loved living here. An image of Lew’s face, relaxed and content as she cast a fly line upstream, flashed through his mind. One thing he loved about that woman—they could spend hours together: not talking, listening. Somewhere a tree creaked. Mallory exhaled, watching her breath.
“Sure I miss getting high,” said Mallory, her voice soft. “That’s why I’ll go to group tonight. I imagine I’ll always miss that feeling … don’t you?”
“Umm. Less so these days.”
“Dad … I’ve been wondering lately … I know that you and Mom didn’t have the closeness that some married people have.”
Osborne glanced over at his daughter. “Mallory, could we not talk about this right now?”
“That’s not my point, Dad. I don’t want to talk about Mom. What I wonder is why … when you were finally on your own and could do things the way you wanted … Why is that when you started drinking? Why not before?”
It was a fair question. And one he’d asked himself often. He had an answer—not sure it was the right one, of course.
“You know what I’ve found is that you spend a lot of time thinking how much you give to another person, or give up of yourself to accommodate that person—until they’re gone. Only when they aren’t there anymore do you realize what they gave you. Let me rephrase that, Mallory:
what you took from them.
“In your mother’s case, she gave my life structure—from sunrise to sunset, she had a plan. When she was gone, the structure was gone. Without her bossing me this way and that, I didn’t know where to begin … or when to stop.”
Mallory looked satisfied with his answer. “I feel that way about Steve. He’s gone, I’m glad he’s gone—but, Dad, it is hard work filling that space.” She gave a slight smile, then leaning to look past his shoulder, she pointed. “Hey, there’s a tree. It’s full, it’s straight. Think that’ll fit in the living room okay?”
He turned to look at where she was pointing. Before he could say a word the dull bark of a shotgun echoed through the snowy silence. A gentle rain hit the back of his head, cushioned by the heavy fur of the hat.
Osborne remained perfectly still for a long moment. He kept his head turned away. Birdshot on the back of the head was one thing, in the face, quite another.
“Don’t move, Mallory. Don’t look back.”
Too late, she was already on her feet.
“Dad, what the hell? Is someone shooting at us?”
“Who’s there?” Osborne shouted. Staying low, he scrambled for cover. The hunter had to be a good hundred yards away and aiming high. “Get down!”
“Why are they doing this?” asked Mallory, crawling towards him on her forearms and knees.
“Some goddam bird hunter with bad eyesight …”
Another blast hit a stand of trees off to their right. Again, the aim was high. He motioned for Mallory to stay low behind him, then raised his twenty gauge and released the safety.
“It’s either an accident or a warning …” Holding their breath, they could hear the crunch of boots in snow heading their way.
fifteen
You can’t say enough about fishing. Though the sport of kings, it’s just what the deadbeat ordered.
—Thomas McGuane,
Silent Seasons
“Damn kid better have a good excuse,” muttered Osborne. The slender figure heading their way climbed with ease over the dead limbs and stumps of forest slash, then bounced like a young deer over snow-covered humps, only to stop short about a hundred feet away.
Screened by a clump of aspens that had toppled into each other’s arms, the boy raised his shotgun. Though his face was shadowed, Osborne could make out the brim of a shapeless felt hat, the kind once favored by local moonshiners. The kid was small, maybe five foot six at the most, and very thin. In spite of the cold, all he wore over a long-sleeved flannel shirt was a tattered hunting vest, pocked with stains.
“What the hell you think you’re doin’ back here?” asked the boy, his
“Sure I miss getting high,” said Mallory, her voice soft. “That’s why I’ll go to group tonight. I imagine I’ll always miss that feeling … don’t you?”
“Umm. Less so these days.”
“Dad … I’ve been wondering lately … I know that you and Mom didn’t have the closeness that some married people have.”
Osborne glanced over at his daughter. “Mallory, could we not talk about this right now?”
“That’s not my point, Dad. I don’t want to talk about Mom. What I wonder is why … when you were finally on your own and could do things the way you wanted … Why is that when you started drinking? Why not before?”
It was a fair question. And one he’d asked himself often. He had an answer—not sure it was the right one, of course.
“You know what I’ve found is that you spend a lot of time thinking how much you give to another person, or give up of yourself to accommodate that person—until they’re gone. Only when they aren’t there anymore do you realize what they gave you. Let me rephrase that, Mallory:
what you took from them.
“In your mother’s case, she gave my life structure—from sunrise to sunset, she had a plan. When she was gone, the structure was gone. Without her bossing me this way and that, I didn’t know where to begin … or when to stop.”
Mallory looked satisfied with his answer. “I feel that way about Steve. He’s gone, I’m glad he’s gone—but, Dad, it is hard work filling that space.” She gave a slight smile, then leaning to look past his shoulder, she pointed. “Hey, there’s a tree. It’s full, it’s straight. Think that’ll fit in the living room okay?”
He turned to look at where she was pointing. Before he could say a word the dull bark of a shotgun echoed through the snowy silence. A gentle rain hit the back of his head, cushioned by the heavy fur of the hat.
Osborne remained perfectly still for a long moment. He kept his head turned away. Birdshot on the back of the head was one thing, in the face, quite another.
“Don’t move, Mallory. Don’t look back.”
Too late, she was already on her feet.
“Dad, what the hell? Is someone shooting at us?”
“Who’s there?” Osborne shouted. Staying low, he scrambled for cover. The hunter had to be a good hundred yards away and aiming high. “Get down!”
“Why are they doing this?” asked Mallory, crawling towards him on her forearms and knees.
“Some goddam bird hunter with bad eyesight …”
Another blast hit a stand of trees off to their right. Again, the aim was high. He motioned for Mallory to stay low behind him, then raised his twenty gauge and released the safety.
“It’s either an accident or a warning …” Holding their breath, they could hear the crunch of boots in snow heading their way.
fifteen
You can’t say enough about fishing. Though the sport of kings, it’s just what the deadbeat ordered.
—Thomas McGuane,
Silent Seasons
“Damn kid better have a good excuse,” muttered Osborne. The slender figure heading their way climbed with ease over the dead limbs and stumps of forest slash, then bounced like a young deer over snow-covered humps, only to stop short about a hundred feet away.
Screened by a clump of aspens that had toppled into each other’s arms, the boy raised his shotgun. Though his face was shadowed, Osborne could make out the brim of a shapeless felt hat, the kind once favored by local moonshiners. The kid was small, maybe five foot six at the most, and very thin. In spite of the cold, all he wore over a long-sleeved flannel shirt was a tattered hunting vest, pocked with stains.
“What the hell you think you’re doin’ back here?” asked the boy, his
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