Page 6

Past

J udging by the light outside, it’s around four am. I raise my wrist and tilt the face of my watch toward the window so I can read it. Thirty minutes to five. I pull the cover up over my head and groan. There’s not even enough time to go back to sleep before the day starts.

I love summer, but I hate the heat and humidity. Even though the sun is not quite up, it’s already warm outside. The deer will be feeding soon, and it’s better to wait them out rather than in the evening when it’s sweltering hot and the mosquitos and gnats are buzzing around you.

Papa’s picked crossbow for hunting today. I sigh. It’s not a shotgun, but at least you get to aim and fire like one.

“Show me,” he says. And as always, in our small barn, I do what is asked of me.

“To begin with, I tighten all screws and bolts in the stock, bow and sight,” I say as I do so. “Next, I check the bowstring to be sure it’s centered, then I sight it in to make sure it’s accurate.”

Papa nods at me, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. We load our gear and head out into woods.

When we reach the small clearing where the deer like to graze, we stop and set up shop. I place the crossbows stirrup on the ground and slip my foot through it firmly while I cock the bow.

Grabbing the string with both hands, I pull it upward using the same amount of force on both sides all the way to the cocking mechanism.

I hear a loud click, which lets me know to place a bolt in the groove, making sure that the end of the bolt touches the string.

I line up my shot precisely and click off my safety.

Hunting takes time.

Patience.

Papa and I don’t talk. We wait, we breathe, and we take our shots when ready.

A doe stutters into the clearing—finally—and Papa nods to me. It’s to be my shot. This kill is mine.

Slowly and gradually, I squeeze the trigger. You might think a crossbow is silent. It’s not. The ping is quite loud in the quiet of the woods. The doe pops her head up as the string jumps, but it’s too late.

My shot hits her behind the shoulder, clear and clean.

Armed with a knife and gloves, Papa and I wait for the doe to fall before heading over.

“You’re up, Kid,” Papa says when we reach her. She lies so still, eyes open, watching, that it unnerves. I’d rather not have to see her, her eyes or face or really any of the death part.

“Up for what?” I ask.

He hands me the knife in response. I’ve never field dressed a deer before and I don’t really have any inclination to either, but what Papa says, I do.

“Cut from sternum to groin, penetrating the hide and the membrane below. You should be able to feel the difference between the hide wall and the membrane or muscle wall that holds the innards.”

I groan and kneel next to the large doe. With a swift motion that I’ve watched Papa do a hundred times, I cut into the deer.

“Pull the guts out, starting from the groin while also cutting the membranes. Then yank them free,” he directs.

Blood. Lots of it. There is so much blood. It coats my hands. I push down the nausea bubbling in my gut and do as he says.

“Cut the center of the pelvic bone by pounding your knife through. Then cut the skin around the anus and pull the colon out of the body cavity.” My gloves and forearms are covered in slick crimson innards. It’s unsettling that it’s all hot too, fresh. And the smell…the smell makes me gag.

“Are you serious?” I wail.

“Kid, do it,” he orders. His authority is overwhelming. So, I obey.

I do it, and I’m horrified. It’s difficult to witness someone else do it, but it’s really disturbing doing it yourself.

So disturbing that I don’t utter a single word to Papa the entire walk home with that stupid doe dragging behind us.

I know I need to know how. He won’t be around forever, but maybe I won’t live in the wilderness forever either. Right? Maybe I will move to a city and eat in restaurants every night if I please, never hunt for food again.

I glare in stubborn silence as he hoists the deer up so that the hind legs are barely touching the ground.

I watch as he cuts all the way up through the ribs to one side of the sternum and lets the innards fall out before hosing it off to get rid of the rest of the dirt, debris, and blood in silence. And only then, when he turns to face me, do I speak.

“I never want to do that again.”

“It’s life, Kid. Survival. You want meat—you gut the animal,” he responds, but I’m already halfway to the cabin.

He doesn’t call me back to him. I dart inside and strip my clothes off. My hair is sweaty and stuck to my head as I turn on the shower. I just want all this filth washed off.

I know he’s right. I don’t mind hunting or eating the meat, just dislike the steps in-between, and I know, as I shampoo my hair into a giant sudsy lather, that he let me get away without having to gut and clean an animal for longer than necessary.

I’m seventeen. I should have been doing this years ago. Still, I don’t like it.

Papa is waiting for me in the kitchen. “You had to learn,” he says quietly.

I don’t look at him. “I know. But I don’t have to like it.”

“Killing is a necessary part of life, Kid.” Papa sidles up to me, squeezes my shoulder gently.

“It’s not the killing part. It’s the blood. The gutting part. It makes me feel dirty,” I answer.

He locks eyes with me. “One in the same. If you don’t gut the animal, you don’t get the meat. If you kill the animal without using it for food, it’s just murder. And in life, there will be many things you won’t like doing.”

I sigh and roll my eyes, but he’s right and I know it. Killing for the sake of killing is murder . Killing for the sake of survival is not. He’s said this before many, many times.

“Okay. How about this: I understand but I won’t ever do it because I like it. It will always be gutting under protest.”

Papa grins at me, then looks down to his boots. “You’re the best part of my life, Kid.”

And just like that, I’m filled up. Brimming with contentment and joy. Papa heads back outside to finish harvesting the meat, and I slide on an old pair of sneakers to go weed the vegetable garden.

Our life is simple but good.

That night, Papa turns on the radio during dinner.

It doesn’t happen often, although when I was younger, I’d beg him to turn it on and dance with me and I’d stand on his feet while he moved us around, but tonight he must be feeling happy because he leaves it on all through dinner and well into our reading time afterwards.