Sam knew how his son felt about him. He sensed the hidden, impotent rage, like a beaten dog cowering in the bushes. But it wasn't Blake's hatred of him, but his fear that infuriated Sam.
"I'm gonna make a man outta you if it's the only thing I do right in my life!" he would scream at his son. The boy positively resisted him, though. He didn't like sports, never cussed- he was even afraid to fight. Things got so bad a couple of years ago when that Danny Bolster was beating up on him that Sam had stepped in himself. He'd marched down to the school yard and shook Danny by the collar, yelling, "You ever touch my boy again, I'll kill you!" And that was the end of it. Sam had acted not so much out of affection but his own strange sense of patrimonial duty. For months afterwards Sam harangued his son for not standing up to Danny.
A late Saturday afternoon found Blake and his brother Willy sitting side by side at the dining room table, hands resting on their laps. The dinner setting was neatly arrayed before them glasses and utensils placed in perfect symmetry atop a lace tablecloth. A large, wooden bowl of salad and a platter of baked catfish sat heavily in the center, along with a pitcher of lemonade.
The lock on the front door clicked loudly. As if of its own accord, the portal swung open with a rush of air. Sam Wallace entered, wearing the old army jacket issued him sixteen years earlier at Fort Polk induction center.
He was of medium build, with sharp, well defined shoulders and weathered features hewn into a face of granite. Thirty eight years of mistrust and resentment smoldered behind his ash gray eyes. He stood in the foyer a moment, and shot a furtive glance to either side. Then stuffing his keys back into his pocket, he pushed the door shut and tossed his jacket onto a shelf in the hall closet.
"Hi, honey," his wife called from the kitchen. "I'll be right out!"
Sam grunted in reply. He pulled out a chair across from Blake and plopped down in it lazily, folding his callused hands on his stomach. From behind half-closed lids, he surveyed the two boys with quiet hostility.
"Here I come!" Sam's wife called. She entered the dining room briskly, her long, blue cotton dress clinging to her legs. In her slender arms she carried a large tureen of steaming soup, which she set carefully on a trivet next to the salad. She was a thin, slight woman of 35, but not unattractive. With a spatula she carefully meted out portions of the catfish to her husband, her two sons, and finally herself. She sat down next to Sam and nervously brushed a stray lock of dirty blonde hair away from her forehead.
Scooping out a ladle of chicken gumbo, she said to her younger son, "Willy, gimme your bowl, honey."
"I don't want no soup," whined the five year old.
"Give your mama the damn bowl!" Sam snapped.
With a great, pouting frown Willy surrendered the bowl to his mother.
Five minutes of glum silence prevailed. It was Sam who broke the spell. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he announced with a mouthful of fish, "Back's been killin' me again. We still couldn't get done by four."
"Maybe you shouldn't go in Saturdays, Sam," his wife suggested timidly. "It don't do your back any good."
Sam swallowed his food. "We don't 'xactly got money comin' outta our ears. Seems like people who do the least work have the most money. Do you know what kinda car my foreman’s drivin’ now, Brenda?”
“What kind of car, Sam?”
Sam pounded his fist on the table. “A brand new, 1959 Cadillac El Dorado! In 11 years I never seen him do anything but sit on his can and boss the rest of us around. He glanced reproachfully at Blake. "A job wouldn’t do him no harm."
Blake stared uncomfortably down at his plate.
“Honey, he’s barely fourteen,” Brenda protested weakly.
"Excuses, excuses," said Sam with a wave of his hand. “He coulda taken that job in Tommy's store in Plaquemine "
"But, Daddy, Uncle Tommy wanted someone to work twenty hours a week and that's too much for me " Blake said.
Sam seldom had to say much to make himself understood. "Boy, I don't believe you were spoken to," he replied menacingly.
"He's still in school, Sam," Brenda said.
"School, schmool!" Sam said. "He's got more time than he knows what to do with!" He asked Blake, "What do you do with all your time?"
"Study," Blake mumbled.
"Study!" his father jeered. "Then you should be a straight A student, which you ain't." Sam gulped down his beer. "Brenda," he said, setting his empty mug on the table. "do we have more beer in the icebox?"
Brenda looked confused. “Yes, Sam,” she replied. “There’s more.”
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Well it ain’t gonna come in here by itself, is it?” he snapped.
