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By Root 746 0

in the chair and pulling the knots out of her bootlaces to appease her aching feet; that was the last thing. Before that, a morning-long battle with exhaustion. It had felt like walking through neck-deep pond water just to drag herself up here from the hemlock bridge where she and Eddie had been working earlier. Two big trees had fallen across the trail and had to be cleared. Eddie happily took up the ax and set to limbing and chopping while she wielded the chain saw, and yes, she’d been glad for the help. But she hated the way he showed her up, stripping off his shirt so the sweat ran down the planes of his neck and working cheerfully all morning without a break. She didn’t like being skunked. She hated feeling older than him and like a weakling, a girl. An old lady, if the truth be told. After the first hour her arms had ached and her knees had been set to buckle and the roar of the chain saw had drowned out her grumbling at the sweat and sawdust in the collar of her T-shirt. By noon her one and only wish was to go flop down in the middle of the cold creek branch, clothes and all. When the chain saw ran out of gas, she was deeply grateful.

Her plan had been to sit down here on the porch for a minute before hurrying to refill their water jug and the gas can and get straight back down there. Right. She shaded her eyes and frowned at the sun, which was touching the crowns of the poplars. She’d slept for hours. Then she noticed the ax lying at the end of the porch. She studied it, puzzled. He must have come back up here looking for her when she didn’t return. Saw her asleep, left again, and now was—where? Panic rose into her throat. The gunfire, that would have been him. Eddie Bondo had shot something while she slept.

She jumped up and paced the porch, gripped with the surreal possibility that her obsessive dread had come true. But there had been only the one shot; he couldn’t have killed much with just one shot, since they weren’t all together anymore. They were leaving the den to hunt now, all of them. She’d seen one or two young at a time running with an adult, as high up as the hemlock grove and all the way down to the boundary line. Most nights now she heard their yips and tremulous, rising howls. They were all over this mountain. She couldn’t keep them safe anymore. Dragging her untied bootlaces, she went quickly inside the cabin and checked the corner where his rifle had stood for most of two months. No surprise: it was gone. Bastard.

She went to her desk and yanked open the drawer where she kept her pistol, but then she just stared at it. What did she think she was going to do? She slowly closed the drawer and stood with her head back and her eyes closed, stood that way for a long time while tears crept onto her temples. No more shots rang out. Only the one.

She was still not ready to face him—maybe would never be—when she heard him whistling at a distance, coming up the Forest Service road. She glanced out the window, went to the door and bolted it, sat back down on the bed, put her boots back on, stared some more at the book she’d been staring at, then went to the window again. Here he came, grinning like a polecat, resting his gun on one shoulder and in his other hand toting some object that resembled a dark jacket. She squinted. Something black. Something feathered, with wings, bouncing along limply in his hand as he carried it by its feet. A turkey. She ran outside, banging her forehead hard against the door in her haste to get through it, having completely forgotten she’d bolted it shut a minute before. She watched him from the porch, holding her head. The pain burned tears into her eyes, but relief made her laugh like a child.

When he saw her there he hitched a small, extra step into his gait and held up his trophy. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Happy Easter’s more like it. Turkey season was done with in April.” She touched her fingers to her forehead and looked at them, but she wasn’t bleeding. She felt delirious, unable to stop laughing. He halted ten feet away and appraised her.

“Well, hell. You’re going