Rules of Protection(53)

Either Jake lost his mind or I was gullible. Probably the latter, but I still didn’t see anything. Jake grabbed the rifle and carefully stuck it out the window. He peered through the scope until he found what he was looking for and then held the gun steady for me. “Look through the scope. You’ll see him.”

Seconds later, I caught the movement of brown fur through the thick cover of greenery. A large buck with an impressive display of antlers stepped out from behind the bushes and into the open area beyond the feeder. Alert, he stopped and lifted his large head, turning it back and forth and twitching his ears as he listened for danger. His nostrils flared, taking in the surrounding scents, before he shook his head and went back to grazing.

I pulled my eye back from the scope and tried to give the gun back to Jake, but he shook his head. “He’s all yours.”

“Damn it, Jake. He’s not going to stand still and let me shoot three times before he runs,” I said in a low voice. “You do it.”

“Man up,” Jake whispered, grinning from ear to ear. “Isn’t that what you told me? Now it’s your turn.”

I don’t know why I always felt like I needed to prove something. “Fine, then. Move over,” I whispered back.

I aimed the rifle to the buck and watched him through the scope with a twinge of sorrow. He was divine. Completely unaware of how fragile his life was. How shaky the ground was that he walked on.

It was hard to fathom destroying a majestic creature. Only time I ever thought I’d shoot an animal was when I had a camera in my hands, which of course would be painless for the animal. And for me.

“Aim for the neck, just behind the jawbone, at the base of the ears,” Jake told me in a hushed voice. “It’ll break his neck bone and drop him where he stands.”

“Do I have to keep my eyes open?”

Jake gave me a stern look. “Couldn’t hurt.”

I steadied the rifle against my shoulder, aimed carefully, and let my finger linger over the trigger. When I glimpsed a movement in the nearby brush, I adjusted a little to the left.

A small nimble doe stepped out into the open and walked toward the buck. A fawn, still covered in spots, pranced up alongside her and the two of them joined the aloof buck in eating the corn.

Not only did I feel sorry for the deer, but I felt like a monster for what I was about to do. Maybe it was a biological response. Or maybe it was my conscience swooping in to complicate matters. Either way, I had a hard time tuning out the voices in my head.

“I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t pull the trigger.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll help you.” Jake put his finger over mine and I froze.

I peered at the three deer and watched the trusting, innocent fawn dance happily around its mother. My pulse quickened as I trained the rifle on the massive buck that was moments away from falling to the ground with nothing left to show for his life except a fresh, bloody wound.

Don’t think about it. Just do it.

But I couldn’t because my hands shook. I broke out in hives over my deep-seated guilt complex brought on by my own mortality and attachments to the people I had lost. My dad. My mom. My policeman. All severed from my life by one thoughtless act carried out by someone else. Now, I was that someone else.

Jake steadied the rifle and tightened his finger over mine. “Take a deep breath and let it out as you pull the trigger,” he whispered into my ear.

A wave of emotion swept over me as my chest involuntarily swelled with air. I held my breath, keeping it inside, knowing when I let it out Jake would coordinate it with one ruthless pull of the trigger.

It felt like senseless killing, but I couldn’t hold my breath any longer. Jake slowly squeezed my finger and the air from my lungs screamed past my lips. The crack of the rifle drowned me out as I felt the power under my hands and against my shoulder. Jake fell backward in shock but recovered in time to see what I was looking at. With a flash of their white tails, the three deer scattered into the forest.

“What happened? Why did you scream?” Jake asked, grabbing the rifle and looking out the window for signs of life. When I didn’t answer him, he grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward him. “Emily…?”

I didn’t want him to know I couldn’t do it. If I could concoct a reason for why I screamed, then maybe…he wouldn’t have to know. But the tears came. Big traitor tears trailed down my traumatized face, tattling on me for my weakness. I was a wreck.

Jake knew why. “You gotta be shittin’ me. Jesus Christ. You’re such a girl.” He slammed his hand against the plywood wall as he opened the door and jumped out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

I watched from the window as he threw a dead branch and kicked into the air, blowing off steam. It was an inappropriately handled and irrational display of male arrogance, but I had predicted this reaction.

Jake was a man’s man, one accustomed to being the master of his domain. He wanted control—to be the one in the driver’s seat—but I pulled relentlessly at his wheel. Even while he patiently colored inside the lines, I consistently scribbled outside them. He needed rules to keep his life balanced, but my reckless, unpredictable behavior constantly tipped the scales.

When the door opened, I wiped at my runny nose and tried to stop the sniffling, but a dry heave shivered across my shoulders. Jake kneeled beside me, but I couldn’t look at him.