Be Not Far from Me(30)

She came out with me three more times, until I’d spotted the deer I wanted. I don’t trophy hunt; we can’t afford to taxidermy anything, so I kill for meat and not antlers. I found a doe I liked and let her know which one it would be. Kavita didn’t come with me the next time, and I get that.

Watching things die isn’t easy.

Neither is killing them.

I don’t have days to wait and watch and plan. I told myself I was putting some distance between me and the camper in the morning, and I will. But there’s got to be something more in my stomach than plants if I’m going to have the strength to do it. I don’t know these woods, or the paths these animals take. I can’t go to them, so instead I’ve got to bring them to me.

I’ve only got one thing to lure them with, and that’s my own rotting foot.

I find a good clearing not too far from the camper just as the sun was going down, a chill rising in the air. I toss the bit of foot out of my bag and settle in nearby, hoping it’s something small that comes. Something I can clobber with my walking stick.

It’s a possum that shows up, of course, its long snakelike tail switching back and forth as it scents the air. I got lucky, and it came into the clearing from upwind, the smell of the lure way stronger than anything I’m giving off. It settles in, snacking on my toes like it’s a bag of chips, and while I’m thrilled my plan is working I didn’t prep myself for watching something eat my foot.

I’m all right when it takes an experimental bite. I even hang in there when it pulls off a shred of my skin. It’s the snap of my bone cracking underneath its teeth that sends me across the clearing, walking stick in hand, ready to bash its brains in. I move as fast as I can, swinging wide as soon as the possum is in reach. I get it in the side and it goes sprawling, spitting out one of my toes and a surprised bark along with it.

I’m screwed because I missed what I was aiming for—the head. It’s not stunned, and it’s going to bolt, the caterwaul it just made scaring off anything else that might have been coming to investigate. Everything’s lost, and I just fed my foot to a wild animal for no good reason because it got what it came for and now it’s going to make a run for it. But it doesn’t. Instead, the possum gets up and rounds on me, back up, showing its teeth.

That’s when I spot the babies.

They’re lined up at the edge of the clearing, waiting for the momma’s permission to come in and have some of what she found. Then I showed up and whacked her a good one, and she’s going to fight me rather than run and leave her babies behind.

It’s so goddamn sad I can’t take it.

But I also can’t die out here, so I’m crying when I take the next swing, right on the side of her skull. The momma goes flying, still spitting and doing her best to keep my attention on her and leave her babies alone. She gets back up, coming at me with what she’s got left, and I cave in her head with a last thump that should send her babies running but they don’t.

They stand there, looking at me.

I just killed their momma right in front of them, and they’re so young they don’t even know to run from me. I’m the scariest thing they’ll ever see in their life, a wild woman with their momma’s blood spattered on her face, and all they can do is stare at me, shocked.

But there’s another part of me that knows they’re an easy kill, and fresh meat.

“Get out of here,” I scream before I change my mind. I drop my stick and charge, so that they scatter, their tails the last thing I see as they disappear into the night. I taught them that there’s nothing worse than humans. And while I learned it young myself, I didn’t ever want to have to be the one bearing the message.

I grab my kill and, after a second of thought, pick up what’s left of my foot and stick it in the bag. I can’t give a good reason other than I keep thinking about the deer skull I found by the trail on the way in, flesh long since rotted into the ground underneath. I love the woods, more than a roof over my head.

But damn if it can have me, even a little bit.

I tear some tin off the side of the camper, careful not to slice a finger off in the process. My fire starts easy, another burn hole added to my fireboard. I strike off a piece of flint with a good edge and skin the possum, taking away every last thing that will cook up. The meat sizzles on the tin as it warms next to the fire, and in all my life I have never smelled anything so wonderful.

I have meat, and it helps with the guilt. Taking down a deer was never easy for me, but knowing that it would get us through the winter without having to pay for grocery meat was what made my finger pull the trigger. The methodical business of butchering takes concentration, and busy hands don’t allow for an idle mind. I don’t think of the motherless babies in the woods when I take my first bite of real food in a week. All I think is how damn good it is to eat again.

I take it slow, letting the pain pass in my stomach and the business of digestion begin before I eat a second strip of meat, my foot resting on the steps of the camper. The sun is edging into the sky by the time I’ve cooked up everything and sealed it all away in Baggies, making a tiny hole above the sealing line with the tip of my flint and stringing yarn through them.

It’s time to go, and I’m ready.

I’ve scoured around the trailer looking for any sign, a hint of a trail they use to come and go, but there’s nothing. A smart person would come a different way every time, letting new growth fill in what they trampled. A really smart person would leave by a different route, too, and I seem to have crossed paths with the smartest drug dealer in the county, as luck would have it. I think of Uncle Chuck, beaten unconscious beside his burned-out trailer, a harsh warning to leave off what he was doing.