voice gruff. Too gruff. The voice didn’t match the body. Osborne’s chest tightened.
When his daughters were teenagers, he warned them about going down back roads with boyfriends. “You never know who’s living back there,” he would say. “They don’t want to meet you, and you don’t want to meet them. Don’t giggle—I’m not kidding.”
And he wasn’t. “Them” were people you rarely saw in town. “Them” were people who lived in shacks at the end of lanes without fire numbers, who never showed up on IRS rolls, who blasted a shotgun
before
calling 911. “Them” were the ones referred to by the McDonald’s coffee crowd as “those who eat their young.”
Something about the man heading their way—the hat, the gun, the voice.
Osborne stood up but tightened his grip on his own gun.
A ray of late sun hit the man’s face. Mallory gasped. The body that had moved with the grace and ease of youth lied. It belonged to a face more crumpled than the hat on its head—the face of a very old man.
“Clyde?” said Osborne, hesitating, but sure. He’d met the man only once, but that was a face you never forgot. The band across his chest loosened.
At the sound of his name, the old man lowered his shotgun a notch.
“Clyde, you know me.” Osborne stepped into the fading sunlight, anxious to be seen. “I’m a friend of Ray Pradt’s. Ray and I are neighbors. You … we met a while back.”
Osborne wondered if the old man could possibly remember meeting him. Had to be four years ago at least, standing in the rutted lane that passed for Ray’s driveway, and they couldn’t have exchanged more than a few words. Ray was the one who had the knack for socializing with old recluses like Clyde, not Osborne.
He never knew quite what to say—or how to say it. The few times he’d had one of the old codgers in the dental chair, he would try to break the ice with a little humor, maybe a comment on the weather—but all he ever got in return was a flat look and silence. Maybe a grunt.
“Ray Pradt, huh.” The gun dropped slightly. “Who’d you say you are? Speak up.”
“Paul Osborne—Ray’s neighbor.” Osborne raised his voice to an unnatural level. “Say, you and Ray been catching some nice fish lately. He showed me a couple beauties you caught just the other night.” Osborne winced. False jocularity was not his bailiwick.
“Oh, yeah—you know Ray, huh.” Clyde’s gun was pointing down at the snow.
Osborne took a deep breath. Another tentative step towards the old man. He was less than fifty feet away now. Close enough Osborne could see a stag-handled Bowie knife hanging in a holster from his belt.
“Dad …?” Mallory wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. The old man was ambling their way.
“Nice gun you got there,” said Osborne when they were about twenty feet apart. “But, jeez, Clyde, you almost nailed yourself a retired dentist—not a partridge.”
“Oh, I wasn’t shootin’ at no birds,” said the old man making a whistling, sucking sound as he spoke—the sound of ill-fitting dentures. “I thought you was someone else.”
Osborne tried not to stare, but the difference between the youth in the old man’s movement and the age in his face confounded him. He knew from Ray that Clyde lived somewhere in the backwoods near McNaughton and made his living trapping beaver. Was it working outdoors that kept him so spritely? Or was it the lack of having to deal with human razzbonyas?
“Yeah, I been havin’ trouble with a coupla dumyaks driving back in here on their snowmobiles and wrecking my traps,” said Clyde. “But you two,” he looked at Osborne’s shotgun, then the saw in Mallory’s hand, “what the hell
you
doin’ back here?”
“Looking for a Christmas tree,” said Osborne.
“With a shotgun?”
“Few days left in bird season—thought we might chase a few out from under the snow cover. I hunt back here pretty often—but I keep to state land, Clyde.”
“Yep,
When his daughters were teenagers, he warned them about going down back roads with boyfriends. “You never know who’s living back there,” he would say. “They don’t want to meet you, and you don’t want to meet them. Don’t giggle—I’m not kidding.”
And he wasn’t. “Them” were people you rarely saw in town. “Them” were people who lived in shacks at the end of lanes without fire numbers, who never showed up on IRS rolls, who blasted a shotgun
before
calling 911. “Them” were the ones referred to by the McDonald’s coffee crowd as “those who eat their young.”
Something about the man heading their way—the hat, the gun, the voice.
Osborne stood up but tightened his grip on his own gun.
A ray of late sun hit the man’s face. Mallory gasped. The body that had moved with the grace and ease of youth lied. It belonged to a face more crumpled than the hat on its head—the face of a very old man.
“Clyde?” said Osborne, hesitating, but sure. He’d met the man only once, but that was a face you never forgot. The band across his chest loosened.
At the sound of his name, the old man lowered his shotgun a notch.
“Clyde, you know me.” Osborne stepped into the fading sunlight, anxious to be seen. “I’m a friend of Ray Pradt’s. Ray and I are neighbors. You … we met a while back.”
Osborne wondered if the old man could possibly remember meeting him. Had to be four years ago at least, standing in the rutted lane that passed for Ray’s driveway, and they couldn’t have exchanged more than a few words. Ray was the one who had the knack for socializing with old recluses like Clyde, not Osborne.
He never knew quite what to say—or how to say it. The few times he’d had one of the old codgers in the dental chair, he would try to break the ice with a little humor, maybe a comment on the weather—but all he ever got in return was a flat look and silence. Maybe a grunt.
“Ray Pradt, huh.” The gun dropped slightly. “Who’d you say you are? Speak up.”
“Paul Osborne—Ray’s neighbor.” Osborne raised his voice to an unnatural level. “Say, you and Ray been catching some nice fish lately. He showed me a couple beauties you caught just the other night.” Osborne winced. False jocularity was not his bailiwick.
“Oh, yeah—you know Ray, huh.” Clyde’s gun was pointing down at the snow.
Osborne took a deep breath. Another tentative step towards the old man. He was less than fifty feet away now. Close enough Osborne could see a stag-handled Bowie knife hanging in a holster from his belt.
“Dad …?” Mallory wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. The old man was ambling their way.
“Nice gun you got there,” said Osborne when they were about twenty feet apart. “But, jeez, Clyde, you almost nailed yourself a retired dentist—not a partridge.”
“Oh, I wasn’t shootin’ at no birds,” said the old man making a whistling, sucking sound as he spoke—the sound of ill-fitting dentures. “I thought you was someone else.”
Osborne tried not to stare, but the difference between the youth in the old man’s movement and the age in his face confounded him. He knew from Ray that Clyde lived somewhere in the backwoods near McNaughton and made his living trapping beaver. Was it working outdoors that kept him so spritely? Or was it the lack of having to deal with human razzbonyas?
“Yeah, I been havin’ trouble with a coupla dumyaks driving back in here on their snowmobiles and wrecking my traps,” said Clyde. “But you two,” he looked at Osborne’s shotgun, then the saw in Mallory’s hand, “what the hell
you
doin’ back here?”
“Looking for a Christmas tree,” said Osborne.
“With a shotgun?”
“Few days left in bird season—thought we might chase a few out from under the snow cover. I hunt back here pretty often—but I keep to state land, Clyde.”
“Yep,
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