Without a word, Brenda stood up and scurried into the kitchen. She returned seconds later with another Schlitz, which she opened and cautiously poured into his glass. Sam automatically lifted the mug to his lips and drained about half of it. “What’re you doin’ tomorrow?” he asked Blake.
“I don't know," Blake confessed.
"Well, I know," Sam said. "We're goin' huntin’. Just you and me. I figure we get up at 6:30. Be outta here by quarter of or so. Take us an hour to get there." He nonchalantly took a sip of beer.
Blake's eyes widened as if someone had informed him that he was to be shot at dawn.
“Huntin?” he repeated. "Huntin' what?"
"Oh, I don't know," Sam replied. "Squirrels, nutrias, birds, coons- whatever we see that don't see us first," he added with a sharp guffaw.
“Is it deer season already?” Brenda asked.
Instead of responding, Sam shoveled another large forkful of catfish into his mouth. His cheeks bulged rudely as he churned the food for several moments before swallowing it with a loud smacking of his lips. Finally he replied, "It’s always deer season. I know a place right by Bayou Maringouin. Three thousand acres of beautiful, unspoiled land and nobody ever goes there."
"I thought that was Thaddeus Beauchesne’s property," Brenda said.
"Oh, get off it, Brenda," Sam said. "He said I could come down and do some shootin' sometime. Them cajuns ain't so bad once you get to know 'em. No worse than the niggers. Besides, his family owns a refinery in Baton Rouge. It ain't like he gives a damn about the place."
"Sam, please don’t cuss like that in front of Willy,” Brenda said, with as much courage as she could muster.
"Willy!" Sam nearly shouted. "Hey, Willy!"
Bewildered, Willy looked up at his father.
"You ain't gonna be a foul mouthed son of a bitch like your old man when you grow up, are you?"
The little boy shook his head.
"See, Brenda?" Sam replied in mock reassurance. "You got nothin' to worry about. 'Cept maybe him," he added, looking scornfully at Blake. "I can see him wearin' a tutu, dancin' on stage in one o' them clubs on Bourbon Street."
"Sam, please," she pleaded.
"Quit your damn whinin’, Brenda!" Sam barked. "It's about time he grew up. Tomorrow he's goin' shootin' with me."
"I-I don't know, Daddy," Blake stammered. "It ain't a good idea. They got them steel traps and them alligators crawlin' around. Only an idiot would go down there."
Sam shot him a red-hot glance. "What?" he said.
“We-we might get caught I mean,” Blake sputtered to explain. “I just don’t want nothin’ bad to happen, that’s all.”
Sam gave a snort. “Ain’t nothin’ bad gonna happen,” he drawled. “Just like you,” he added, shaking his head.
Brenda began again gently. "Sam, can't you wait two weeks and take him someplace legal? I don't want you gettin' shot for trespassin'."
Sam grinned coyly. "We ain't gonna get shot, Brenda. I told you. I know Thaddeus Beauchesne." Sam stood up, picked up his empty beer mug and headed into the living room. There was a click as a cabinet door was opened, then the sound of a bottle cap being twisted off, followed by the soft gurgle of flowing liquid. He walked back into the dining room with a glass full of whiskey. "I'll be in the bedroom," he told his wife. To Blake he said, "I'll see you tomorrow mornin'." With that, he turned and headed up the stairs.
"C'mon, get up. Did you think I'd forget?"
Startled, Blake raised himself up on his forearms and turned two bleary, crusty eyes towards the gruff voice in the bedroom doorway. The fuzzy silhouette of his father faded into view, standing akimbo ten feet from Blake's bed. The boy sensed rather than smelled the stale odor of whiskey emanating from Sam Wallace. As the older man took a few steps closer, Blake realized that he was not mistaken.
"C'mon, get up," Sam repeated, shaking him roughly by the shoulder. "I wanna be outta here by 6:45."
Blake sat up. He blinked rapidly several times and shook his head briskly in an effort to throw off the last vestiges of sleep. A wave of dizziness swept through him and he nearly fell back down but for his father's forbidding presence.
"Get dressed. I'll be in the kitchen."
Then he was gone. Blake didn't even remember his leaving and for a moment he wasn't sure whether his father had even been there. But Blake wasn't taking any chances. He kicked the covers off and with great effort swung his feet over the side of the bed. Hastily throwing on some clothes and a vest, he joined his father in the kitchen a minute later.
"That was quick," Sam remarked. "Let's go."
