LaRose(101)

As Peter stares through Romeo his face goes fragile. Peter’s skin crinkles and lines form, flushed brown as old parchment, and he is suddenly very, very old. Romeo takes another step back from this amazing special effect. Then Peter’s daughter calls.

Daddy! It’s our turn.

Peter closes his mouth. His eyes focus. He walks past Romeo and goes to stand before the photographer.

At the end of his driveway, Peter. Motionless, balanced, hands dangling at his sides. He does not wave at or even see the few cars that pass, the ones that are not Landreaux. Behind him, the pickup, his hunting rifle in the gun rack across the back window. He’s wearing blue jeans, a shirt, his old red and black checked jacket. Head buzzing. Hollow roar of blood in his ears. Had he remembered to relock the gun case? He’d grabbed the gun so quickly. Yes he had, yes. He asks himself this question every three minutes. Part of him already knew what Romeo would say and had been waiting for this. It didn’t feel like news. It felt like corroboration. Every noise is magnified. The dog shuffling in the undergrowth. He watches the birch and popple trees. The leaves shiver with light. He cannot remember his son’s voice. He cannot call a happy image to his mind that is not a photograph. But he can see his son in the leaves, and where before Dusty was at peace, gone instantly in one shock, now his eyes are open, he is calling. He is afraid. Peter bangs the side of his head, trying for another image. The good times. Not a photograph. The real times. Why had he not memorized the moments?

This moment, anyway, he has stone cold.

He lifts his arm, waves Landreaux down. Does not move. It is apparent to Landreaux that Peter has something to say so he pulls over and gets out, worried.

What is it?

Peter turns, opens the passenger-side door of the pickup.

Get in, he says.

Landreaux does.

Peter slides into the driver’s side, starts the vehicle, pulls out.

Where are we going?

Hunting.

It isn’t hunting season, says Landreaux.

Yes it is, says Peter.

On their way to federal land, Peter tells Landreaux all that Romeo told him in the Alco parking lot. Landreaux does not argue with the narrative because in the sudden crush of images, he doesn’t know, can’t remember. Was he high that day? No. He doesn’t think so. No. He knows he wasn’t. No. But does that even matter? He is guilty whichever way. He took the shot. And if he could have saved the boy . . . Landreaux puts his splayed fingers on his face, as if to push pieces of himself back together. They drive in silence. Peter’s skin is gray as rock. But his hands are loose and warm on the steering wheel. Forty minutes pass in seconds.

The pickup lurches down an old logging road and comes out on a ridge, an opening in dense second-growth woods. Together, many years ago, they had hunted in this place. There was an old clear-cut full of browse, and one time Landreaux had perched in a tree stand on the southern end, waiting, as Peter beat down toward him from the north. They had taken a fine buck.

Now they get out of the truck and Peter reaches back in for the rifle.

I’ll find that stand down there, says Peter, gesturing toward the southern limit. He nods to the north, calmly meeting Landreaux’s eyes. You walk down from that hill toward me. I’ll be waiting.

Landreaux turns toward the hill. A giddy ease steals into him. That all of this will soon be over. Peter is a good shot. It will be like vanishing. No more hiding his miserable truth. No struggle with the substance or not the substance. No waiting for Emmaline to love him again. Although the kids . . . set them free? He doesn’t think he can exist, anyway, seeing forever what he now sees and knows about that day. His thoughts loop. Yes. Peter’s got sights on his rifle. Landreaux won’t even hear the shot. To die will be nothing. It seems like a favor, almost. Landreaux takes his time. He sleepwalks peacefully up the hill. When he gets halfway up, he tells himself to turn and walk down. It is here that he has some trouble.

The unwelcome desire to live nearly thwarts Landreaux as he gazes down into the woods where Peter is waiting. He sees the birch, the crisp film of new green. The trees quiver with light. His grandfather had tapped birch trees in spring, and they drank the cold sap, which tasted of life. The bark, the inner layer; he had eaten it when he was hungry and his parents were out drinking. Close by, he sees that dark stands of bur oak could hide him. Peter’s shot would never penetrate that wood. The frogs start singing again down that hill—telling him to run. But he does not run. Blood drains from his heart. His arms and legs go transparent. He glances down to see if he is shot yet. He is both keenly downcast and relieved to see there is no blood. Thoughts tell Landreaux he can still get away. He is out of range. He can run. Why, then, does he drop his head forward and walk back down the hill?

He is stubborn, and he is angry, and he will not give Peter the satisfaction. With a composure that surprises him, Landreaux orders his shaking legs to move, and they do move. As long as he points his head down the hill, it turns out that the rest of him will follow. He keeps his eyes on the ground. Shy trillium and garlic mustard, swamp tea, snowberry, wintergreen, wild strawberries. Landreaux stoops, picks a few of the berries, puts them in his mouth. The taste is so intense that he nearly drops, right there, to crawl into the downed trees, rough brush. But he doesn’t. Step after step. Fear fizzes in his blood. He mutters, Kill me, you f*ck, kill me now—trying to keep the anger. He tries a death song like old people talk about, but his throat shuts. Kill me, you f*ck, kill me now, take the shot, take the shot, take it now. But one step follows another. Sometimes he stumbles, but he picks himself up and keeps going.