Gary McCallum, author of The Hunting Season, is a lawyer practicing in Toronto, with a focus on civil and family litigation. He has previously published short fiction in Event.
*****
To David, David & David
“That is one gorgeous gun.”
“Yes. Yes, it is . . . Thank you.”
And indeed it was: slim and elegant in form, lock plates exquisitely engraved with game birds in flight, polished stock – walnut by the look of it – glowing brightly in the morning light.
“Have you had it long?” I asked.
“Brand new. Today is its maiden voyage, so to speak . . . I ordered it a year ago. Arrived last week, right in time for my birthday.”
“When was it, your birthday?”
“Yesterday.”
“Happy birthday, then, and many more.” I nodded towards the gun. “I’ve always liked over-unders. That’s not a Fabbri, is it?”
“No, a Holland and Holland Royal, 12-bore . . . has a back-action sidelock.”
“Does it shoot as good as it looks?”
“We’ll find out today. Does feel nice in the hands, solid, well balanced,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a toll-booth operator collecting a fare. “You’ve been happy with your 870, haven’t you?” he added, as if just to be saying something.
“I have. Reliable as all-get-out, though I’ve wondered from time to time what it would be like to step up in class,” I said gazing on his H and H. “But my Remington does the job. If a duck flies away scot-free, it’s certainly not the gun’s fault.”
I chuckled softly at my comment, hoping for at least a smile from Frederick. But, alas, nothing: not a smile nor even a flicker of a response. I didn’t know Frederick well but based on our previous acquaintances he was clearly out of sorts today: sullen, his grey eyes mirthless, the corners of his mouth downturned in what looked like a pout. He gave the impression he would rather use his brand-new shotgun on himself than on any water fowl.
We walked through the field in silence. When we came to a weather-beaten stile over an equally weather-beaten rail fence, Flanagan, my exuberant duck toller, bounded fearlessly up and over the stile’s five feet as if it were nothing. I suggested to Frederick that we unload our guns before climbing the rickety stile, from an abundance of caution. Our excursion had brought to mind the notorious incident over a decade ago of Dick Cheney shooting his hunting partner and I wanted to avoid any similar accident. Of course Cheney’s hunting partner was a lawyer so perhaps it wasn’t an accident. This time my chuckle was interior only.
I suggested to Frederick that we unload our guns before climbing the rickety stile, from an abundance of caution.
Frederick rejected my suggestion. “Don’t be silly. Here’s what we do. Lay your gun on the ground. Hold mine while I climb over. Then hand me mine. Then hand me yours. You climb over. Simple.”
I unslung the gun from my shoulder, laid it on the ground, protecting the muzzle with my hat, and otherwise followed his instructions, mildly resentful at being told what to do like a dull-witted schoolboy. The stile wobbled as if made of matchsticks while we scaled it but nonetheless held fast.
“Thanks,” I said when he handed me my gun. He didn’t acknowledge my comment. We began to make our way through the high grass, around a gold and crimson maple tree, its branches un-leaving. I stepped over a hardened cow-pie. The grass, though sere with the season, was layered with early-morning dew. The sky was cloudless and the crisp air suffused with soft golden light. All this, the pleasant surroundings, the fine day, was a welcome reprieve from the drizzly, gloomy fall we had endured to date, nothing but wet, wet, and grey, and then more wet and more grey.
“Glorious day for being outside,” I commented, the glorious day uplifting my spirits after Frederick’s bossiness. “For us and our flying friends,” I added, the morning sun, still low on the horizon, dazzling my eyes.
Frederick shook his head dismissively. “The weather is much too nice for our purpose. Rainy and windy are best for hunting. You really should know that by now.” Evidently conscious of his abruptness, he added in a milder tone, “There’s an old saying, ‘Foul weather blesses waterfowlers.’ Anyway, colder temperatures are forecast for today . . . The cold front moving in will bring the wind. That’ll improve our chances.”
It was becoming evident that his funk was not going to disappear along with the morning mist. The fine day was having no salutary effect; nor was idle chit-chat. I had hunted with him a few times before and on those occasions, knowledgeable about a variety of subjects and well-spoken on them, he had been an agreeable hunting partner, considering his reputation as a “difficult” person. His nickname was “The Hawk”, as much because of his predatory nature as his beak-like nose.
An ornery and aggressive, if not bellicose, lawyer, he was perhaps because of those very traits a highly successful one. The previous week he had won a high-profile case in the Court of Appeal on a matrimonial matter that had brought him much favourable publicity – and, one would have thought, much satisfaction, none of which was he showing.