The two stepped out the back door and walked across the driveway to where Sam had parked the '52 Ford. The crisp morning air hit Blake in the face, and he winced at the prospect of what lay ahead. Sam marched in front with the rifle slung across his chest, his face chiseled into an expression of fierce stolidity. As they approached the truck, Sam turned around suddenly and tossed the Winchester to Blake. Blake caught the rifle clumsily, fumbling with it for several seconds before getting a hold.
Taking the keys out of his vest pocket, Sam climbed into the driver's seat, then reached over and pushed open the door for Blake. Then turning the vehicle around, he proceeded down the driveway. Several minutes later Blake found himself staring listlessly out the window at the hazy landscape as the truck sped noisily down the empty highway. In the distance he could faintly discern the tiny silhouettes of pine trees against the pink and orange panorama of sunrise. They passed a sign which read "Now Entering Iberville Parish."
The last leg of their journey brought them down a long dirt road. Slowing the truck down, Sam parked it several feet off the roadside by a sign proclaiming NO TRESPASSING. He climbed out of the truck and stood by the edge of the woods, giving the place a cursory surveyal.
Blake stepped out of the truck carefully, holding the Winchester upright. Sam thought for a moment. "There's a knapsack in the back seat with my huntin' knife, some ammunition and stuff. Get it," he instructed. Blake did.
"You hold onto that knapsack for now," Sam ordered. "Gimme the gun." Blake tossed the rifle to his father, who caught it neatly. Sam's dexterity seemed unaffected by all the alcohol he drank, Blake noted.
"You see this, boy?" Sam asked Blake, holding the rifle out with one hand.
Blake nodded.
"You know what it is?"
"Yes, sir," the boy answered.
"Well, what is it then?" Sam yelled.
"It's a gun, Daddy."
"Hmm!" Sam replied. "That's real good. You're a smart boy. Lemme tell you a little bit about this gun ... son. This here's a Winchester 30 30, model 94. Made in 1950. Your standard huntin' rifle." He tossed it lightly in his hands. "Holds eight shots," he continued. "One in the chamber, seven in the magazine. See this here metal part in the middle?"
"Yes, sir."
"In here's the chamber. This here bottom tube's the magazine," he explained, running his finger along the steel. "The one on top's the barrel. If you wanna shoot this thing, you put your bullets in the receiver- that's this little slot on the side cock the lever," he said, demonstrating as he spoke. "and pull the hammer all the way back."
"Lift the gun up, like so. You see where my hands are? I got my left hand up front on the forestock, and my right hand back here. I'm gonna put the butt up to my shoulder, tilt my head a little, and close my left eye. You followin' me, Blake?"
"Yeah, Daddy, I'm listenin'”.
"I'm gonna put the butt up to my shoulder," Sam repeated. "Next, I'm gonna sight my target. You see that little knob on the front o' the barrel?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"That's the front sight. The one 'bout twelve inches from my nose, with the notch in the middle's the rear sight. Make sure the front sight's right in the middle of that notch, then make sure it's right on your target. Then squeeze don't pull-squeeze the trigger."
Blake jumped at the click of the hammer as Sam demonstrated this last step. "Oh, for Christ"s sake!" Sam snapped, turning angrily on him. "It ain't even loaded, and even if it was, it ain't pointed at you!" He gave Blake a smart cuff on the back of the head. "Now take this gun," he ordered, shoving the Winchester into the boy's hands. "and lemme see you do it."
Blake repeated the procedure as best he could.
"That'll do," Sam muttered. "Now gimme some bullets."
Blake reached into the knapsack and counting out eight bullets, placed them in his father's palm. Sam adroitly slid the bullets into the aperture, one right after the other. With his thumb, Sam clicked the hammer halfway back. "Half cocked," he explained. "acts like a safety. You can pull the trigger hard as you please," he said, turning the barrel suddenly towards Blake's chest. "but ain't nothin' gonna come out." He squeezed the trigger spasmodically. Blake let out a yelp. Sam laughed this time, a long, hard laugh, probably harder than he’d ever laughed in his life. Blake was too stunned to speak. "Come on," Sam said.
Sam turned around as if nothing had happened and proceeded step by step into the woods, slowly but confidently striding forward past the moss covered oaks and the dusty shafts of morning sunlight. He stared sharply ahead, hands locked on his weapon, his face once again cruel and set with determination. The time for frivolity had come and gone. After about twenty paces he stopped, and turned around to see Blake still standing by the side of the road.
