In the Wilderness - Kim Barnes [102]
I’ve been told my father can outwalk any man, can walk for days without tiring. Beneath a towering larch, he stops just long enough to strike a match. Golden needles drop around him, catching in his hair. His hands seem sometimes possessed of their own grace, like the wings of a raptor, finely boned and beautiful. He is strong, his chest and arms surprisingly large, so that when he rolls up his sleeves I find myself staring, seeing the muscle there tense and release, and I feel all that he has held back and is capable of.
No matter how carefully I step over twigs and loose rock, my presence is betrayed by the thud of my boots, the crack of dry limbs echoing through the quiet. A raven flies before us, calling its disgruntled warning. I watch its blackness against the sky and see the head pivot to follow our movement. He knows something we don’t, I think. I think that ravens are our attendants through the forest—dusky harbingers, impartial jurors, marking our progress, patient as fate.
I see my father’s back, the straight shoulders, the way he moves: in the swing of his legs the hint of a swagger. I sense the rhythm of his stride and begin to hear its song, its smooth cadence. I bring the rifle around to rest behind my neck and drape my arms across its barrel and stock, like a woman carrying water.
Only a few miles into our hike and already I want to stop for a drink of tea. I want to rest. I try to discern the hour by the muted light of clouds. I hum out ragged bits of old songs—“Going to the Chapel of Love” and “I’ll Fly Away” and something by Bobby Goldsboro.
My father’s sudden stop startles me. I nearly run, thinking we’ve surprised a cougar or bear. He points to me, freezes me in my tracks, motions me to his side. My eyes follow his to a dense jumble of slash and tall brush.
Even with his direction, at first I cannot see the light-dappled back of a deer, motionless in the frosted undergrowth. My father’s hand is a brushstroke through air as he silently traces the hidden head and legs. I nod, finally able to see the doe where she stands fluid as mercury.
I step back to give him room, but he shakes his head. He has given me the shot. I should be grateful, but instead I feel patronized, instantly aware of his expectation, his judgment of my every motion. This will be his test of me, his way of making me prove up. The action, which normally comes easy—snug the butt of the rifle tight against your shoulder, elbow up and out—seems awkward as I lay my cheek to the stock. The deer raises its head and I think she has sensed us, but she dips again, browsing in fern and the shriveled leaves of mullen.
I aim for the killing spot, just behind the shoulder, a point at which I know the bullet might puncture the lungs or pierce the heart, but now I’m not sure I want to kill the doe. We’re not here for meat; we’re here because a daughter and her father can speak to each other only in a code made up of action and reaction. The forest, the trail, the deer are backdrop and props for the little war we wage, and if only a few hours ago I believed our outing an innocuous attempt at reconciliation, I feel our roles settling upon us: the powerful father, the willful daughter, each intent on gaining some edge over the other, even here, in the wilderness, in this ritual of blood.
The shot echoes across the ridge. I lever in another cartridge and aim again, waiting for leaves to move, for shadows to separate. What I see is the deer’s white flag of a tail disappear into the thick undergrowth. I turn to my father pulling smoke deep into his lungs. He looks at me above the still-lit match and raises one eyebrow. I glance at my brother, who is studying his boots.
Before I can protest, my father turns and moves away. Greg shrugs his shoulders and follows him. I want to tell them I meant to miss, or that anyone can miss a shot. I think, Quit walking, listen,