A Clearing in the forest by Gloria Whelan

he had given Frances’s address instead of his own when he sent out his applications. When he had received an acceptance from Northern, where there was one of the best geological departments anywhere, he had brought his acceptance home so he could take it out and look at it whenever he wanted to. His mom had come across it cleaning his rooms and had showed it to his dad.
    They had been furious. “That’s a sneaky thing to do, Wilson,” his dad had said, “and there isn’t going to be any more of it. What does that old lady think she’s up to?”
    His mother had even blamed Frances for his working on the rig. “I remember how she came by that day you went to Oclair to apply for the job and picked you up in her truck right in front of our house, bold as brass.”
    â€œShe’s been nothing but trouble for you, Wilson,” his dad had said, “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have gotten all beat up by those motorcyclists if you hadn’t been over there. As long as you’re living in this house, I don’t want to hear of you going to her place again.”
    And for the last few days Wilson had stayed away from Frances’s. Should his parents kick him out, he would have to use his money for board and room and he’d never be able to save enough for school. If he could just hold on until next fall he’d be all right. But he had no intention of not seeing Frances, though he supposed he’d have to find a way of doing it without letting his folks know. But today was another matter.
    â€œWell, Mrs. Crawford said I could hunt on her property.” His father put down his coffee cup and his mother gave the potatoes a violent stir. He hurried on, “I know what you’re thinking, but just this once. It’s the best place in the county to hunt. She’s never let anyone hunt there before. I wouldn’t have to talk to her or anything.”
    He could see his dad struggle between meat on the table and his feelings about Frances. The meat won.
    Wilson moved quietly along the trail that led into the Crawford property, hoping he wouldn’t spook the buck before daybreak, when the hunting season officially opened. About twenty feet into the woods from the trail, he had built a blind of pine branches. He squeezed himself into the opening and settled down on the frozen ground, enjoying the rich scent of the pine and feeling snug in the seclusion of the blind. Before choosing the site, he had spent days tracking the big buck. A short distance from the site he had found a “scrape,” a shallow circular depression in the ground made by the buck pawing at the earth and urinating to mark it as his territory. It was a warning to other bucks to stay away. November was the mating season and the buck didn’t want any interference with his does.
    Wilson had felt a little guilty about going after the big buck. Not that he took Frances’s warning seriously, but because he thought she half believed it. He was not sure why she had allowed him to hunt on her property. Of course he had promised her meat, but he felt the real reason was that she had seen how he had grown to accept much of what she believed about the land—and this was his reward.
    It was a fair contest, Wilson told himself. The buck knew all the paths. His smell and hearing and eyesight were superior to Wilson’s. The buck could run thirty miles an hour and his color was a perfect camouflage. Often the only glimpse you had of him against the brown foliage was the inside of a leg or the flick of his white tail.
    Wilson settled down into the blind, feeling well provisioned. His down jacket, the same one he used on the rig, was warm and light. His boots and gloves had foam insulation. Hooked onto his belt was a sheath knife that had once belonged to Dr. Crawford; it had a rosewood handle with brass rivets and a sharp stainless steel blade. In a pocket were sandwiches. Next to him was