The season's first snow had come in the night. Henry could see the tiny crystals swirl diagonally beneath the yard light as he pealed back the curtains. There was a light frost on the edges of the window panes, and he knew the birds would be nervous from the wind and cold and be willing to fly. He heard his son stirring from the cabin’s far room and called to him. Henry's dog, Dan the Chesapeake, followed him when he placed kindling and wood on the coals in the stove and watched intently while Henry filled the percolator with water and coffee. Dan looked intently at Henry, and Henry placed his hand on the dog’s head. He considered his dog to be the noblest of creatures on days like this. He pulled his wool pants over his new long johns and put on a sweater and Mackinaw. His son also wore the same brand and color of clothing, and before they'd gone to bed he'd remarked how alike they looked. Now that James was thirteen, he'd grown to be nearly his father's height although his build was thin and not yet full and heavy like his father's.
The night before James had started out to the outhouse in only his long johns and boots, but turned back after opening the door.
"Geeze Dad, it's cold as heck out there," he'd said, closing the door.
"Skinny kid like you needs more fat or more clothes," his father had answered smiling.
Henry was proud to have his son hunt with him this week. He'd taken time off from his law practice, and took the boy out of school against the insistant protests of his wife. But this trip he felt to be important, and no matter what the boy’s mother said, he would not relent. Just the month before the boy had been given his grandfather's Browning pump shotgun, left to him in a will when his grandfather died ten years. The men of this family knew of the rights of manhood one being the required week hunting ducks and geese while watching the ever constant ever changing force of nature. His father, grand father and great-grandfather had all followed the ritual and had all loved the smells of hunting, from the oils used to lubricate and clean the weapons, to the aroma of the dusty cabin, from the smell of wet wool and dog and sweat, to the dry grass and coffee, to the wild scent of blood and freshly cleaned birds. Today there was the smell of wood smoke and hints of winter, crisp and clean and fresh as the new day, and Henry felt more excited because of it.
After the traditional hot cakes and bacon breakfast, they filled two thermoses with black coffee and walked down the gentle slope to the rowboat as the day emerged, transforming the sky a lighter gray. They knew their roles exactly, to wait until the boat was untied from the post, to board in silence, with James in the bow, Henry second, and Dan in the stern, steady and attentive. Henry pushed from shore with an oar and rowed across the rippling water to the blind which rose from an island off the western edge of the lake. A wisp of wind brought the sounds of the geese feeding in the marsh, and Henry rowed a wide berth downwind and in the open water he felt both free and isolated.
The boat made a swishing sound through the canary grass of the shoreline, and James steeped ashore with the painter in hand pulling the boat until it rested solid on the land. Dan led the way to the blind sniffing the ground as James and Henry followed. There was frost and dusting of snow on the bench. James covered the rough hewn board with a plaid stadium blanket and sat down. Henry sat on the edge of the bench, poured two cups of coffee and placed the mugs between them. Dan sat attentively and James patted him on his head. "Good Boy Danny," he whispered. Dan looked back knowingly.
In the growing light the snow abated and they could see far into the distance where ducks were rising and flying into the wind.
"Keep you head down," Henry reminded James, "Don't let them see the whites of your eyes."
A group a mallards was closing in and Henry saw James make an impatient shuffle.
"Wait, until you see color," he whispered, "I'll give the signal."
A moment later he said "Now!" and they both stood to shoot. As the birds veered away, two fell from the sky and Henry dropped another. James shot twice more, but no more birds fell.
"Get 'em" James said, and Dan rushed from the blind towards the downed birds.
"Why'd I miss the second and third?" he asked as Dan retrieved.
"Lead 'em more when they're flying away like that, let them fly into the shot."
James tied the necks of the birds together with a leather thong from his vest and hung them on a nail to his side. He admired the smoothness of their feathers and the iridescence of the green to blue to purple to black of their necks.
Far and away they could see birds rising from the fields accompanied by the clacking, quacking and honks, but the birds stayed clear of the blind. In the open distance squalls of storms in varying degrees of gray shifted behind the swaying trees whose branches had not yet given up all their leaves.
James had never hunted in the snow, but had been told it could be the best hunting. He looked down at the Browning and felt proud to have it as his own, for his grandfather could have willed it to any of his uncles or cousins, but had chosen him when he was still a child. He hoped to be as good a hunter as the men in his family, especially as good as his grandfather had been. He wondered if with the gun he could also inherit skill. There were legends handed down, where Granddad would leave home with five shells and return with five birds, clean the birds in seconds without a knife, saving the feathers for pillows and flies. His granddad had said that waterfowl could see great distances, recognize shapes, color, movement, and James wondered if the birds could see the history of other fallen birds, and how long could they remember. He felt a chill from the an icy gust that blew into the blind and pulled tight the neck of his mackinaw.
They drank coffee and waited for the next wave of birds.
Henry wished he could always feel as he did today, where the only thing that mattered was to stay warm and hunt as he had with his father and his father had done with his grandfather, for as far back as generations could remember. He felt as if all was as nature intended, where only the basics of life controlled his actions.
"Dad, are you and Mom getting a divorce?"
The question shocked Henry, in the quiet isolation of the cold fall morning he'd put the question as far back in his mind as he had since she had learned of his infidelity. He paused long before responding.
"I don't know son, I sure hope not"
But he could not look at his boy when he talked, he just looked into the coffee cup slowly steaming between his gloved hands.
"You know It's not right. I don't want to be shuffled back and forth between two families, I've seen too many kids do that, it's a shitty thing to do, a fuckin' shitty thing to do."
Henry had never heard his son talk like that, to him it sounded like someone else's kid, someone from another neighborhood. " I've done all I can, it's up to your mother now," He felt weak, admitting he had no power make things right, no power to do what his son wanted most, no power to keep what he wanted most, to give his son the best he could.
In the dead silence between them, a sound from approaching geese drifted in on the wind, low and clear, and as the haunting honks came closer, Henry whispered, "These are yours son, you say when to shoot."
1995 KEH