"What are you doin'?” Sam called. "You ain't gonna stand there the whole day! Now come on!"
Blake remained frozen to the spot. He looked at his father in frightened
silence.
"God damn it, Blake!" Sam snarled. "You get your ass over here!"
“I can't, Daddy," Blake said in a trembling voice. "It ain’t legal. We might get shot or or step in a trap. I mean do you really know this guy?"
Sam struggled to control his temper. "Blake," he began in a calm and coldly rational tone. "If you make me blow my top, you're gonna wish you'd been shot. Now get over here."
Casting his eyes submissively towards the ground, Blake reluctantly trailed after his father. Sam watched the boy for a few seconds, then satisfied, proceeded forwards in the same grim fashion. Blake stayed several feet behind Sam, as if afraid of getting too close. But Sam didn't notice he was soon lost in his own world again- entranced by the deathlike stillness of the woods and the early morning mist that floated around them.
They continued on for some minutes minutes which seemed like hours to Blake. The only sounds were the soft squishing of leather soles treading
through the moist clumps of wiregrass, and the occasional chirping of a bird high in the cypress trees. Blake stared warily at the stagnant marsh pools, expecting a starving alligator or a rabid muskrat to emerge from one of them. Suddenly Sam halted.
"Aha!" he announced triumphantly.
Blake stopped as well and looked curiously at his father. Sam stood rigid for several seconds, his line of sight fixed intently on some hidden quarry. Slowly raising his arm, he pointed towards a large oak tree fifty feet from where they stood. "Look at that," he whispered hoarsely.
Blake's eyes followed the direction of Sam's finger. Perched remotely on one of the lower branches was a dove, scarcely visible in the shadows cast by the thick, green curtains of Spanish moss which draped the oak's limbs. The dove sat like a stuffed bird on a shelf, peacefully oblivious to all outside stimuli, it seemed.
Without a word, Sam handed the rifle to his son, never taking his eyes off the intended target. Blake accepted the Winchester as if it were a lit stick of dynamite. With the back of his fingers, Sam gave him an impatient slap.
"Go on," he urged the boy. "He's all yours, Blake!"
Blake blinked nervously. "Do you want me to shoot him?" he asked.
"No, you idiot!" Sam growled. I want you to paint his picture! Go on!"
Hands trembling, Blake raised the rifle into position like his father had shown him. He winced as the wooden butt pressed into his shoulder. Lining his sights on the dove, he wrapped his finger around the cold, steel trigger. The temperature that November morning was 53 degrees, but Blake felt the sweat running down his temples. The dove sat motionless on its limb, waiting patiently for Blake's bullet to tear through its breast. Stupid bird! Why didn't it move? Why didn't it fly away? Why didn't the ground open up and swallow Sam? Still shaking, Blake steadied the rifle as best he could and shutting his eyes tightly, pulled the trigger.
Blake heard the sharp crack of the rifle, followed by the low whine of a bullet glancing off a branch. There was a loud shriek, and a frantic fluttering of wings. "Damn it!" his father yelled. He shoved Blake to the ground and snatched the rifle. With amazing alacrity, he cocked and fired the gun three times after the fleeing tangle of white feathers. Sam scowled furiously as the dove, unscathed, disappeared among the treetops.
He turned to Blake, who was just getting to his feet. "You did that on purpose!" he shouted.
"No, Daddy, I didn't I swear I didn't!" Blake cried imploringly. I just missed, that's all!"
Sam's eyes became slits. "You did, huh?" He took a deep breath. "You don't close your eyes when you're gonna shoot somethin'," he grumbled disgustedly. "Gimme the bottle."
"What?" Blake replied.
"The bottle!" Sam repeated angrily.
Blake took the knapsack off his back and reaching inside, handed his father a fifth of whisky, which was already one third empty. Tilting his head back, Sam took a long pull, then coughing harshly, handed the bottle back to his son. Blake gagged as the rancid smell of Old Crow crept up his nostrils.
Sam looked at him reproachfully. "I'd like to see you go through fifteen years of marriage without no help," he said.
Blake merely lowered his eyes without saying a word. And his father was in a patient mood today.
Sam glared at him for another second or two, and then turned and marched swiftly forwards again, his arms swinging determinedly as he grasped the rifle firmly in one hand. Blake hurried after his father, nearly running to keep up. Sam continued his rapid stride for almost ten minutes without speaking or slackening his pace. Blake tagged along as best he could, wondering where in hell Sam was going. Without warning, Sam stopped abruptly beneath a Beech tree and raised his hand in the air.
