Ed’s truck was encountering a bit of difficulty on the rutted gravel road leading into the cabin. The wheels were spinning pointlessly into the deep ruts where the ground was still damp from the spring rains, and the truck wouldn’t move. He wished at that moment that he had not traded in his father’s four wheel drive, the ancient blue ford, in for this sleek, low Nissan and rubbed his brow in resignation.
“We should have walked in,” he said to the woman in the passenger seat. “I knew we wouldn’t make it through in this thing.”
Anita frowned. “Well, why don’t we just walk in from here? Someone will have to pull us out either way.” They had been together for six months, and this was their first vacation together. Not a nature-lover, she had wanted a weekend in Carmel, but Ed had a hankering to visit the cabin. His father had died three years ago, leaving the cabin to him, but he had never taken the time to go up. The last time he’d seen the place had been at the age of nine, twenty-two years ago. Insisting that the little house in the woods was as nice as he remembered it, he had convinced her that a night on the beautiful five acres of dense woods and lush meadow would be a more meaningful experience than spending a weekend in a posh hotel room near the ocean.
“You’re right,” he said, “we might as well walk” and he opened the door gently, then stepped out onto the gravel road that curved gently for another quarter mile before it reached his father’s—no, his—cabin. The day was clear and bright, and the sun shone through the trees, casting dancing shadows on the land below. Just as Ed remembered from his childhood, everything around him was tinted green, like he was standing next to a stained glass window.
They started walking down the road, their shoes crunching the gravel beneath their feet, and they fell into a rhythmic walk--step, crunch; step crunch. As they walked, Anita a few steps behind him, Ed wondered why he had brought her. Maybe it would have been better if he had made the first trip up on his own. Sure, it seemed like a good idea to spend a day in the wilderness together, warming each other in the cool night to come, but he hadn’t counted on the feelings he had for this place.
He felt like Anita was weighing him down. Not that she was actually doing anything wrong, he admitted silently, but she talked incessantly. Ordinarily he didn’t mind this tendency towards loquacity; in fact, her formidable intelligence and eloquence were what most attracted him to her. But this mindless prattle of Oh look, there’s a squirrel, are there deer here, oh look at the acorns, I’ve never seen an acorn before, grated on his nerves. Ed had a feel for the land, and he didn’t want every detail he was already aware of to be described to him in full. Besides the cabin was coming into view, and as it did, the flood of old memories surged through his mind. There were times when a man needed to hear nothing more than the wind rustling through the leaves unmolested by human chatter, Walking on your father’s land for the first time since he died was just such a time.
“Oh God, Ed, look at the meadow! Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked. They had almost reached the end of the road. The cabin was in sight and the meadow of long, golden grass lay next to it, just as he remembered. It was beautiful, the way the sunlight and shadows gilded the grass with light, the sharp contrast between the meadow and the forest beyond, but his eyes were fixed on the cabin. Something is different, he thought. This is not the way it was. He picked up his pace, the rhythm of the sounds of the gravel speeding up under his boots.
“Slow down, Ed,” Anita said, “I can’t walk that fast in these shoes.”
He pretended not to hear her. It was her own fault for wearing worthless, impracticable, fashionable shoes to the mountains. Some thirty feet ahead of her when he reached the cabin, he put his hand out to touch the walls. They were bare. When he was younger, and his father had first bought the place, they had come up together and decorated the outside walls with old farm tools, antlers and rusted car rims. The walls had been covered with them in the creation of an entirely rustic theme that was one of his earliest memories. All of that was gone.
“I can’t believe it,” he said aloud. “It’s not here.”
“What’s not here?”
“The walls. The wheels. Someone took all the old rims off the walls.” He strode over to the old pile of firewood that lay near the shed, perpetually unused for all those years. “They even took my hatchet,” he snarled. “My dad gave me that hatchet the first time we came up here, so I could help him cut the firewood. Why would anyone want that?”
“It looks, fine, Ed. All that sounds kind of tacky if you ask me.”
He whirled on her. “What do you know about it? Someone stole it all. They stole my memories.” Before she opened her mouth, he only felt sadness. Now the latent anger he held at bay rose in his voice. “Just shut up, will you. I can’t believe this. You don’t know a damn thing about this place. Just shut up.”
This last was said with such vehemence that tears sprang to her eyes. There she is, always crying, he thought. If I ever get the least bit harsh, that’s the only way she ever reacts. Jesus Christ, it’s so manipulative. “C’mon, stop that,” he said with disgust. “I’m going inside to see if anything’s left.”
