Make It Count
By Kim Steele
Jeremy Ross carefully pulled the warped old farmhouse door shut behind him, pausing when its hinges squeaked so he wouldn't wake his father, and stepped onto the screened back porch. The willowy 14-year-old hesitated as he peered into the darkness. It still wasn't too late to turn back.
A sleepy cat mewed and rubbed its coarse, matted fur against Jeremy's leg as he buttoned his coat, tucked his blonde hair under a camouflage hat, and jammed his soft fingers into thick gloves. "Quiet, Brandy," he whispered, gathering the purring calico animal in his arms and setting it on a nearby chair. "You'll wake Dad. Go back to sleep." He squinted at his wristwatch, turned his head to make sure there was no noise from inside the house, then pulled a shotgun from a dark corner of the porch, where he had stashed it the night before. It was 4:30 a.m.
Jeremy opened the screen door and felt his way down the steps and into the yard. As he stood in the dying grass and waited for his eyes to adjust, the cold night air quickly hardened the damp streaks of green and brown crayon decorating his nose and cheeks. Above, white stars played hide-and-seek, winking and blurring before disappearing from view. The sweet warmth of his rumpled blankets beckoned to him, but Jeremy shook his head to dislodge the temptation.
Gathering his courage, he trudged to the yard's edge. A weathered fence post stood nearby, and Jeremy rubbed the bumpy surface as he studied the cornfield beyond it. In the early hours, the dark, broken ground resembled a giant battlefield littered with deadly spears. How ironic. To the boy, this mission was almost like going to war. The only difference was that the enemy would be himself, not someone else.
It wasn't the first time Jeremy had stood here with his heart pounding in his ears. Last year, he helped his father prepare for their first hunt together. Jeremy stuffed a backpack full of supplies while his father regaled him with the stories behind the trophy deer heads hanging on their walls. Jeremy tried to share his father's excitement, but a shudder gripped him when they reached the cornfield and he heard the dry stalks play their death rattle in the wind.
"What's the matter, boy?" his father had growled, glaring at him as Jeremy hesitated. "When I was your age, I couldn't wait for my daddy to take me on my first hunt. It was in my blood, and he knew it. But you act like this is the last thing you want. All I ever see you do is draw birds and flowers. That's sissy stuff. When are you ever going to be a man?"
Jeremy, his face burning, had gripped the shotgun as he scurried behind the tall, broad form, trying to keep up with his big steps. Finally, they stopped under a large oak tree and climbed high into a weathered deer stand his father had built years ago. The boy's stomach fluttered as he gazed at the ground far below them. His father grabbed the shotgun, inserted a shell and handed it to him. "Make it count," the man spat.
It was an admonition that would haunt Jeremy long after the day had ended. Even now, his eyes watered as the scene played in his mind. A delicate doe wandered down the trail, within view of their hiding place, and his father slyly grinned and nodded to him. Arms shaking, Jeremy lifted the shotgun, aimed and pulled the trigger, sending a bullet ripping through the deer's flank. The animal crashed into the woods, a trail of bright red blood marking its path.
Father and son had tracked the doe for a quarter of a mile, until they finally found it lying in a thicket. "Kill it, boy," barked his father. "Don't just stand there." Jeremy stared as the wounded animal struggled to stand again, and when its terrified eyes met his, he burst into tears and turned away. The father's single shot had echoed in Jeremy's ears, and neither spoke to each other for days after the man angrily gutted and dragged the doe out of the woods.
Actually, the long silences weren't new to Jeremy. They began when his mother died almost two years ago. He could still remember his father meeting him at the same porch door after school to tell him she had been killed when her car skidded off a dirt road. Jeremy pulled away and ran to the barn, where he cried until he fell asleep. His father found him later and carried him to his bed.
At first, they tried to struggle through together, but as time went on, they discovered what she had known about her two men for years. Jeremy, a budding artist, had little in common with one who loved to till the raw earth and hunt its bounty. Jeremy could still remember his parents' late-night conversation about him shortly before his mother's death. He had snuck halfway down the stairs, his stomach growling for a snack, when he overheard his mother crying. Jeremy knelt in the shadows and listened.
"Tom, why do you have to be so hard on him all the time?" she asked. "He's going to think you don't love him. Is that what you want? He's such a good boy, and so talented. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
"Of course it does. I love Jeremy. But the boy has to toughen up or he won't make it out there. It's a hard world. This artwork, well, it's nice, but what's it going to do for him? Maybe he'll make a little money at it someday, but chances are he'll end up farming this land and raising a family here, just like me. I'm preparing him for real life."
Jeremy heard his mother sigh. "Try to encourage him more, Tom," she pled as he stood behind her and stroked her hair. "I want him to have more choices than we ever did. I know you love the farm, but it may not be Jeremy's dream. We've got to be willing to accept that."
Now, the boy swallowed the lump in his throat as he surveyed the field once more. His thoughts returned to the cozy bedroom, and to the small wooden desk that held his pencils and sketch pads. If only his father understood. Drawing a deer, instead of shooting it, meant the animal could return to its natural place in the wilds. And yet, a part of it would always remain with him. To his father, the only part worth holding onto was the animal's stuffed head.
Jeremy tightened his grip on the shotgun. This time, he would show his father he was a man. Another blast of wind roused Jeremy, and he shivered as he stepped between rows of jagged cornstalks that smacked his coat. Soon, he entered the woods, and the hard dirt gave way to a soft layer of leaves. He quickly reached for his flashlight and trained its warm yellow beam on the path. Stark branches, bare from the season, creaked overhead as he stumbled down the trail.