"Right here," he announced.
Blake came to a stumbling halt beside his father, tripping over a tree root as he did so and landing face first into a large mud puddle.
"Make yourself comfortable," Sam remarked with typical irony. "We're just gonna sit right here 'neath this little ole tree, real still and quiet, until we see somethin’. Don't move a muscle, don't say nothin', 'til I give the signal. You think you can handle that?"
"Yes," Blake muttered, crawling out of his puddle. Kneeling down beneath the beech, Sam sat back on his heels and laid the Winchester across his lap. Blake sat next to him, legs crossed, staring wretchedly down at the boggy earth. What time was it? he wondered. 8:00? 8:15 maybe? Mama and Willy were up by now, probably eating breakfast. For the first time it occurred to him that he was hungry. He glanced awry at his father, a stone gargoyle with a rifle. Whiskey for breakfast! Damn him! Sam's idea of the four food groups was malt, yeast, grain and rye. How would Mama and Willy get to church? Mama's friend Mrs. Charpentier would probably give them a ride. Blake would have given anything to be headed for church to listen to one of Reverend Hopper's hour and a half sermons.
A muskrat squealed somewhere off in the bayou, too far to rouse any interest in Sam. Blake looked up with a kind of half curiosity, not really expecting to see anything. Feeling somewhat more relaxed, he studied his surroundings. He and Sam were seated before a small clearing, beyond which continued the rows and rows of trees that obscured the horizon. The trees stood there in majestic solitude, like countless columns of infantry, unyielding save for an occasional rustling of their leaves when a breeze wafted through them.
The gargoyle next to Blake came to life. The rifle was raised into position with mechanical steadiness. The hammer clicked as it was pushed back. “Look at ‘im, Blake,” a harsh, croaking voice whispered. “He’s a beauty!”
A large, gray hare had wandered into the clearing, thirty feet from where Blake was sitting. The animal’s nose twitched curiously as it sniffed a magnolia shrub.
"Goodbye, Peter Cottontail."
It happened quickly. There was a short explosion, and the hare was
lifted off the ground. The animal landed several feet from the magnolia shrub, half its body blown away by the 30 30 slug. Using the Winchester for leverage, Sam hauled himself to his feet. He stood with the rifle out in front of him, at present arms position, proudly surveying the bloody rag. A grin of perverse satisfaction overspread his face.
"Not bad, eh, boy?" Sam remarked. "Gimme that there bottle again."
Blake felt ill.
"Hey, boy!" Sam snapped, giving him a shove. "What’re you, senile or
somethin'? Gimme the bottle!"
Blake quickly handed the bottle to his father, who took another long swallow. "But that was such an easy shot," Sam remarked thoughtfully. He looked at his son. "Go pick 'im up," he said.
"Pick 'im up?" Blake repeated.
"That's what I said," Sam replied. "Go over there and pick 'im up by the ears."
With the enthusiasm of a man walking the plank, Blake approached the dead rodent. He grimaced as he stared at the tangled mass of gray fur. He knelt down by the hare and reached for its ears, carefully turning his head away as he wrapped his fingers around them. He stood up, holding the animal at arm's length and doing his best not to make a face.
'That's it," Sam shouted encouragingly. "He ain't gonna bite. Now turn ‘im sideways. Sideways! That's better." Sam cocked and aimed the Winchester. "Now," he said ominously. "I'm gonna show you a really neat trick."
Blake stood rooted to the spot. He saw Sam locked into position, saw him
more clearly than he'd ever seen anything in his life. The barely visible gleam of his cold, gray eyes, focused on the target; his hard, weathered features; the sharp lines of his shoulders protruding from beneath his army jacket; his faded khaki pants; his dull, black, muddy boots. And the barrel of the Winchester, deep, dark and unfathomable, from which sudden violence might erupt at any second. He saw Sam and he remembered the man whose drunken rages allowed no peace in the family. The man from whom he had sustained countless welts and bruises. The man who despised people almost as much as he despised himself. The man who, at this very moment, was pointing a gun at him. The tip of the rifle glinted wickedly for an instant, struck by a stray beam of sunlight. Blake squinted.
