This is an emergency-only option. I don’t want that kind of investigation into my identity. It wouldn’t hold up. But I still enjoy thinking about it. The shock on Steven’s face as he realizes I’ve shot him. The fear and pain. I’d sit next to him and tell him the whole truth as he died. I’d make him apologize for Meg. I’d make him regret everything.
And then my hysteria as I race to a road and try to flag down a passerby! A kindly old sheriff would arrive and I’d offer a sobbing, stuttering confession. He’d likely believe it immediately because I’m a woman, and women are so dumb about guns and hunting and common sense. He has a granddaughter just like me, God bless her. Steven probably deserved it for handing his gun over to an idiot female, anyway. He was thinking with his dick instead of his brain.
It’d make a good TV episode.
Steven rounds the corner of the general store with a paper bag full of goodies and I wave happily.
“Did you get ice cream?” I ask once he’s behind the wheel again.
“They didn’t have any.”
What a liar. “Thanks for bringing me with you. I’m so excited.”
“You’ve said that about a million times.”
“Because I’m excited, silly.”
“I know, babe.” He pats my thigh.
“Tonight’s going to be so nice.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I brought a little nightie I thought you might like.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s a surprise.”
He shoots me a hot look as he turns off the county road onto a dirt lane. “Is it black?”
“Yes.”
“Short?”
“Yes.”
“Mm. So you’re going to dress up like a little whore for me?”
“Stop!” I smack him in the shoulder.
“You know I like it. As long as it’s just for me.”
“It is.”
“You can model it. Show me how sexy you are. I’ll take a few pictures.”
“That is not going to happen!”
“We’ll see what you say after a bottle of champagne.”
“You brought champagne?” I squeal and clap my hands.
“First time bringing champagne on a hunting trip, that’s for sure.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“It’ll be a great weekend, baby.”
Yes, it definitely will.
The rest of the drive takes fifteen minutes, though I don’t think we move more than two miles. The dirt road is deeply pitted and we bounce in and out of potholes until we finally turn off onto an even narrower path. The evergreens above us form a tunnel, and it occurs to me that Steven is moving through the large intestine of life now, heading right for the inglorious end.
Good. It’s exactly what a shit like him deserves. I don’t want to risk the life I’ve built for myself, but I’ll stay strong for Meg. It’s all she asked of me.
The cabin finally appears, and it’s an anticlimactic sight. Just one room, I think, dwarfed by the giant trees that loom over the tiny wooden structure. It looks like the perfect place to make a man disappear.
“You’ll need to wipe down the kitchen when we get inside. It’s just one counter. There’s a pump for water.”
“Is that an outhouse?”
“Yeah, this isn’t glamping,” he says, sounding happy with my shock. “You said you wanted to go hunting.”
“I did. I do.”
“This is what it’s like.”
“It’s great!” I lie, and he laughs. He wants me to hate it so he can tell me how soft I am. How inferior. He wants me to mince around in my high-heeled boots and scream over every spider I see. But I’m the spider here. And I’ve never minced.
Steven digs a key from under one of the stumps that circle a fire pit. The air smells like earth, as if there’s no divide between land and sky. The whole place is a grave full of dead and dying plants and animals.
Here it doesn’t matter if I have a soul or not. This dirt would absorb my flesh as easily as anyone else’s. We’re all portions for foxes, as the old Bible saying goes. Death rots all the soft parts of people away, and corpses don’t have souls. In a hundred years no one will remember any of us or be able to tell our bones apart. I like that.
It seems the forest makes me morbid.
Steven unlocks the door and lets me step inside first, probably hoping I’ll find it creepy. The windows are all shuttered and I hear a skittering sound in a corner.
There are two couches near a stone fireplace and two full-size beds against the other wall. This must be some cozy bro time when they come here in big packs.
“I’ll bring in the bags,” Steven says.
As instructed, I head for the wooden countertop that makes up the kitchen. There are some shelves above it and a metal sink with a drain. In place of the faucet, there’s a pump. Under the sink, hidden behind a recycled calico curtain, I find cleaning spray and paper towels.
I wipe down the countertop and even the shelves above it.
“Thanks, babe,” he says as he delivers a bag of groceries, and I glow with pride. “Here’s the cooler.” He slides it under the counter. “There’s a block of ice in there, so it should stay cold all weekend. I’ll keep the beer outside, since it’s only supposed to get to forty-eight today. That should be cold enough.”
I put the eggs, bacon, and hot dogs in the cooler along with the champagne. There are already condiments and snacks inside. Steven pops open a beer. “Once you finish unpacking, I’ll teach you about the rifle.”
If he gets drunk enough, maybe he’ll just shoot himself. A girl can dream.
As I get the rest of the supplies unpacked, Steven starts a fire in the fireplace. I’m hoping the space will warm up quickly. I don’t relish parading around in my see-through nightie in this freezing room.
He tells me to put on some real boots and meet him outside. I add another log to the fire as soon as he leaves, then switch out my cute boots for my used boots and tug on my big jacket and knit cap.
I bounce out the door, excited and a little scared about shooting my first gun.
Another lie, of course. I grew up in rural Oklahoma. My family weren’t hunters, but there sure were a lot of varmints to shoot on the back side of our trailer. I’ve killed plenty of prairie dogs and field rats in my life. I’m not a dead shot, but I’m good enough. Deer offer a much larger target. So will Steven.
This is the beginning of the end for him, and as I take the rifle from his hand, I marvel that he’s simply handing it over to me.
Steven gives me a bare-bones safety lecture, showing me how to unload the semiautomatic rifle and make sure the chamber is empty. Always treat it as if it’s loaded. Never point it at others. Blah, blah, blah.
He demonstrates how to load a magazine, then takes aim at some old cans already pockmarked from bullets and set on top of a boulder. His form isn’t bad, but his first shot misses.
I jump at the loud report, then clap my hands over my ears and scream.
“Come on, now. You’re throwing me off.”
“It’s so loud!”
“It’s a gun, Jane. It’s going to make a loud noise.”
It’s going to make a big hole in your gut too, I think, but I mutter an apology and keep my hands over my ears for the second shot.
This time one of the cans goes flying and he grins, then fires again and again. Once all the cans are gone, he walks out and resets them on the boulder. “That’s how you do it.”
“Can I try now?”
He scoffs at my request but hands over the rifle. When I turn toward the cans, the barrel grazes right by him. For a moment he’s in my sights.
“Hey! Don’t point it at me! That’s the first damn rule! How fucking stupid are you?”
“I’m sorry!”
“Jesus Christ. Is your finger on the trigger?”
Yes, it definitely is. “Oh, I’m really sorry, sweetie. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Well, use that worthless brain for once.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“Mean? You just almost shot me! Don’t you think that was a little fucking mean? I’ve only told you three goddamn things about shooting, and you can’t even get those right!”
I raise my voice to a higher pitch, making my words tremble with panic. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean it!” I can’t shoot him here at the cabin, but the next time he turns his back, I’ll point it right at him just for fun.
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. All right. Don’t do it again. And there’s no crying on hunting trips, okay?”
I sniff and nod. “Okay. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad. But pay attention. This isn’t one of your ridiculous books. This is real life with real consequences.”