Jane Doe(58)

“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.”