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Chapter Ten

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CRY OF THE HUNTED

Grace, age nine

Shaker Heights, Ohio

Grace threw herself on her bed and buried her face in the pillow. “It’s not fair,” she said, carefully muffling her voice because young ladies do not scream . “Not fair not fair not fair…”

A click from behind her. Grace shifted to see her twin standing in the doorway, pointing a hunting rifle at her. She glowered at Gunnar as he pulled the trigger and said, “Bang. You’re dead.”

Father stepped into view and grabbed the barrel, raising it as he said, “Now, now. We never point guns at someone unless we plan to shoot them.”

“It’s not loaded,” Gunnar grumbled.

Father went very still.

Grace caught her breath, and Gunnar’s face fell as he realized his mistake. “I—I’m sorry, sir.”

Father carefully extricated the rifle from Gunnar’s grasp. Evenly, he said, “Are you talking back to me, son?”

“No sir.” Gunnar shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not, sir.”

“Then you’re implying that I am mistaken?”

Gunnar gulped and shook his head. Grace felt conflicted—part of her thrilled to see her brother in trouble, the rest abjectly terrified for him. But she knew that the worst possible thing she could do was intervene.

“And now you’re not answering when spoken to.” Their father’s voice had gone softer, always a bad sign. If there was one thing she and Gunnar knew, it was that when Father became quiet, he was at his most dangerous.

Gunnar’s voice pitched up to a high squeak as he said, “Father, I apologize. I did not mean to offend—”

“Get the wheat.” Father said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Gunnar blanched but said, “Ye—yes, sir.”

Grace had to repress a shudder. “The wheat” was the worst of all possible punishments. Father kept a container of uncooked wheat kernels in the pantry for this express purpose. She could hear Gunnar sniffling as he shuffled down the hall to collect it. He’d have to pour the wheat into the bathtub and then kneel on it until Father decided the punishment was over. Then Gunnar would clean up every kernel by hand or risk a repeat.

Grace had only had to do it once, and she’d limped for a full week after. For Gunnar, it was becoming a regular occurrence.

“Now, then,” Father said, coming over to her bed. He was wearing his hunting camouflage and a thin smile. “What were you saying earlier, about it not being fair?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” Grace said meekly. “I was being a selfish, naughty girl. I’m sorry, Father.”

Grace had to resist the urge to flinch as he laid a hand on her head. “I know it’s frustrating for you, Gracie. But Mother feels strongly that hunting is not appropriate for young ladies.”

Grace was having a hard time gauging whether or not she was in trouble, too. Hesitantly, she said, “I know, Father. I just think I would be really good at it.”

Father smiled at that. “I believe you would. Probably even superior to your brother. Perhaps Mother can be persuaded to change her mind.”

“Really?” Grace said hopefully.

“Not today, obviously,” Father said. “But I will see what we can do about next time.”

“That would be wonderful, Father. Thank you.” Grace wrapped her arms gently around him and gave a quick squeeze.

“You’re my best girl,” Father said, pressing his dry lips to her cheek. “Never grow up.”

As always, the way he said it gave her the creeps. But she nodded and said, “I won’t.”

She spent the rest of the day helping Mother with chores around the house. Mother had a way of drifting from task to task, eyes vacant, barely responding even when spoken to. It would have struck Grace as odd if it weren’t for the fact that she’d always been that way, and since Grace had no friends aside from Gunnar, she also had no real experience of what other moms did. Her best guide was what she saw on television, the few times a year they were allowed to watch it. And obviously, those moms were made up.

Their chores were very specific. Father had composed a list of what had to be cleaned daily, weekly, and monthly. Grace found the routine comforting. Today, the extra work entailed wiping down the baseboards, polishing the silver, and cleaning the inside of the oven hood. Grace hummed to herself as they worked. As usual, Mother didn’t say a word.

