhat happy to see him, it had been almost six months and his father seemed to have aged a lot in that time. He wanted to ask him if he was hitting the bottle harder than usual, but decided against it. He tried to ignore the rancid smell of his father's breath, the beard beginning to unevenly grow in and his father's crude jokes, all for the sake of having a good father and son day. They drove out to the same spot where his father had first taught him to hunt and for a moment he felt good to be with his father. They searched and waited for half the day without seeing a thing. They decided to break for lunch and that's when his father pulled out the bottle. "Hey dad, I thought you said this was the only time you never touched the stuff." "Yeah, well I changed my mind." "Do you think that’s such a good idea?" "I been hunting long enough to handle a swig of whisky. Don’t you worry ‘bout your old man." George didn’t like it, but didn’t press him further. "Come on, let’s head out before it gets too late." They each took a separate path to look for deer tracks. After a little while George heard the distinctive sound of a gun shot. He ran in the direction his father had went to see if he might be in time to catch one himself. When he rounded the corner he saw his father standing over a large doe. It was his father’s usual triumphant stance. It was an unusually warm day for Autumn, but that didn’t stop a shiver from spreading down George’s back. The image of his father standing over his mother on the kitchen floor was as clear as if it were yesterday. His father still had his back to him and before he could even think about it further, George lifted his rifle and took aim.
|