Sam's finger tensed on the trigger. Blake’s fist opened instinctively and the hare plopped to the ground. The bullet whizzed past Blake's hand. Sam cursed, furious, and squaring his shoulders, marched straight for Blake. His anger mounted with each step. Blake looked on helplessly. Finally, Sam stood face to face with him.
"I've had enough of your sissy nonsense!" he shouted. "What the hell is it with you? "
Before Blake could respond, Sam's fist plowed into his chest, knocking him to the earth. Blake lay on the ground, clutching his chest. He felt the toe of Sam's boot graze his temple, and a thin stream of liquid trickled into his eye.
"Get up!" Sam shouted.
Blake remained supine and squirming, Sam standing over him and shouting like a parent trying to rouse a lazy child out of bed. Sam kicked him in the shoulder.
"Get up!" he repeated. "You ain't no dead rabbit!"
Blake wasn't sure what was going to happen to him, but Sam had made it clear that lying down was worse than standing up, so Blake painfully hoisted himself to a sitting position and staggered to his feet. He reeled for a second, then regained his balance. He stood staring into his father's stony gray eyes. But what Blake experienced was not so much fear, but bitterness, disgust, burgeoning rage-
"Why the hell did you have to spoil my shot? I told you to hold
onto him!"
“Because I didn’t want to get killed," Blake answered defiantly.
The back of Sam's fist flew at him so quickly that it wasn't until he was lying on the ground again that Blake realized he'd been hit. His whole head rang like a church bell. The salty taste of blood teased his tongue. He stared vacantly at the treetops above him blurring in and out of focus. He was a ship on the waters of oblivion, rolling and pitching slowly as the earth undulated gently beneath him. He began spinning astern, drifting towards unconsciousness. Finally Sam’s shoutings became coherent.
“ even hear a word I'm sayin'? Get up, Blake!"
Blake sat up lethargically and hauled himself to his feet. Sam gave him a long, hard stare. And Blake stared right back.
Sam surveyed Blake with an amused, sardonic air. "Just look at you," he began. I swear you're just like your mother. Maybe you shoulda been a girl. I shouldn't insult your mama, though. She's been good to me. She was good to lots o' men when she was younger. I guess it's just blind luck that I turned out to be your father. Could just as well been any one o' my buddies."
Blake spat in his face.
Sam's features registered no emotion as wiped his face with his fingertips "Here," he said, handing Blake the gun. "It's your turn. And don't - up this time."
Blake glared at his father fiercely, his eyes burning with unadulterated hate. He quivered as a savage thought passed over him.
"Don't think about it, boy," Sam warned him. "You ain't got it in you."
Blake’s eyes flashed, then his anger died down like a blown circuit.
"Now move it," Sam ordered, grabbing Blake's shoulder and turning him about face. Blake began marching forwards, not fearfully, but with the patient obedience of a prisoner of war plotting his escape. But Blake had the gun now. His step was slow and deliberate, his gaze cool and unperturbed as he stared calmly ahead at the boggy landscape. He was up to his ankles in swamp now, not that it mattered. He paid no attention to a stray thornbush that bit into his leg and tore his trousers as it stubbornly released him. His hair, disheveled and caked with mud, stuck up from his head like a lump of crabgrass. The soaked, soiled linens that were his clothes clung to his body like fungus. The blood flowed freely from his split lip. Yet Blake looked neither miserable nor frightened. Beneath the sweat, the grime, the cuts and bruises, was perseverance. This had to end sometime, and it couldn't get much worse.
Blake didn't know what time it was. He had lost track of that long ago. The air felt slightly warmer, and the sky looked a shade or two brighter than when they'd first arrived. These were subtle changes, not enough to stir him from the hypnotic effect of endless rows of trees, bushes and ferns. Every spot in the woods looked the same as every other spot. The effect was a strangely peaceful one, and if Blake didn't think too much, he could almost forget where he was and what he was doing. Then the cool, brown, lazy waters of Bayou Maringouin rose into view, flowing motionlessly in the distance. And, as so often happens when coming out of a deep sleep or trance, a sound intruded upon Blake's senses, a sound which he realized had been there all along- sloshing footsteps behind him.
"Hold it right there," Sam’s voice announced. A hand came into view on Blake's right, its index finger pointing towards the bayou. "There's your chance."
But Blake had already seen it. By the water's edge stood a brown pelican, its thin yellow legs protruding from the mud like reeds. The pelican stared dumbly ahead at nothing in particular. Blake hesitated, still holding the gun in front of him but unsure what to do with it. He sighed. What dumb, ugly birds pelicans were.