Finally, Jeremy spied the familiar oak tree and directed his lamp beam toward the deer stand. Shoving the flashlight in his pocket and fitting the gun's strap over his shoulder, he planted a mud-splattered boot against the callused trunk and hoisted himself into the branches. He climbed higher, the tree's remaining leaves breaking away and falling to the ground as his hat pushed through them. Positioning his boot above a wide cleft in the trunk, Jeremy pulled himself onto the platform and sat down to wait.
Soon, the darkness surrendered to an overcast sky. Jeremy loaded the weapon and rested it beside him as he watched fat squirrels scurry through the leaves and a brown rabbit cross the trail. Birds scolded him from tree branches. As Jeremy waited, he pulled a small sketch pad from his pocket and penciled the body of a deer. It was the second drawing he had started in as many days. The first deer, its legs too long for its graceful body, lay crumpled on his desk at home.
As the hours dragged and the cold stiffened his fingers, he set aside the pad and began to watch the trail. If necessary, he would wait in this tree all day. He sighed. Would there ever come a time when he didn't have to prove himself? Drawings covered the walls of his bedroom -- colorful birds perched on a feeder outside his window, kittens chasing a butterfly in the yard, a rusted car surrounded by brilliant flowers, his mother kneading bread. Family and friends marveled at the talent, but nothing earned his father's respect – until recently.
Jeremy's art teacher had unexpectedly invited him to draw a series of outdoor scenes for a statewide contest that could earn him a scholarship to college. The boy could hardly contain his excitement as he relayed the teacher's compliments about his artwork to his father. The man listened carefully, then agreed to let Jeremy participate as long as he kept up his farm chores. It was a contest Jeremy's mother would have wanted him to enter, his father gruffly explained later.
A loud snap on the path interrupted Jeremy's thoughts. There, to his right, stood a magnificent buck with antlers proudly arching over its head. The boy was close enough to see the clouds of steam rising from the deer's nostrils. Its large ears twitched as they strained for the unfamiliar sounds of hidden enemies. Satisfied, it thrust its cold, black nose through the dead leaves to a green patch below.
Jeremy's heart pounded. Minutes dragged as he watched the massive animal rip the vegetation from the ground. He inched the shotgun to eye level and aimed at the buck's heart. In an instant, a slug burst from the barrel and buried itself in the target. The deer jumped, twisted in the air, then fell to its knees before picking itself up and hobbling down the path. Jeremy's eyes followed every move, watching in wonder as the animal finally dropped on its side and was silent. Death had come quickly.
Jeremy stared at the deer, then gazed at his hands. His arms shook as he slung the shotgun's strap over his neck and shoulder, hugged the tree and began the climb down. He wanted to touch the deer, ruffle its warm fur and memorize the shape of its body. As Jeremy lowered his boot to a limb below him, a noise from the animal's direction caught his ear. He froze. Could it be getting up? No! He couldn't lose it now. As Jeremy turned toward the path again, his grip loosened and he slid downward.
The boy closed his eyes and grabbed at the tree trunk to slow his descent. He could feel the rough bark tearing his hands as he bounced against the tree and his body twisted. Finally, he stopped. Jeremy cautiously opened his eyes to find himself hanging sideways, about four feet above the ground, with his right foot firmly wedged in the cleft. Jeremy grabbed a nearby limb with one hand and pulled himself up enough to rest his stomach on the branch, then wiggled his foot. It wouldn't budge.
Jeremy clutched at the tree and tried to think. He couldn't hang like this forever. Darkness would come soon, and it would get even colder. Already, his arms ached and his ankle throbbed. Jeremy was sure it was broken. At least he still had the shotgun. There were three shells in his pocket. Surely, if he fired a warning shot each hour, someone would find him. His father would worry when he came in from evening chores and found the boy had not returned. The man would figure Jeremy had ventured into the woods to draw animals and something had happened. A search would begin immediately.
At nightfall, Jeremy managed to discharge his first shot, screaming as the shotgun's kick shook him. The noised echoed through the forest, then silence. The sky was black, except for a few stars twinkling above him. As he waited, Jeremy dug a sharp hunting knife from his coat pocket and reached over to rip the thick leather trapping his foot, which had grown numb. He was so close to freedom. If he could cut the boot open, he could slip out of it and fall the remaining four feet to the leaf-cushioned ground. After an hour, exhausted and bleeding from a deep gash in his leg where the knife had slipped, the boy quit trying.
Frightened now, Jeremy fired another shot and, after the pain subsided, strained to hear familiar voices. Tears filled his eyes as he shivered in the cold night air. None of this would have happened if his mother were alive. He missed the way she studied his sketches, picking out her favorites and framing them. "You're just like your grandfather," she boasted. "My mother would always find him in the woods with his pencils, copying squirrels and wildflowers and anything that would hold still long enough for him to put its likeness to paper. Your father doesn't understand, Jeremy. But I do. You have a very special gift. Don't let it die."
No, his father didn't understand then, and he wouldn't now. Jeremy whimpered. There in the darkness lay the deer he had killed. It was beautiful, and worthy of a place on their wall. But when his father found the boy caught in a tree with a mangled leg, it would be meaningless. Jeremy would have failed -- again. And any dream he had about winning a scholarship would be gone, now that he couldn't do his chores. There would be no drawings.
Jeremy's hand trembled as he reached in his pocket and touched the final shell resting there. His teeth chattered, and his head pounded. Jeremy carefully inserted the shell, then cradled the cold gun in his hand. One shot left.
"Make it count. Be a man." The words swirled in his mind. Swallowing hard, he awkwardly positioned the muzzle under his chin and closed his eyes just before the noise reverberated through the woods.
The two men searching for the boy paused at the sound, and Jeremy's father clutched the crumpled deer sketch he had found on the desk. "Jeremy! Where are you?" he screamed into the black night. The only answer was the pounding of his heart.
(Copyright 2010)
