Kate put her arms around Owen. “Be careful. You don’t know who’s out there drunk with a bow or a rifle. Man has enough bourbon, I’d look like a whitetail.”
“A cute one, too,” Owen said. “I’ll tell you that.”
Now Kate hugged Luke and kissed his cheek. She could see sparse, blondish fuzz on his chin and upper lip. He squirmed and tried to pull away from her, a look of pain on his face.
He said, “Mom…”
She let him go. His voice had changed in the past few weeks. It was deeper now and she wasn’t used to it. “I’ll bet you don’t mind if Lauren kisses you.”
Luke said, “We broke up.”
Kate said, “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I don’t know,” Luke said. He seemed embarrassed, eyes looking down at the rug.
“Give him a break,” Owen said and winked.
Luke walked out of the room. Owen grinned now and said, “I’ll get all the details, tell you about it later, okay?”
Owen picked up his gear and Kate put her arm around him and walked him to the door. Luke was outside in the dark with Leon. Luke threw a stick and Leon charged after it and brought it back, looking up at Luke, ready to go again.
Owen bent down and kissed Kate. She held his big stubbly face in her hands and said, “Be careful.”
“What’re you worried about?”
“Keep an eye on Luke, will you?”
“You don’t do this,” Owen said. “What’s the matter?”
Kate didn’t explain it, the feeling she had, because she couldn’t.
Owen opened the door and said, “Leon, get in here.”
The dog came running, banged into Owen, hit the rug, a Persian, slid across it, regained his balance and moved toward Kate, slobbering and pressing himself against her.
Owen had been hunting since he was a kid, loved the woods and streams and wanted to pass the thrill on to Luke. For Owen, there was nothing like it, getting away from the shop, the track, the bullshit. He also loved it because it was the only place on earth you didn’t hear cell phones.
Kate didn’t care much for hunting, but she didn’t impose her point of view too strenuously. What bothered her were all the bonehead stories about hunters getting hurt or killed. She’d just read one in the Traverse City Record Eagle about a man who was shot while he was going number two. The article said he answered a call to nature and was nearly done with his business, wiping himself with a white Kleenex, when another member of his hunting party shot the man in his backside, thinking he was a whitetail deer.
“That didn’t really happen,” Owen said.
“Want to bet?” Kate said. “I’ve got the article right here.”
Another story told about a hunter who was gored by a deer and had to go to the hospital. The man had no hard feelings, though, and said he’d be ready with a load of double aught next time him and the deer’s paths crossed.
Kate said, “If that isn’t proof of the stupidity of hunting, nothing is.”
Owen said, “Most hunting accidents-fifty percent-involve falling out of a tree stand, either climbing up or down.” He looked at her and grinned.
Kate shook her head. “Oh my God.” Leon moved in close and bumped her. “Listen, if you guys aren’t home by dinner, I’m going to Big Buck Night at the casino.”
Owen said, “What’s that all about?”
“Roman Brady, a soap star from Days of Our Lives, is going to be there.”
“He’s the big-buck stud, huh?”
Kate said, “Ever seen him?”
“Not that I recall.”
“You’re not missing a whole lot,” Kate said, “but the ladies love him because he’s on TV.”
Owen said, “So you’re not going?”
“I’m just warning you,” Kate said. “That’s what hunting widows do-get their picture taken with Roman and play blackjack.”
She stood at the window, listening to Leon’s wet irregular breathing, watching Owen and Luke cross the yard, two contrasting shapes in the dim light of a half moon-like Lenny and George in Of Mice and Men, a book Kate had just read again. They moved toward the tree line, disappearing into the thick foliage like they’d entered another dimension.
That was the last time she saw Owen alive.
FIVE
Luke kept rewinding the scene in his head. Kept seeing himself wigging, hands shaking, trying to draw the bow, but no strength to do it. He couldn’t think of any experience in his life that was like it. It was more than that he’d freaked out, it consumed him. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Had no strength to pull the bowstring. His dad had described the symptoms, but Luke didn’t believe it would ever happen to him. But it did, and in his soul, he knew if he hadn’t lost his nerve trying to shoot the first buck, his dad would still be alive.
The whole thing was a blur after that, like a video in fast motion. Instead of going back to the lodge to get his mother, he ran toward farm buildings he’d seen from high ground in the woods. The farmer, a big man in a red flannel coat and a cap that said CAT DIESEL on the front, called EMS.
His mom arrived at the hospital and he felt worse than he ever had in his life. She hugged him, but he couldn’t look at her. Didn’t know what to do or say and that’s the way it had been since he walked out the back door of the lodge with his dad to go hunting.
Owen McCall died on the operating table. The broadhead had severed an artery before piercing his lung. He’d lost too much blood. The surgeon telling Luke he didn’t think they could’ve saved his dad even if they’d beamed him into the operating theater right after the accident. Luke wondering if the doctor was talking like a Trekkie to impress him.
He had to meet with a sheriff ’s deputy, too. Luke, his mom and the deputy, whom his mother seemed to know, met in the surgical waiting room. The deputy took his Smokey the Bear hat off and placed it on the end table next to him. He had a sweat crease where the hat gripped his head.
Luke told them what happened in straightforward sequence, leaving out the part about getting buck fever. What difference did it make now? The deputy wrote everything he said on a notepad in a leather case. He could feel his mom’s eyes locked on him during the interview, boring into him like lasers. He never looked at her the whole time. When he finished, the deputy, whose name was Bill Wink, closed the notebook that had an embossed western sheriff ’s badge on the front and fixed his gaze on Luke’s mom.
“I’ve been hunting most of my life and I’ve never heard of anything like it.”
“What’re you saying?” his mom said.
“Mrs. McCall, I’m saying it was a bizarre accident.” Now he looked at Luke and said, “I know you’re hurting, and I feel for you, son.”
Luke watched him put his hat back on, finding just the right position, the brim an inch or so above his eyes, the hat the same dark brown color as his shirt. The pants were light brown and had a dark brown stripe that ran down the legs. Luke couldn’t imagine wearing a uniform like that, but Bill Wink looked good in it, with his Marine haircut and muscular arms and his black leather gun belt, the handle of an automatic, a Glock-it looked like-ready to draw.
Out in the hall, Luke heard Deputy Sheriff Wink talking to his mother in hushed tones.
“The DA said it was an accidental death during the act of hunting. It is not a criminal case. It does not rise to the level of criminal negligence. The boy was licensed to hunt.”
Luke couldn’t believe they’d actually considered something else. What’d they think; he tried to kill his own