"Shoot it, you fool!" Sam urged.
Blake impassively raised the rifle into firing position, with the detachment of an executioner doing his job, and took aim. There was a perfect line which ran from the center of Blake's pupil along the top of the barrel straight to the pelican. The dumb, ugly pelican, still standing in the mud like a weed, staring at Blake with its black button eye. He could sever its ugly little head with one shot. Blake exhaled slowly, growling softly as he let the breath out, as if under a great strain.
"Go ahead," Sam rasped. "He ain't goin' nowhere."
Blake lowered the rifle and shook his head. "Can't do it," he told Sam. "State bird."
Sam looked as if he'd been slapped in the face. "What? Why you god damn little !" He snatched the Winchester from Blake's hands and gave him a quick jab in the midriff with the butt of the rifle. Blake fell down, winded but not seriously hurt. Holding his stomach with one hand he looked up at Sam, more in anger than pain.
"I'm gonna shoot this bird," Sam told him matter of factly. "And then I'm gonna deal with you. State bird!" he snorted. The Winchester was pointed once more at the hapless pelican.
Blake could just sit there and let him shoot the pelican. He didn't care about the stupid bird. But it wouldn't end there. Sam would shoot other things. He'd hit Blake again. He'd hit Willie when Willie got older. He'd drive Mama crazy with his drinking and his swearing and his violent fits. There were times in life to just sit there and do nothing. This wasn't one of them.
With a shout like a war cry, Blake threw his entire weight against Sam’s legs, tackling him. The Winchester discharged harmlessly as it and Sam fell to the earth. Sam recovered quickly, and with a wounded animal's snarl lunged at his son. But Blake was just a little quicker. Grabbing the weapon, he met Sam's advance with a fierce swing. Sam raised his arm to protect himself from the blow and Blake heard the cracking of bone as the butt made contact with Sam's little finger.
"Aaahh! Son of a bitch!"
Sam doubled over in agony, clutching his hand and staring at his wounded pinky in disbelief. Then drunkenness and rage overcame pain and shock, and he struck back at Blake. His hand swung back and forth, cracking Blake across the face three times.
Blake was on the ground again, dazed but still functioning. He had to get up and run or fight. He two Sams. Both coming towards him. Blake scuttled backwards madly and reached into the knapsack with his right hand. He staggered to his feet and poised himself defensively, holding the bottle of whiskey behind his head as if it were a grenade.
The two Sams halted and merged back into one. A crazed grin overspread his face. "Come on, boy," he goaded Blake." You wanna be tough?" He shot forward and grabbed Blake's vest with a vise grip. Blake gasped and nearly fell down again. He panicked for only a split second. Then the bottle crashed down on Sam's head. The hand on Blake's vest loosened. Sam slumped to his knees, and looked as if he would faint. But Sam was too stubborn, and as he hauled himself to a stand Blake gave one final, desperate lunge, ramming the jagged bottle neck as hard as he could into Sam's stomach. Sam gave a short grunt of pain and fell back a step. He ran a hand across his stomach and studied the blood smeared on his palm. He wasn't seriously injured. His jacket and underlying flannel shirt had absorbed most of the impact. It wasn't a bad shot, to give the boy some credit. But it wasn't good enough.
Blake stared agape at his father, horrified at what he'd done. Sam said, "You know what your grandpa always told me, Blake? If you gonna strike at the king, make damn sure you kill 'im." He unsheathed the Bowie knife at his belt.
Blake took a step back. The old look of fear registered on his face. Sam had snapped. Blake tore off the knapsack and took a desperate swing at Sam's head, but Sam blocked it with his arm, knocking the knapsack out of Blake's grip. Almost simultaneously, the knife came down across Blake’s chest, leaving a tear from the shoulder to the opposite hip. Then Blake's chest stung, and he realized that he was cut.
Sam's face lit up with blood lust. He moved forwards as his son moved backwards. With one sweeping motion, Blake leaned down on one leg, snatched the rifle, and stood back up. He shakily regained his balance and pointed the barrel at his father.
Sam smiled, a wicked, twisted smile. "That a boy," he drawled. "Pull the trigger, Blake." Blake kept on stepping backwards, trembling all over. But Sam kept on advancing maddeningly, relentlessly.
