Village Squire, 1980-11, Page 16Rene were listening but they were oft at
the edge of the clearing talking and
laughing. It was humiliating and his
father didn't help matters any with his
habit of saying things right out as though
he didn't give a damn what people
thought. Billy cleared his throat.
"Dad?"
"Mmm?"
"You know those two you missed. Are
you a - bad shot?'
"Me? Heck, not," his father laughed.
"I was a crack shot in the army."
"But!" Billy was incredulous. "You
mean you missed them on purpose! On
purpose ! "
Harry sighed and pushed himself to his
feet. "That's right," he said and started
to walk back to the car. After a few steps
he hesitated and looked back. "Hey.
We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves.
What say we hit the sandwiches before
those two drugstore cowboys come back
and round up all the good ones."
"I'm not hungry - not really," Billy
mumbled without looking up.
Harry opened his mouth to speak,
thought better of it, and turned away.
"Suit yourself," he said.
Billy knew the tone of voice and, as
always, it sparked in him anger and
resentment. Had it never occurred to the
man that b,g. might be a disappointment?
If it had been possible, Billy would have
shot every bird in the forest and then,
with a smile, dropped the bloody pile at
his father's feet and said, "See. In case
you didn't know, that's what a man does
with a gun." But that, of course, would
not happen. The most he could hope for
was that Harry would at least have
enough pride to say nothing to the others
and save everyone from having to
pretend it was a big joke.
After they had finished their lunch, the
men sat around recounting tales and
drinking and smoking. The stories were
mainly about things that had happened
at the plant where they worked and
usually began with one of them laughing
and saying, "You remember the time . .
Billy waited apart, impatient to return
to the hunt.
Tony recalled an old bachelor whose
white hair had turned green from working
in the copper dust for thirty years and
who, when he finally drummed up the
nerve to propose marriage to an old
widow, had been rebuffed not because
he shied away from putting water on his
head but because she was afraid her kids
would be born with green hair. This
amused Rene immensely. When Tony
added, "She was sixty, F'r Chrissakel"
Rene, halfway through a swallow, choked
on his beer and Harry had to thump him
on the back until he recovered.
Rene was a company cop, an enormous
man who smiled a great deal and spoke
little. According to Harry, as a kid Rene
had been an awesome rushing defence -
man who would have dumped the
national league on its ear if times had
been different and he hadn't chosen to
take a regular job, sire nine children, and
develop an awesome beer belly instead.
Twenty years and a thousand bloody
fights later, everyone was still shocked
that this smiling bear of a man was the
meanest drunk in the district - everyone
"that ain't
no way
to treat a gun, boy."
but his wife who had never seemed
surprised. Even less a person of words
than her husband, she gave the
impression, Harry said, of someone who
knew which side her bread was buttered
on - even though the bread was black, the
butter a month old, and the eating made
her sick. Scandalized and rising to the
bait whenever the subject came up,
Billy's mother would snap, "There ought
to be a law!" "There is," Harry would
reply. "That's why he spends most
Sunday mornings in the hoose-gow
instead of at mass." His father's chuckle
would be countered by his mother's
abrupt removal of the dishes and her
concluding judgment: "And those poor
children!
I think it's wicked! Just wicked!"
Maybe it was wicked but Rene', for all
his failings, was still the only one who
had managed to flush out and bring down
any game that morning. Billy could not
dismiss such a hunter as an altogether
God -forsaken bum. He watched the man
snap open his fourth bottle of beer. Billy
suspected that Rene' could have done it
with his teeth if he'd had a mind to.
Tony yawned and stretched. Rene
closed his eyes and tilted his face towards
the sun which had poked through the
clouds during lunch. The sharp chill had
gone with the overcast and a light haze
softened the dark outline of the trees and
shrubs beyond the clearing. Harry, who
seemed to be looking at something in his
lap, suddenly jerked his head upright and
blinked against the sun's glare.
"Okay with you if I go and see if I can't
hunt up something?" Billy asked. "I'll
stay near the car."
Harry ran his fingers through his
thinning hair - his habit whenever he had
been dozing but didn't want it to look that
way. "We'll all get moving in a few
minutes," he said.
"What's a rush, Har?" Tony said. He
picked up his single shot 22 and held it
out towards Billy. "Here, kid. Let's trade
off. See what y' can do with a rifle." He
pushed the weapon upon Billy while he
looked down at Harry. "He's okay, Har.
He'll be all right."
It was agreed that Billy could go off by
himself so long as he stayed within fifty
feet of the derelict split rail fence that
flanked the road. They would change
partners for the afternoon and Harry
would follow Billy along the line in a few
minutes - twenty at most.
During the discussion from which Billy
felt excluded, Tony took a half dozen
shotgun shells from the boy's jacket
pocket and left a dozen or so 22 rounds in
their stead. Billy squirmed against the
intrusion but could see no way to actually
refuse the trade. The rifle was a
nondescript piece of junk. Compared with
the lever action Winchester which Billy
had so desperately coveted, and even
with the 410 which had been the
disappointing substitute, Tony's gun was
an insult - not much more than a slingshot
in disguise. The stock was sweat -stained
and scarred and the barrel was blemished
by patches of rust. Billy carried the gun
by its web sling, dangling and brushing
the ground at his side.
"Hey, that ain't no way to treat a gun,
boy."
"Don't forget, Bill. No more than fifty
feet."
Billy lifted the gun without looking
back and quickened his pace. Once past
the bend in the road, he glanced over his
shoulder to be sure they were out of sight
and then broke into a run. He stopped
only when he was confident he was well
beyond the range of their voices.
Fifty feet! What was he supposed to
do? Measure it? Carry the gun this way.
Don't do that. Wipe your nose. Billy
threw the gun into the dirt. He could feel
his tears building and his anger doubled
at his inability to stop them.
He reached down, seized a rock, and
drove it with all his might into the forest.
He held his breath and listened. There
was a faint and distant 'chink' and then
nothing. The woods were still. Billy
brushed aside his tears with the sleeve of
his jacket and picked up the rifle. He
PG. 14 VILLAGE SQUIRE/NOVEMBER 1980