Given his attitude I was puzzled why he had invited me to accompany him hunting. He didn’t seem to have any great urge to avail himself of my companionship; or enjoy the fall weather, flawless so far that day; or even brag about his handsome new gun, English made and a year in the making. People are a mystery, even to me. For all I knew he just wanted to kill something.
We walked on in silence for a while. Flanagan was scampering about, nosing the ground for quail or squirrels. As we approached the wetlands the ground was becoming softer underfoot and the way slower. I was growing more than a little impatient with Frederick’s moodiness but tried to maintain an equable manner as, after a time, I bearded the lion.
“What’s up, Frederick? Something is bothering you. That much is obvious. Maybe I can help.”
He looked at me sideways with the strangest look: in a word, venomous. But he immediately gave his head a shudder-like shake as if to clear his mind and said, “Sorry. Yes, you are right: I am a bit preoccupied at the moment.”
His voice had softened a touch; it was a crack in his veneer, and I knew he was going to open up somewhat. “Another law case?” I asked.
“No. At least, not yet . . . We’ll have to see in time.”
He stopped to remove his hat, a tan peaked cap with the image of a male mallard on the front of the crown. He seemed to study the cap as his other hand slowly massaged his scalp, which had been shaved almost hairless. That was new. I hadn’t seen Frederick in a couple of years but I had seen recent family photographs where he had a full head of hair. Well, fullish: in the photos his pale-brown, finely textured hair was thinning on top but otherwise there had been plenty of it.
“You are being enigmatic,” I remarked casually.
“I apologize for that. That was not my intention.”
His eyes were cast downward as we continued on our way. Joe Btfsplk’s cloud was still hanging over Frederick’s head. Something was going on: whether he was struggling with some personal turmoil or worrying about a troublesome file or simply had an ingrown toenail, I couldn’t tell but was curious to find out.
Watching him instead of my own footsteps I almost tripped over a piece of deadfall, a thick branch that had fallen to the ground, sheered from its trunk, as if struck by lightning. Frederick quickly grabbled my arm to steady me. “Careful, friend,” he said. “We can’t have any accidents. You do have your safety on, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” I said, snappish from embarrassment. To allow me time to recover my equanimity, I bent down to pick up a stick. I threw it into the air for Flanagan, who tore after it like a copper-colored streak. That dog had more energy than any dozen other dogs combined.
We soon arrived in the marshy area near the lake and at this point each of us concentrated on hopping from solid lump of ground to solid lump and not making any mis-steps that might precipitate a fall. The ground was wet and mushy, and full of pits disguised by brown and green water and, in the lower-lying spots, remnants of the morning mist. I thanked heaven a few times for my rubber hip boots. It was a hard slog, what with the weight of our blind bags, guns, and other gear; after fifteen minutes Frederick was panting like an over-heated puppy. Fortunately the ground then smoothed out for a bit giving us a brief reprieve and we were able to proceed more easily.
“I don’t mean to be cryptic or enigmatic,” he said, picking up the thread. “It’s just that I have something on my mind and I don’t know where to turn or who to talk to . . . I spend so much time working I have never developed the kind of friendships that most men take for granted. I envy all those fellows who go out after work to the neighborhood watering hole with their best buds for a few brewskis.”
“No, you don’t,” I said with a friendly laugh. “Who are you kidding?”
“You’re right,” he, too, laughed, or came close: in his somber mood he didn’t seem quite capable of a full laugh. “I think that sort of lifestyle to be vacuous in the extreme. As if the ability to throw darts in dim light and distinguish a Molson beer from a Labatt was humankind’s highest achievement.” He shook his head from side to side in disdain. “But what I do envy is the fact that these people have friends they can confide in. I don’t.”
“Why me?”
“Excellent question. One reason is that my wife thinks highly of you. She says her sessions with you have made her a new woman, have reinvigorated her . . . And you and I have hunted together a few times before, and you seemed to be a good listener. Ariel always complains that I am not, that I never hear a word she says. I made up my mind about you when . . . well, we can talk about that later. So anyway I thought maybe I could talk to you, especially given your profession.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Frederick, but you know perfectly well that I cannot take you on as a client, not when I am counselling your wife. That would potentially be a conflict of interest, as I am sure you can appreciate: you would not, and could not, represent the defendant in action where you represented the plaintiff, or both husband and wife in a family-law dispute.”
“You are right again, It was wrong of me to invite you out under false pretenses, or at least partially false. I did enjoy your company the last time we hunted and I did want to try out my new Holland and Holland.”
“With the back-action sidelock.”