“Thirty seconds, Blake," Sam warned him. "and one of us is gonna be dead. You decide who."
"Don't make me do it," Blake pleaded, tears streaming down his face. "Please, Daddy, don't make me do it!"
But Sam was beyond comprehending human speech. As Blake gazed into his father's eyes, he saw that reason was useless. Sam lunged. The Winchester cracked once. Sam stopped suddenly. An expression of mild shock registered on his face. For an infinite second, his glazed eyes stared at Blake. His head started craning down towards his stomach, then stopped. There was a soft plop as Sam fell into the mud.
Blake stood over the body of his father, looking dully at the prostrate figure. The expression on Blake's face was that of a curious child, not knowing what to make of the situation. A muskrat squealed somewhere off in the bayou. Blake's lips trembled slightly, and a stifled sob shook him. He sniffed a few times and wiped a tear from one eye. That was that. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done.
He thought of how he would get home. If he could find the truck, he could get to the highway easily enough, and from there he could find his way back to Addis. He'd never driven before, but he'd watched Sam and it didn't seem too hard. The keys were in Sam's pocket. Blake mustered all his willpower, but couldn't bring himself to search the body. With a sigh he turned away from the ugly scene and began shuffling away, not knowing where he was going.
After two hours Blake was nearly out of his mind with pain and exhaustion. He was about to give up, sit down and wait to die when he heard a truck zooming down a highway, a truck so big it seemed to shake the leaves of all the nearby trees. Blake's heart leapt. He ran towards the direction of the noise. He bounded through a small copse of hickories and nearly collided with the guardrail marking the edge of Interstate 12. This was much farther up than he and Sam had gone, but it didn't matter. All he had to do now was find someone to give him a ride. That shouldn't be a problem, he thought, as another vehicle sped by. Remembering to catch his breath, he sat down on the steel barrier and rested a spell. At the sound of an approaching car, Blake got to his feet, held out his arm and offered his upturned thumb. No response. He tried again, several times. Someone was bound to stop eventually. An hour passed. Blake tried once more, this time on a beat up old Chevrolet Bel Air. As the car drove by him he sat down again wearily. The thought of sleeping by the side of the road didn't exactly appeal to him, but at this point it didn't particularly bother him either. But then the old Chevy slowed down and came to a stop a hundred yards away. Unenthusiastically, Blake started walking towards it. Then he began moving faster, as fast as his tired feet would allow. Panting lightly, he opened the black and white door and climbed into the passenger's seat.
The driver was a grizzled, unkempt man of fifty or so. His ratty clothes hung loosely on his body. A beard that might have been made of steel wool stuck out of his face and chin. He smiled at Blake congenially, and Blake noticed that several of his teeth were missing.
"Hi, there," he said cheerfully. "Where might you be headin', son?"
"Home," Blake mumbled. "I wanna go home."
The man laughed heartily. "And where might that be?"
"Addis," Blake replied, too tired to comprehend. "Can you take me to Addis?"
"Can I take you to Addis?" the stranger repeated. "Why it just so happens I'm goin' to Addis myself." Once they were on the road, the fellow reached into his pocket and offered Blake a pouch of chewing tobacco. "Want some?" he asked.
"No thank you, sir," Blake replied politely. He hated the stuff. Sam had made him try it once when he was nine.
"You got a name, boy?"
"Yes sir. It's Blake. Blake Wallace."
"Floyd Baxter." He looked quickly at Blake. "You don't look so good, son. Your clothes is a mess. You all right?"
"Yeah," Blake said. "I'm all right. I'm just tired, that's all. I was fishin' and I didn't catch nothin’.”
"You ain't got no fishin' rod," the man observed.
“I lost it," Blake lied.
Floyd Baxter didn't reply. Whatever it was none of his business. He drove on in silence for some time, then decided to try another attempt at conversation.
"You go to school?" he asked Blake,
"Yeah," Blake answered absent mindedly. "I go to school." He was staring out the window at the distant pine trees and the huge, orange sun sinking slowly in the sky. He would have to tell them Mama, the police, Willy... He wasn't worried, though. He would never worry about anything again. A stream of thoughts flowed through his head, none of them disturbing.
Puzzled at the complete silence, Baxter looked over at the boy. He chuckled softly. Sleepin' like a baby, he was. No point wakin' him 'til they got to Addis. Besides, he sure looked like he needed a rest.
Copyright Allan M. Heller
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