The door was slightly ajar, and Ed knew nothing would be behind it. Old and chipping paint, the door would have been easy for someone to break open. But he hadn’t counted on the utter emptiness that lay behind it.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, while Anita composed herself on the porch. Everything had been stripped. The old paintings of the poker dogs on the walls were gone. So was the old Franklin stove in the kitchen. The bed had been hauled out, as had the unsightly yellow sofa. Those bastards. They took everything but the rat shit. He walked into the bathroom. Even the toilet and shower head had been removed, the toilet torn brutally from its base, the showerhead neatly unscrewed. They’d taken those, too.
“Christ!” he yelled. “The bastards stole everything!”
“What?” Anita stepped inside. “Oh my God, Ed. You told me it would be comfortable here. There’s not even a bed to sleep in, just rat—“ and instead of saying the word that came to mind, she scrunched up her delicate nose in a look of sheer disgust.
He got that look in his eye, the one that told her he was terribly angry at something and would assuage it by being as nasty to her as he could. “Thank you very much, Ms. Obvious. Perhaps you’d like to clean the rat—“ he scrunched his much larger nose in mockery “--up.”
“Stop it, Ed. I can’t help this. It’s certainly not my fault.”
“I suppose it’s mine, is it? Well suppose you just be quiet. They took everything I can remember.”
She bit her lower lip, while he walked into what had once been the bedroom and slammed the door, the sound of it startling her. Something struck him; the last vestige of some forgotten memory, and he reached up onto the uppermost shelf of the closet and felt around with his hands.
There it was. He had found it, and grasping the oblong object with one hand, the glossy paper with another, he brought them down and stared in amazement. How could they have possibly missed this? In his right hand was his father’s shotgun, and in his left a photo of Ed next to his old man, taken before their last quail hunt. Sliding the picture carefully into his pocket, he caressed the long, smooth barrel and said in wonder, “I can’t believe it. They left Dad’s old shotgun. Anita, c’mere!”
She entered the room to find him cradling the gun as if it were a baby in his arms. “What are you doing with a gun?” she practically yelped.
“Whoever stole the rest of the stuff forgot this,” he said.
“Of all the things they should have taken…”
“What do you mean?” he asked incredulously. “This is my father’s shotgun. Do you have any idea how old this thing is?”
“You know I hate guns. So many people die because of those things.”
“So don’t shoot it. At least I still have on reminder of my father and me here.”
“And what sort of significance is attached to this hunk of metal?”
“For your information, my dad used to take me and my brother quail hunting in the woods. He never let us shoot the gun, though. He said he’d give it to me when I had a son of my own.” He paused. “Of course, it’s too late for that. But he would have you know. He was a good man, never went back on his word.”
By the time he finished, his voice was so tender that she was visibly moved. “I wish I could have met him,” she said. “Why haven’t you ever talked about him before?”
“There’s just some things you don’t talk about, especially to a woman who hates guns. But I’d like to give it to my own son, when I have one. It’s a hell of a piece. Look!” He sighted down the barrel out the window. The day was exceedingly bright, and the sun shone directly through the window, lighting it up with its dazzling rays.
“Don’t point that,” she said. “You’re making me nervous. Just put it down.”
“C’mon,” he said. “I bet there’s some quail out there right now. Great big bobs with the whitest feathers on their chests you’ll ever live to see.”
“I told you, I don’t like guns.” A hint of hysteria hovered in her voice.
“It’s alright. Dad never left this thing loaded. He was adamant about that. I couldn’t shoot a quail if I wanted to.”
“Just put it down, Ed! Just put it down!” she shrieked.
He quickly lowered the gun. “I was just teasing, Anita. Man-alive, you don’t have to get so worked up. I wasn’t going to shoot the thing even if I could. Finding it made things a little better around here, that’s all.”
Her eyes darting nervously like a skittish deer, she took a deep breath, then two. “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re happier than when we first got here. But can you please put that thing away? In the truck, maybe?”
“Sure, if it bothers you that much,” he said. “I’ll go get the sleeping bag, too. We may have to sleep here if I can’t find cell phone reception.”
“If you get any, call a tow truck immediately. I can’t bear this place. We should have gone to Carmel.”
He snorted in disgust, and walked past her. Stopping at the front porch, he took out the picture again and looked around. Yeah, he’d get the place fixed up. A few weekends of work would be all it would take. He’d do it alone, though. Anita had no place up here. This was his domain. He could see it in his mind, some old rims and farm tools mounted on the walls again. Between the picture and his mind, he’d get it close to what it was.
He stepped off the porch and started toward the truck, replacing the picture in his hand with a cell phone. About halfway down the road, he got a few bars, and called Triple A. They’d be there in a jiff, they said. Fine by him. He reached the truck and unlocked the door, opened it, and placed the gun behind the seat. It sure was a good-looking thing. Shutting the door, he started back up the road, but deep in the trees there was a sort of cooing, and his eyes darted towards the sound. A dark bird shot out of the oaks and into the sky. On its chest he could just make out a small patch of pure white feathers.
