Hunts in Dreams by Tom Drury

North. Painted on the glass façade, Fawn Hall slipped documents into her boots.
    Charles shook his head.
    â€œTalking her to sleep.”
    â€œNo lie.”
    â€œI wish it was. I’ve seen it before. It’s the saddest thing imaginable.”
    â€œWhat’s he supposed to be, her boyfriend?”
    â€œShe calls him and he tells stories into the phone, and beyond that I ask no questions.”
    â€œJesus Christ.”
    â€œIt ain’t natural, whatever it is.”
    Jerry hung up the phone and sat for a moment before coming over, waving the paper napkin. “What’s this you drew — a dog?”
    â€œIt’s a jackass,” said Charles.
    â€œI don’t see that.” He showed the drawing to the bartender. “What do you think, Kenny?”
    â€œA zebra would have been my guess.”
    â€œYou’re blind,” said Charles.
    â€œWell, what are these marks supposed to be?”
    â€œObviously you know nothing about commercial art.”
    â€œMaybe not, but I know a zebra from a jackass.”
    â€œAnd what does that make Jerry?”
    â€œOh, well, he’s a jackass. But this, I would have to say, is a zebra.”
    â€œWe’re friends,” said Jerry. “You guys don’t even know what grade she’s in.”
    â€œYou, Gerald, are walking on an earthquake.”
    â€œRemains to be seen.”
    Charles looked at the pinball machine. Oliver North glared, gap-toothed, patriotic to a fault. “What does she want with a friend like you?”
    â€œI don’t understand all of it,” said Jerry. “People think she’s so together, but she’s what you might call a bundle of insecurities.”
    â€œI’m taking my guns and going.”
    The remark reminded them all that it was time to go home. In the parking lot, Charles showed the old shotgun to Jerry, who picked it up and sighted idly along the ridge between the barrels.
    â€œReally this should go to Bebe. He was her dad.”
    â€œI feel like he was mine too,” said Charles.
    â€œYes, because he lasted the longest. We must have been born under bad stars.”
    â€œI’ll tell you who was born under the bad star, and that’s Colette.”
    â€œYes,” said Jerry. “I think you’re right.”
    Charles went home. He could not resist opening and closing the barn doors to admire the work that he and Lyris and Micah had done. They had made themselves a team; it hadn’t gone too badly. Hearing the doors, the goat came down from the back porch and paced in the long grass. She snorted softly, favoring one of her legs.
    â€œI just may have bought myself a lame goat,” said Charles out loud.
    Still no Lyris. Her bed was empty under a quilt of green and blue. He called the sheriff’s office and left a message and then sat at the kitchen table cleaning the shotgun. He unclipped the barrels from the stock and worked a patch of flannel through each one with a dowel rod. It was five minutes to two. He oiled the flannel and ran it through again. Then he took the cloth and cleaned the breechblock, the triggers, the guard, and the stock. The phone rang. It was Earl the deputy, reporting that Lyris hadn’t been in any accidents. Charles thanked him and hung up. The two parts of the gun lay on the table. He wondered if she had run away, but then thought not, given the good day they’d had together. So he figured she must have gone for a ride, and if her absence worried him — as it did — it was a small sample of the worry he had given to others when he was young and even when he was older. Or, while he was on the subject, the worry he must’ve caused Farina Matthews tonight before she smacked him with the hanger. He thought that Montaigne had got it right: what he did not admire in himself he was in no position to get rid of. It was ahead of him, always, guiding his moves. He made a cup of tea, cut another square of