fifteen

The Greenes are proper hill folk. That’s the local term. They’re also known as mountain folk and sometimes hillbillies, the latter being one of those words we don’t let anyone else apply to us.

Those of us down in the holler are supposedly more civilized than hill folks, with none of that “moonshine and coal mine” nonsense. Which is bullshit. Moonshine is a cultural tradition, and the good stuff is considered an art form. As for coal mines, well, that’s historically a major form of industry, along with trapping and hunting and other things that fit right into the stereotype. But like any stereotype, it’s only a small part of who we are. More people here drink beer than moonshine. They’re far more likely to work in an office than a mine, and they get more meat with cash and credit than bullets and arrows. For the record, I don’t even know anyone who plays the banjo.

In the hills, people are more likely to conform to the stereotype, and that’s more a matter of necessity than choice. They can’t afford store-bought liquor and meat. They don’t have the education for office jobs. Up here, folks survive and thrive under conditions that make me look like a suburbanite.

This is where Edie comes from. And this is where I’m headed: making my way through endless Christmas ferns, under towering tulip poplars, pushing aside the massive leaves of the umbrella magnolias.

When I get close to the Greene homestead, I start hunting. I scare up a couple of rabbits and a grouse, and I’m starting to think that’s what I’ll have to settle for, when I see the buck. It’s young, antlers suggesting it’s in its second or third year. It’s been a good summer, and the buck has grown fat, ready for winter.

I slide behind a stand of trees and assess my prey. I haven’t taken a deer since Edie left. It’s a waste for me—too much meat and no way to store it. But this isn’t for me, and this buck is better than I dared hope for.

There’s a second stand of trees closer to the deer. I’m about to step out, when it lifts its head. It’s looking the other way, though, and it’s a casual glance, the buck still chewing, grass hanging from its mouth. When it resumes grazing, I creep to the second stand of trees. Then I ready my bow as I mentally run through my checks. The wind is heading my way, which means the buck can’t smell me, but that wind also adds resistance to my shot. It’s a light breeze, though, and a little more force behind my draw will compensate.

When the kids at summer camp discovered I hunt, the first thing they said was “How can you?” Not literally “how,” asking how I came by the skills. They meant how could I stand here, looking at a young and healthy buck, eating peacefully, and end its life.

How can I? Easy. Because this is not a sport for me. I can’t add items to a grocery list and know the food will miraculously appear after my parents go shopping. I hunt to eat. In this case, I won’t be the one dining on my kill, but someone will, someone who can use the meat even more.

While the buck grazes, I line up my arrow. The kill spot is behind the shoulder, aiming at the heart. It’s a shot best made while standing broadside, and that’s exactly the view I have. The buck pauses again, this time glancing in my direction, and I freeze. When it resumes grazing, I recheck my aim and then let the arrow fly. It hits the right spot. It goes in—and the buck rears with a bleat.

I didn’t have enough force behind my draw. Shit, shit, shit!

I have a second arrow nocked when the buck collapses on the ground in a skid. It’s lying there, snorting, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling. And this is the worst. The absolute worst. I want to apologize, want to undo what I’ve done, wish I could walk away and know the buck will be fine. But that too is a luxury I do not have. The deer is suffering, and I must fix that.

I walk behind the buck. It doesn’t hear me—it’s too panicked. I lower myself to the ground, position my knife at its throat, and finish what I’ve begun.

I wait until it’s dead. Then I check, touching an arrow shaft to its eye. The first time I hunted alone, I started field dressing a rabbit before it was dead. I was in a hurry, dark falling, elated at my first solo kill. I still have nightmares about that horrible mistake. So I check even when a beast has stopped breathing and its chest has stopped rising.

I grab the antlers, drag it to a slope, and use the incline to drain some blood. If it was my kill, I’d field dress it here. But it’s not and I don’t have far to go, so I start dragging, which is not unlike hauling Lennon, and by the time I near my destination, I’m huffing and puffing, my injured leg blazing.

I can see Edie’s grandmother as I approach the house. I call it a house out of respect. It’s a shack, maybe twice the size of mine. Edie does what she can to keep it in good repair, but it’s not easy getting supplies up here. The roof lists and it’s a patchwork of shingles—wood, asphalt, even asbestos—but it keeps the rain off. The front porch sags and the railings are rotted, but Edie propped it up well enough that she didn’t have to worry about her granny or pappy falling through when they sat on their rockers. That’s a stereotype—about as hillbilly as you can get—but it’s what they do. They sit on the porch and look down the mountain as they sew or peel or whittle.

Edie never knew her parents. Her mother got pregnant in her teens. Her grandparents said they’d raise Edie while her momma went off to the city and settled into a life. She never came back for her daughter. She sent birthday gifts, roughly at the right time, presents that grew increasingly lavish as her fortunes must have improved. Edie hocked them. That wasn’t anger and resentment. She just needed the money more than an MP3 player or new cell phone.

When I see Granny Greene hanging the laundry, I lift my hand and call a “hullo!” quickly adding, “It’s Winter,” knowing her sight is poor and her shotgun is always close by.

“Winter?” she calls. “You sure? I thought it was still fall.” It’s an old joke, and she cackles as I smile obligingly.

She squints at me, her face screwing up. That face is as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, despite the fact she’s not even sixty. Sunscreen is a luxury folks up here can’t afford.

“That a buck you got there, Winter-girl?”

“It is,” I say, dragging it closer.

“That’s a fine one. You’re getting to be a better shot than my Edie.”

I shrug. “I got lucky. It was busy stuffing itself, not a care in the world. Course, problem now is that I can’t drag it back down the mountain. You mind if I dress it here? Leave it for you and Pappy Greene?”

“Not gonna argue with that. You need a knife? Edie’s got a good one.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I came prepared.”

“Let me getcha something to drink.”

As she goes into the house, I position the buck and start cutting. It’s the same procedure as cutting up a rabbit or squirrel—just tougher getting through the hide. I’ve sliced straight up the abdomen when Granny Greene comes out with my beverage. It’s apple pie—the local name for apple-pie moonshine. As the name implies, it tastes like pie, made with apples and cinnamon, so it’s drinkable, though I’ll let most of it spill when she isn’t looking.

I continue cutting while she settles in on the porch to watch.

“You heard from Edie?” I ask.

“Got a letter last month. And fifty dollars. She’d done some work, casual-like, said she made a little extra. I sent a return letter, telling her not to do that no more. We don’t need the money and she shouldn’t be working when she’s going to school. You talk to her, you tell her the same thing. She’s there for an education.”

“I’ll do that.” I sever the deer’s windpipe, preparing to remove the internal organs. “I heard someone saying she was coming back to Reeve’s End for a visit. That’s why I came up. Last I heard, she wasn’t coming until Thanksgiving. I tried calling, but she’s not answering. Busy, I guess. You know anything about her coming home?”

Granny Greene shakes her head. “If she does, she might stay down in the holler, knowing she’ll catch hell if we find out she wasted money on a bus ticket. She’d come to see you, though, Winter. First person she’d come see, I wager. And if she does, you tell her to get her ass up here, so I can kick it, and then make her a proper dinner with that buck you’re carving so nicely. She’d like that. Be real proud to see your work. Better yet, she comes home, you bring her up here yourself. I’ll put some of that buck in the icebox, just in case, do it up the way you girls like it. Okay?”

I nod and fervently pray Edie will come home to eat it.