Short Story: A Bad Day For Duck…

Short Story: A Bad Day For Duck Hunting

"It’s a cold day for duck hunting," Will said, as he turned off the alarm that blinked three-thirty a.m. on that January morning. "It is only four below out there right now, but listen to that wind. It could feel like fifty below zero in that – bad for duck hunting, I’d say. Think you are up to that, honey?"

"I’ve got you to keep me warm," answered Cleary from the depths of down comforters.

Will Benton leaped out of the bed, raced through the ranch house in M and M candy print pajamas and turned up the thermostat on the furnace. He scurried back to bed, pulled up the covers and placed his icy feet on Cleary’s warm legs as usual. "And I’ve got my love to keep you warm, too."

"You call those feet love, cold as they are?" She reached out to him, her flannel nightgown above her knees, moved over close and Will grew much warmer in the next few minutes. Eventually Cleary escaped his advances, was out of bed and pulling off the gown, and she stood naked in the room, looking at the thermal underwear she had laid out with her outer clothes for this venture. She’d shower after they came in from the cold. A very hot shower.

"It looks like I’ve got it all here," she began dressing.

Will, an avid hunter of the far north, arms behind his head lay watching his bride of a year, his flight attendant whom he had won after a persistent, old-fashioned courtship. "You surely as heck do have it all; what a gorgeous woman you are. It’s a wonder that some fantastic traveler didn’t snap you up on one of those flights around the world, and carry you off to his hideaway."

"Oh, he did," she said, from under her fleecy sweat shirt. She thrust her head out, her brown hair a tangle of curls. "And here we are, fantastic mister. Now come on and get dressed; if we are to meet your friend — what’s his name, Rob Henry — and his son, on time at the lake, we had better get going. I’ll have breakfast ready in a few minutes and finish packing our grub box. Plenty of hot coffee, okay?"

An hour later, bundled in padded layers of clothing, they were in the duck blind on frozen Feather Lake, twenty miles from their little town of Rockford, located just about as far north as one could travel and still be in the United States. They had traveled in his four-wheel-drive utility vehicle that was clad in chains, because in this upcountry winters could be severe. Today they encountered crunchy snow and solid ice all along the route. They had traveled slowly, warm and snug, watching out for any deer that might be crossing the narrow two-lane road.

Will followed the fresh tracks ahead; Rob and his son had beat them by a few minutes. They were already in their blind, about a quarter mile north of Will’s sturdy shelter, waving and shouting. To Will, their breath looked like smoke belching from chimneys.

Inside, Will towered over Cleary and got her comfortable on a folding camp chair, then he handed her a cup of hot coffee. He had put down canvas for some comfort underfoot, also. Finally, he loaded his shotgun, released the safety and stood it against the board wall of the duck blind.

Will was just forty-seven, and not self-conscious at all about his handsome dark hair and eyes, had in two years become thin and hardened in this harsh environment. He had been a broker before coming north, and was a former airline pilot. This year with Cleary had been everything he dreamed love would be. They still clicked by just looking at each other.

He pulled her down and into his arms and she wrapped her arms around his neck. But love was short-lived as they realized, laughingly, the layers of clothing rendered them helpless. He helped her up just in time to hear Ron yell, "Birds coming in!"

Will jumped up, grabbed his gun and stepped forward. Cleary joined him in the opening. They looked up to see a projectile hurtling through the air. It looked like a champagne bottle, until it sprouted wings and began to lose its altitude. As it neared the frozen lake, two webbed feet took position, the body braced for impact and when it hit the ice, the mallard drake slid on those feet for at least twenty feet, then tumbled and righted itself, and wobbled into the tall reeds. Will and Cleary laughed for ten minutes, watching two others come in on webbed feet with the same results. The delight in her eyes thrilled Will.

A cacophony of squawking announced the arrival of the flock, and Will threw his gun up to his shoulder and waited, as did Rob and his son up line from them, until the flock was well between them. They would each have a moving target that avoided danger to the other party.

Will squinted until he found the cross hairs, with his finger on the trigger he followed a bird in flight, fired and it fell. He immediately repeated his actions and watched another fall. There was a lengthy volley from Rob’s blind before all became silent – as the remaining ducks veered away to safety.

"Enough, Will. No more," Cleary said softly. But the way she said it made him turn. He stared at his bride, tears were coursing down her cheeks, and agonized pleading blazed at him from her eyes.

"Darling, Cleary. They are ducks, meant for us to take for the table. Don’t cry. Two will do nicely for us."

He set aside his shotgun and embraced her, cuddled her and comforted her until she said, "I’ll cook them for you. But I cannot do this, Will. Forgive me."

Right then Will knew she was a brave girl. She’d been a flight attendant for three years, been around the world, and this frozen north was a shock to her. He would have to realize that there were some things they could not share, ever. This was one, and disappointment ran deep in him. She would have her spaces where he could not go . . . damn. He only wanted someone who would be ‘as one’ with him. That would not be possible in all things, he realized now. He felt a surge of loneliness that he had never expected to experience again.

He stepped away from her, took up the gun and went out to watch Rob and his boy take down their limit before sending the dogs out to retrieve their game. Old Sal, the golden retriever brought Will’s two drakes one at a time, dropped them at his feet, and it was over. Rob signaled he was leaving, Will waved back and turned back into the shelter with the two ducks dangling in his hand.

Cleary gasped, but grabbed up the bag, opened it and held it for him to place them inside. Will took it from her and set it aside. She gazed up at him with teary eyes. "I’m sorry I spoiled it for you, Will. I’ll try to do better from now on. It is all so new to me. You were raised with this."

"Cleary, when my grandpa left me the place up here, I nearly sold it rather than endure the hard times on a place like this. I knew I could make it work by flying in and out of here several times a week. I could carry on the wilderness trek venture he started. But I remembered the times with him, the meals we provided for the table, fish, ducks, venison, and I wanted to try it out. I’ve come to love it here, and I hoped for a wife who would understand and love it as I do. You don’t have to, honey. I know now that you are a brave woman to try it with me. You could be my flight attendant . . . Cleary. We will have plenty to interest you here without you having to go hunting with me. Come here, darling." He pulled her up to him, kissed her and felt her cold lips. Would he ever get them warm again, he wondered?

Will said, "Let’s get you home to the warm house. I’ll gather up everything and load up. You go on to the UV and get inside."

"Will," she whispered, "I don’t think this is right for me. I think we have to talk about me going back to San Francisco. I’d like to go back to flying. Maybe we could move there? You could go back to brokering? We could raise our family there? Oh, Will, I do love you, darling. But I cannot live here. I can’t do this!" She took up the bag and hurried to the opening. Cleary stopped to look out, adjusted her parka and gloves.

Will stared at her, gasped at the sudden pain in his chest, unable to contain his sudden anger. What was he to do? He couldn’t live without her; if she left him, he would always have this pain that was now spreading to his left arm. He had to do something to stop it.

He was able to lift the gun to his shoulder. He squinted once more through a haze, brought the cross hairs to the back of her head just as he went into a convulsion. His finger tightened on the trigger; the explosion seemed to him for a moment muffled in the confines of the blind. "No! Oh, Rob, help!" he tried to call out.

Will clearly saw her blood on the frozen ground as he dropped the gun, slumped forward clutching his chest and fell across her.

Outside, the echo reverberated over the frozen lake – only once. Hearing only the shot, Rob and son stopped in their trek to their vehicle, but shrugged and went on when there was nothing more.

The only sound in the frigid air was that of the pickup marked Tumble County Sheriff trundling away, carrying Rob Henry, his son and retriever dog, finally fading into complete silence on the shore of Feather Lake.