AFTER THAT. THINGS BETWEEN THE BROTHERS CHANGED. Ben called to tell Stan how his day went, what he watched on TV the night before, what Mom made for dinner. Stan felt as if one end of a string was tied around his waist and the other was tied to Ben. Like when they were young, talking in different rooms over a wire connecting empty fruit juice cans. It was good.
But when the weekend approached, Ben’s conversation always turned toward turkeys.
“Going hunting tomorrow?”
Weekend after weekend Stan took him, but the luck they’d had that first morning didn’t return. Mostly because of Ben.
He hadn’t spent hours learning the craft just to call in birds for somebody else to kill.
He always needed Stan to pick him up and was hardly ever ready to go. When they got to the hunting land, it was usually well after sunrise. If they got lucky and the first calls garnered a response, Ben would piddle around the truck needing a drink of water, a dip of tobacco, giving the bird plenty of time to see them and head in another direction.
Stan pushed his frustration aside. There’d been a chasm between them for too long. He tried to show Ben how to work the glass and slate, but he displayed little interest, insisting Stan was better at it than he’d ever be.
Trish noticed, too, and reminded him he needed time to himself to hunt. He hadn’t spent hours learning the craft just to call in birds for somebody else to kill. Besides, they had a dinner party coming up.
“Chilindrón. I’m making it with turkey breast.” She eyed him carefully, her dark hair falling into her face.
He sighed. “Do you have to have turkey?” She tapped her spatula like a finger. “Yes, I have to have turkey. I’d make it with venison, but Lynn says deer makes her vomit.”
“Easily solved. Don’t tell her.” Stan grinned.
Trish didn’t grin back. “I don’t know why you can’t just tell your brother you want one hunt by yourself. Just once.”
“Because, my love, he’ll get upset.”
She put on her mopiest frown. “You mean, like Stan won’t take me hunting? He doesn’t like me? Stuff like that?”
“Something like that.”
“Who cares? You’re doing him a favor.”
“I know.” She wrapped her arms around his middle. “You’ve said yourself he doesn’t want to learn to call. That’s his fault.”
“I know.”
“It’s the one thing you have just for you.”
He grinned down at her. “And you want turkey for chilindrón.”
“Exactly.” She pulled at the tip of his beard.
Later, when the phone rang, Stan was prepared.
“Going hunting tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Stan took a breath. “I think I’ll go by myself.”
The line was silent. “Oh. You going by yourself?”
“Yeah, just tomorrow. If you want to go Sunday, we can.”
“Okay, yeah. Just call me when you want to go. I ain’t doing nothing.”
“Yeah, I will.”
The click at the end was heavy in his ear.
WHEN STAN ARRIVED THE NEXT MORNING, dawn still slept. As the truck swayed over the uneven road, he rolled down the window. Crisp spring air filled his lungs. He inhaled deeply, letting familial guilt wash from his body.
After parking beneath an old cypress, Stan made his way down the holler. As he crossed from the road into the forest, the sound of tires peeling over clay drifted toward him. He headed back in time to be blinded by the lamps of an old jeep. As it closed in, he saw someone he didn’t recognize in the driver’s seat while Ben sat in the passenger. He exhaled low and hard. It was the first time since opening day his brother had gotten there before daylight.
Ben rolled down the window. “Hey, Stan. This is Joe, a friend from church.”
“Hey, Joe.”
Joe waved.
“You said you wanted to go by yourself, so I called him. He hunts some in Culvert County.”
“That so?”
Joe nodded. “Killed one a week ago. Monster tom. Ben says you got ’em good down here.”
“You don’t mind if we hunt, do you?” Ben said.
Stan spit, trying to hide his annoyance. “Fine. I’m going down to this here holler.”
“All right. We’re going down there.” He pointed to the other side of the road.
Stan wished them luck and headed into the holler. By nine, sweat was trickling down his back. Each call ended with an empty reply. It was late in the season, and toms were likely off with a bunch of hens. Probably nothing would respond and he’d go home empty-handed. He grazed the striker over the slate one more time. A faint gahhhhble returned. Stan placed the shotgun on a mound of moss, sat down, and sent another soft murmur from his slate. Once more, the gobbler called back.
Then he heard it. The low sound of a box call. Damn Ben and his friend, just down from him and calling the same damn bird. Stan shook his head. The one time he came by himself, and his brother still managed to screw up his hunt.
He clucked again. The tom was coming in, slowly. Stan decided to move. Sit and wait, he’d been taught, and take a nap in between. But no sir, he was going to cut them off before they got his bird.
The gobbler continued on, his voice loudening. Stan chopped the air with the mouth call. The bird called back so strongly, he imagined two-inch talons digging at the dirt.
It lay beyond the rise, 50 yards away. He needed the tom to come down the hill and get within 30.
The box call hadn’t sounded for some time, so Stan laid into the bird, fi ring him up. The tom’s calls came louder and louder. A tip of head peeked out. It was huge, like two softballs stuck together. Where that came from, there would be breast aplenty for Trish and her chilindrón. Stan raised the gun, lining up the sights. Just come on down the holler, just come on down.
“Yeah, it’s over here!”
The mouth call fell from Stan’s cheek. His brother stepped out from a creek bed that ran to the right and crossed the road to the other side, where those two were supposed to be. The gobbler turned and flew off, and Stan ran down the holler.
“What the hell’re you doing?”
“We was hunting that turkey,” Ben said, scratching his head, a lofty smile on his face. “Well, you just scared him off!”
Joe looked at the ground. Wasn’t this guy supposed to know what he’s doing?
Stan shook his head. “The one day you come down here on time, you screw up my hunt. And you bring this joker? What’s the deal, man? Help me out— help me understand why you got up at the crack of dawn to screw up the one time I go hunting by myself.”
Ben’s smile faltered, and he gazed at Stan with crushed surprise. Stan didn’t care. He turned and walked back to the truck, throwing his 12-gauge and vest into the backseat.
The distance from the hunting land to his house never seemed so long. As he drove, the look on Ben’s face wrapped around his mind, the dumb expression grabbing hold so tightly, he couldn’t let it go.
The next Friday came and went without a phone call, as did the next and the next. Stan looked at his phone in anticipation of rings that never went through. Yet the distance from his own hand to the highlighted numbers seemed so far, and grew farther by the day.
Amy Boyles holds a BA in Creative Writing from DePauw University