“We should have walked in,” he said to the woman in the passenger seat. “I knew we wouldn’t make it through in this thing.”
Anita frowned. “Well, why don’t we just walk in from here? Someone will have to pull us out either way.” They had been together for six months, and this was their first vacation together. Not a nature-lover, she had wanted a weekend in Carmel, but Ed had a hankering to visit the cabin. His father had died three years ago, leaving the cabin to him, but he had never taken the time to go up. The last time he’d seen the place had been at the age of nine, twenty-two years ago. Insisting that the little house in the woods was as nice as he remembered it, he had convinced her that a night on the beautiful five acres of dense woods and lush meadow would be a more meaningful experience than spending a weekend in a posh hotel room near the ocean.
“You’re right,” he said, “we might as well walk” and he opened the door gently, then stepped out onto the gravel road that curved gently for another quarter mile before it reached his father’s—no, his—cabin. The day was clear and bright, and the sun shone through the trees, casting dancing shadows on the land below. Just as Ed remembered from his childhood, everything around him was tinted green, like he was standing next to a stained glass window.
They started walking down the road, their shoes crunching the gravel beneath their feet, and they fell into a rhythmic walk--step, crunch; step crunch. As they walked, Anita a few steps behind him, Ed wondered why he had brought her. Maybe it would have been better if he had made the first trip up on his own. Sure, it seemed like a good idea to spend a day in the wilderness together, warming each other in the cool night to come, but he hadn’t counted on the feelings he had for this place.
He felt like Anita was weighing him down. Not that she was actually doing anything wrong, he admitted silently, but she talked incessantly. Ordinarily he didn’t mind this tendency towards loquacity; in fact, her formidable intelligence and eloquence were what most attracted him to her. But this mindless prattle of Oh look, there’s a squirrel, are there deer here, oh look at the acorns, I’ve never seen an acorn before, grated on his nerves. Ed had a feel for the land, and he didn’t want every detail he was already aware of to be described to him in full. Besides the cabin was coming into view, and as it did, the flood of old memories surged through his mind. There were times when a man needed to hear nothing more than the wind rustling through the leaves unmolested by human chatter, Walking on your father’s land for the first time since he died was just such a time.
“Oh God, Ed, look at the meadow! Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked. They had almost reached the end of the road. The cabin was in sight and the meadow of long, golden grass lay next to it, just as he remembered. It was beautiful, the way the sunlight and shadows gilded the grass with light, the sharp contrast between the meadow and the forest beyond, but his eyes were fixed on the cabin. Something is different, he thought. This is not the way it was. He picked up his pace, the rhythm of the sounds of the gravel speeding up under his boots.
“Slow down, Ed,” Anita said, “I can’t walk that fast in these shoes.”
He pretended not to hear her. It was her own fault for wearing worthless, impracticable, fashionable shoes to the mountains. Some thirty feet ahead of her when he reached the cabin, he put his hand out to touch the walls. They were bare. When he was younger, and his father had first bought the place, they had come up together and decorated the outside walls with old farm tools, antlers and rusted car rims. The walls had been covered with them in the creation of an entirely rustic theme that was one of his earliest memories. All of that was gone.
“I can’t believe it,” he said aloud. “It’s not here.”
“What’s not here?”
“The walls. The wheels. Someone took all the old rims off the walls.” He strode over to the old pile of firewood that lay near the shed, perpetually unused for all those years. “They even took my hatchet,” he snarled. “My dad gave me that hatchet the first time we came up here, so I could help him cut the firewood. Why would anyone want that?”
“It looks, fine, Ed. All that sounds kind of tacky if you ask me.”
He whirled on her. “What do you know about it? Someone stole it all. They stole my memories.” Before she opened her mouth, he only felt sadness. Now the latent anger he held at bay rose in his voice. “Just shut up, will you. I can’t believe this. You don’t know a damn thing about this place. Just shut up.”
This last was said with such vehemence that tears sprang to her eyes. There she is, always crying, he thought. If I ever get the least bit harsh, that’s the only way she ever reacts. Jesus Christ, it’s so manipulative. “C’mon, stop that,” he said with disgust. “I’m going inside to see if anything’s left.”
The door was slightly ajar, and Ed knew nothing would be behind it. Old and chipping paint, the door would have been easy for someone to break open. But he hadn’t counted on the utter emptiness that lay behind it.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, while Anita composed herself on the porch. Everything had been stripped. The old paintings of the poker dogs on the walls were gone. So was the old Franklin stove in the kitchen. The bed had been hauled out, as had the unsightly yellow sofa. Those bastards. They took everything but the rat shit. He walked into the bathroom. Even the toilet and shower head had been removed, the toilet torn brutally from its base, the showerhead neatly unscrewed. They’d taken those, too.
