Page 15 of Four Calling Birds

I peered through the windows, to the patch to the small bush of cranberries by a scarecrow that was lighting up like a fucking disco, to the sound of AC/DC’s “Shoot to Thrill”. There stood a buck, staring right… at… me.

There were leaves hanging out the side of his mouth, as if he was trying to make a fucking point. Those black eyes blinked, his head tilted forward and back. Had he been human, he would have pounded his chest and screamed, “Come at me bro!”

That son of a bitch!

“I’ll be back,” I said, grabbing a bow that I now kept by the front door. I kept one by the front door and the back door for this exact fucking scenario.

“Where are you…?” she asked, but I didn’t have time for her shit.

I tried to slowly open the door, hoping he wouldn’t notice me. But of course he did. Bruce knew exactly where I was. Hell, he was probably just amusing himself by taunting me! I got out, loaded an arrow, and released it, trying to anticipate which way Bruce would hop. Of course, I picked the exact wrong direction. He galloped over the vegetable garden fence, and as if to taunt me, took the time to stop, fluff his tail and look back at me.

“You son of a bitch!” I had no shoes on. I just didn’t care.

I stepped onto the cold, icy ground with my bare feet, loading another bow. I let it loose, and it landedexactlywhere he was standing. But he stepped to the side with a slight tilt of his body. Then, I shit you not, heprancedthrough the field, into the wood line. I did what any man in my situation would do. I fucking went after him.

Ranger School hadn’t killed me, but Bruce might.

9. Retirement going well?

Lotte

Heranintothewoods with his bare feet, buffalo plaid flannel pajama bottoms, and a long-sleeve t-shirt with a bow and arrow in hand. It wasn’t lost on me that there was a 22-gauge shotgun and, of course, an M-4 on the rifle rack by the door, above his line of assorted work boots. But he’d gone for a bow and arrow, which I didn’t know he could shoot… He had never used a bow, as far as I knew.

I had so many questions, that I wasn’t sure where to start.

Clearly, my husband had lost his sanity. He had totally flown over the cuckoo’s nest.

I had stared at where he, and the deer, had disappeared to for several minutes before I started cooking. Because what else could I do?

I wasn’t sure where Mack had stashed my meds, or the clothes I rolled in with. So I had to distract myself from the pain that I knew was going to hit me in slow, incremental waves.

So I got started making duck in orange sauce, an apple strudel and a Caesar salad. Perfect for a Thanksgiving for two. Whether I, or Mellie, would be the second had yet to be unanswered. But maybe I could find some drain cleaner and add it as some extra flavoring.

I stirred the apple, cinnamon, vanilla and sugar. He had gotten Granny Smith Apples, while I had typically preferred the sweeter Golden Delicious, but beggars can’t be choosers. The fact he had gotten close to the right apple was still nice. The man had never remembered our anniversary and had always been taken by surprise on February 14th… but he had an eye for details that mattered to him. Like the cut of duck I liked, and the ingredients I used on Thanksgiving.

Three hours had passed by the time he returned, and the strudel and duck were in the oven, just waiting for their grand reveal. I had figured out a way to time it so that the two things could co-locate in an oven, making their presentation the best they could be.

He stomped through the door; his feet were damn near blue. He put the bow away, before he limped over to the sofa. He sat on the very edge of the couch, his bare feet towards the roaring fire beneath the white stone mantle.

“Care to explain what all that was about?” I asked, waving a spatula at the front door, and vaguely towards the bow and arrow.

“That was Bruce.”

“Makes total sense,” I said sarcastically, wiping down the counter.

“Bow hunting for deer started on October 7th,” he said, as if that clarified things completely.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” I said with a small snort. “I’m pretty sure you can use muzzle-loading rifles from now until December.”

“That’s not very sporting,” he said, putting his arm across the back rest of the couch and looking over to me. His feet had gone from a strange white/blue to a red. Circulation was returning to his extremities. “I’ve been trying to kill him with a bow for over a year. It’s personal.”

“And what crime did he commit to make you give him a name, and put him on your hit list?” I bent down, opening the oven.

“He ate my vegetables.” He said, with a shrug. Then he sniffed the air, and groaned in delight. He looked over at Mo, who was on the couch, his little paws up to the ceiling, his belly waiting for a rub. “Mama’s cooking the good stuff! I bet she made a plate for you too, huh, boy?”

Yes, I had made a small dog-friendly plate. It was Bo’s thanksgiving too!

I tilted my head. “He’s a deer. Of course, he ate your vegetables. Did you put a fence around it?”

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