It was late when Father and Gunnar returned, well past dinnertime. Grace was absolutely starving, but the rules were clear: No one was allowed to eat if Father was expected. So she and Mother sat across from each other at the dinner table, sipping water while dinner was kept warm in the oven. The aromas wafting from the kitchen were enough to make Grace swoon. When she finally heard the sound of the back door closing, she could have cried with relief. Mother immediately sprang into action, hustling into the kitchen to assemble the plates. Grace double-checked to make sure that Father’s place setting was perfectly straight, the tips of the fork tines lined up perfectly with the top of the knife blade. Then she sat back down and chewed on the inside of her cheek to distract herself from how hungry she was.

She heard the sound of water running in the powder room off the hall and then Gunnar limped in. He was still wearing his hunting clothes and had a glassy look in his eyes.

Father, on the other hand, was in one of his garrulous moods. “That pot roast smells amazing, Marjorie. I just hope you didn’t burn the potatoes this time.”

Mother froze on the threshold. “I—I think they’re fine. But I can always make more.”

“Well, why don’t we just see how they are first,” Father said jovially, tucking his napkin onto his lap.

Grace cut her eyes at Gunnar, but he was avoiding her gaze, staring down at his plate. Which was unlike him; she’d been fully prepared for him to come home gloating about what a great time he’d had, rubbing her face in it (not at the table, of course, at least not with words; those would be saved for after dinner, when they were alone). But instead, he looked…off. She frowned. Had something gone wrong on the hunting trip?

Father delicately sliced off a hunk of meat and forked it into his mouth, the signal that the rest of them could begin. Ravenous, Grace had to force herself to be equally dainty, lest her plate be snatched away without warning. A few bites in, with the worst of her hunger satiated, she tentatively asked, “How was hunting, Father?”

“Excellent!” he boomed. “Really a five-star day, wasn’t it, son?”

Gunnar nodded without looking up and whispered, “Yes, Father.”

“Did you kill anything?” Grace asked, thinking maybe that was what was wrong with Gunnar. He’d been bragging for weeks about all the deer he was going to bag, but when the time came, maybe it hadn’t been as “awesome” as he’d expected.

“Did we ever!” Father said with a wide grin. There was a smear of blood on his front teeth from the roast. Seeing it made Grace shudder, although she’d be hard pressed to explain why. “Maybe we’ll go back tomorrow and see what else we can find, eh, kiddo? Finish the job, as it were!”

Gunnar made a small noise in the back of his throat. Mother stiffened but didn’t say anything.

“Where is it?” Grace asked.

“Where is what?” Father replied.

“The deer?”

“Oh.” Father wiped his mouth, then returned the napkin to his lap. “I only took a small steak; it’s in the freezer for a special occasion. The rest was dropped off at the meat processor.”

Mother winced. Father smiled at her, but it was one of those that never reached his eyes. “Did you want to say something, Marjorie?”

“No,” Mother said quietly. “I’m glad you had a good day.”

“The best!” Father clapped his hands together. “And I’ll tell you what, this young man has the makings of a great hunter. Mark my words.”

“Thank you, Father,” Gunnar said woodenly.

Father sat back and pushed away his plate. Even though she was only half finished, Mother leapt up to collect it. Father grabbed her wrist as she reached for it and said, “I was thinking, Marjorie, the hyacinths are looking a little limp. Perhaps I should switch them out for some rosemary this weekend. And then we could have rosemary chicken. That’s your favorite, isn’t it, Gracie?”

Grace nodded. “Yes, Father.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” He tossed his napkin onto the table, pushed back his chair, and left the room. Mother followed, bringing his plate to the sink.

Grace noticed that Gunnar had barely eaten. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, too quietly for either parent to hear.

He slowly lifted his head, meeting her eyes. Grace almost recoiled. She knew his face as well as her own; maybe even better. And she’d never seen this particular expression before. “What?” she pressed.

Gunnar glanced furtively toward the kitchen, checking to make sure their parents weren’t in hearing range. Then he leaned forward and said in a low, earnest voice, “It wasn’t a deer, Grace.”

Grace frowned. “So what was—”

“Well!” Father said, coming back in. “I’m in the mood for a nightcap. I’ll have a Manhattan, Marjorie.”

As they were getting ready for bed that night, Grace asked Gunnar what he’d meant. But he refused to say anything more about it. And later, he acted as though it had never happened.

She never did end up going hunting with her dad.