He smiled genuinely for the first time that morning. At that, my sympathy over-rode my better judgment. I said, “Perhaps we could talk for a bit now. Just generally about what is bothering you. How does that sound?”
“Sounds fair. I appreciate it.”
“You said you had something on your mind.”
“I do, I do . . . It just so damn humiliating to talk about. Worse: even more humiliating to have happen.”
“Tell me what happened. Think of me as your doctor.”
“Which is not easy to do with that string of painted decoys dangling from your neck.” He smiled tentatively. “It’s Ariel, you see . . .” He stopped, apparently unable to go on.
Rather than shutting him down then and there upon the mention of his wife’s name, as I ought to have done, my curiosity got the better of me. I asked, “What about her?”
“She’s having an affair,” he said with finality, as if released from a great burden.
“How did you reach that conclusion?”
“All sorts of reasons, none of which by itself is definitive but in the aggregate they cause a twisting in my gut that tells me she is, no two ways about it.
“She gets herself up more than she used to, new clothes, pretty clothes, and expensive; more time at the hairdresser, more mani-pedis.” He removed his cap as he did before, and held it up before eyes. Again he rubbed his fingers over his head. Pretty clearly massaging it helped to calm him. “Sometimes when I arrive home late at night, she’s not there. Says she was at the movies. She always used to be home, not necessarily home as the picture of domestic bliss, a candle in the window, dinner on the table, and a pipe and slippers by the fireplace. But home.
“And sex. We used to have it, not as often as randy newlyweds but not never. Now never.”
He slowed his slow step even more and kicked with force at a clump of wizened field flowers, freeing the few remaining milkweed seeds. In no hurry they floated lazily away on silky, silver filaments.
He continued: “The clincher came last month. I was in Ottawa for discoveries. I expected to be there for a week but the case settled and I returned home two days early. I thought I would surprise Ariel, but when I arrived home – around two in the morning – there was one of those ridiculous big, black SUVs parked in the driveway. I drove away and slept in a motel for two nights.
“Correction: that SUV in the middle of the night was pretty damn definitive. The SUV in fact is why I decided called you. You drive a similar vehicle. That made me think of you.” He paused. “Sorry for calling it ‘ridiculous’. No offence intended.”
“Don’t worry about it. You are under stress.”
By this time we had reached the waterside blinds. They were simple one-person, grass nests hidden amongst the reeds and bullrushes, open to the sky. Frederick and I settled into our respective blinds, side by side. I pulled my jacket more snugly around my neck: the air was growing colder and the breeze picking up. Like a good toller Flanagan was frisking along the shore, luring the ducks, as yet unseen.
After a time Frederick asked, “What should I do?”
“I can’t tell you what to do, Frederick. A psychologist doesn’t give answers, even to the extent he or she might have any. The objective is to guide the client towards discovering his or her own answers.”
“Sounds like a royal cop-out to me,” he replied testily, staring intently at the gun in my hands. “Do you mind if I look more closely at your Remington?” he asked.
I went to hand it to him but he shook his head. “No, you hold it. I just want to look.”
I extended it towards him, barrel pointing safely away from us towards the water of the lake. He bent his head down to examine the gun near where my hands held it.
After a time he said, “That’s an interesting ring you are wearing on your left hand. Have you had it long?”
“No, it’s new.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“I didn’t. It was a gift.”
“The reason I ask is that Ariel had a ring just like that. Platinum. New, in an elegant little box. I came upon it last week tucked away in her desk drawer. She didn’t know that I saw it. I didn’t mention it to her because I figured she had purchased it for me as a surprise birthday present. She didn’t. She gave me this stupid hat. Fifteen years of marriage and she buys me a fucking hunting cap for my fortieth birthday.” Hard at me, that venomous glare again. “Now what do you think of that, friend?”
This was one of those moments in life where time slows down and your mind registers the world around it with rare clarity: the shiny water of the lake touched with gold by the morning sun; the air now chill enough that the puffs of our breath formed little clouds; the seed heads of the encompassing bullrushes, tubes of pale fluff, looking as if they had exploded in a frenzy of fertility; Flanagan’s boisterous leaps and capers close by, momentarily drawing Frederick’s attention. Then a gust of wind sending a few pieces of the fluff aloft into the sky, sparkling as they caught the light of the morning sun. In the sky. Sparkling.
I jumped up and shouted, “Ducks!”
Startled, Frederick, reflexively following suit, also jumped up, scanning the sky. “Where? I don’t see anything.”
But I did and raised my reliable Remington and fired.
*****
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