“Christ!” he yelled. “The bastards stole everything!”
“What?” Anita stepped inside. “Oh my God, Ed. You told me it would be comfortable here. There’s not even a bed to sleep in, just rat—“ and instead of saying the word that came to mind, she scrunched up her delicate nose in a look of sheer disgust.
He got that look in his eye, the one that told her he was terribly angry at something and would assuage it by being as nasty to her as he could. “Thank you very much, Ms. Obvious. Perhaps you’d like to clean the rat—“ he scrunched his much larger nose in mockery “--up.”
“Stop it, Ed. I can’t help this. It’s certainly not my fault.”
“I suppose it’s mine, is it? Well suppose you just be quiet. They took everything I can remember.”
She bit her lower lip, while he walked into what had once been the bedroom and slammed the door, the sound of it startling her. Something struck him; the last vestige of some forgotten memory, and he reached up onto the uppermost shelf of the closet and felt around with his hands.
There it was. He had found it, and grasping the oblong object with one hand, the glossy paper with another, he brought them down and stared in amazement. How could they have possibly missed this? In his right hand was his father’s shotgun, and in his left a photo of Ed next to his old man, taken before their last quail hunt. Sliding the picture carefully into his pocket, he caressed the long, smooth barrel and said in wonder, “I can’t believe it. They left Dad’s old shotgun. Anita, c’mere!”
She entered the room to find him cradling the gun as if it were a baby in his arms. “What are you doing with a gun?” she practically yelped.
“Whoever stole the rest of the stuff forgot this,” he said.
“Of all the things they should have taken…”
“What do you mean?” he asked incredulously. “This is my father’s shotgun. Do you have any idea how old this thing is?”
“You know I hate guns. So many people die because of those things.”
“So don’t shoot it. At least I still have on reminder of my father and me here.”
“And what sort of significance is attached to this hunk of metal?”
“For your information, my dad used to take me and my brother quail hunting in the woods. He never let us shoot the gun, though. He said he’d give it to me when I had a son of my own.” He paused. “Of course, it’s too late for that. But he would have you know. He was a good man, never went back on his word.”
By the time he finished, his voice was so tender that she was visibly moved. “I wish I could have met him,” she said. “Why haven’t you ever talked about him before?”
“There’s just some things you don’t talk about, especially to a woman who hates guns. But I’d like to give it to my own son, when I have one. It’s a hell of a piece. Look!” He sighted down the barrel out the window. The day was exceedingly bright, and the sun shone directly through the window, lighting it up with its dazzling rays.
“Don’t point that,” she said. “You’re making me nervous. Just put it down.”
“C’mon,” he said. “I bet there’s some quail out there right now. Great big bobs with the whitest feathers on their chests you’ll ever live to see.”
“I told you, I don’t like guns.” A hint of hysteria hovered in her voice.
“It’s alright. Dad never left this thing loaded. He was adamant about that. I couldn’t shoot a quail if I wanted to.”
“Just put it down, Ed! Just put it down!” she shrieked.
He quickly lowered the gun. “I was just teasing, Anita. Man-alive, you don’t have to get so worked up. I wasn’t going to shoot the thing even if I could. Finding it made things a little better around here, that’s all.”
Her eyes darting nervously like a skittish deer, she took a deep breath, then two. “It’s alright. I’m glad you’re happier than when we first got here. But can you please put that thing away? In the truck, maybe?”
“Sure, if it bothers you that much,” he said. “I’ll go get the sleeping bag, too. We may have to sleep here if I can’t find cell phone reception.”
“If you get any, call a tow truck immediately. I can’t bear this place. We should have gone to Carmel.”
He snorted in disgust, and walked past her. Stopping at the front porch, he took out the picture again and looked around. Yeah, he’d get the place fixed up. A few weekends of work would be all it would take. He’d do it alone, though. Anita had no place up here. This was his domain. He could see it in his mind, some old rims and farm tools mounted on the walls again. Between the picture and his mind, he’d get it close to what it was.
He stepped off the porch and started toward the truck, replacing the picture in his hand with a cell phone. About halfway down the road, he got a few bars, and called Triple A. They’d be there in a jiff, they said. Fine by him. He reached the truck and unlocked the door, opened it, and placed the gun behind the seat. It sure was a good-looking thing. Shutting the door, he started back up the road, but deep in the trees there was a sort of cooing, and his eyes darted towards the sound. A dark bird shot out of the oaks and into the sky. On its chest he could just make out a small patch of pure white feathers.
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