AFTERMATH

It was the weekend, and the two bear cubs had gone to Memphis Zoo the previous Wednesday, crated up and bellowing miserably.

Jeb was moping around the farm, missing them, even though he’d only known them for a few days, but then he was crazy about critters, even varmints like those, who’d probably have put him on their menu when they grew older. As his big brother, it was up to me to help lift him out of his gloom, but as an eleven year old, I wasn’t too sure how to go about it. It hadn’t helped that on Thursday evening, he was halfway through one of Maw’s excellent stews, when he stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. Staring at the lump of meat impaled on it, he said in a hoarse voice, “It’s her, ain’t it?”

Stricken, Maw looked across at Paw for guidance, but he’d been at his jug of moonshine, and was oblivious to the sudden tension.

“Well, Jeb honey…” she began, but he threw down his fork and ran from the kitchen. The door slammed behind him, and I knew he’d be heading for our hiding place under the house.

“What’s wrong with him? He feeling sick?” asked Paw. “He’s missing a good stew. Honey, this is real nice meat. This that bear?”

“Maw,“ I said. “Why didn’t you tell him it was that raccoon I shot yesterday? He’d have been fine with that.”

“But Jake, he has to learn to deal with things like that. On a farm, you don’t have the luxury of choosing not to eat what you kill. If Paw killed one of the hens, we couldn’t go soft and bury it instead of eating it. And what would happen to Mr Tyler if he decided not to eat a pig after he killed it? That’s life, and we have to go along with it. And deep down, Jeb knows that, you know he does.”

“I know Maw. He just needs some time, that’s all. OK if I take him some of this cornbread? He’ll be hungry.”

Maw looked very tired as she nodded her head, and I hugged her and told her that Jeb would be fine, just give him a little time. She smiled and told me I was a good boy, and that she was real proud of me. That’s when I got to feeling uncomfortable with the mushy stuff, and I wriggled loose and made my escape, cornbread in hand.

“Hey, where you goin’ with that? Ain’t you got enough to eat around here?” demanded Paw, but I left him for Maw to deal with.

I found Jeb right where I knew he’d be, and passed the cornbread over to him. “Come on Jeb, you know it has to be that way. It’s not like we’re eating one of the cubs.”

He didn’t answer, but passed a hunk of cornbread over to Homer, his pet skunk, who was snuggling in beside Jeb as if he knew something was wrong. He daintily grasped it with his long clawed paws, and started to nibble on it.

“Hey, remember when Aunt Minnie thought that strange skunk was Homer, and he sprayed Miss Taylor?” No response.

“Do you reckon she ever got that smell out of her clothes?” Still nothing. “Did I tell you, Frankie Doohan got detention for calling her Stinky Taylor, and she overheard him?”

“It just seems so hard hearted to be eating their Maw.”

“Yeah, I know, but it would be worse to let her go to waste. Tell you what, why don’t we go down to the creek and see if we can teach Homer to swim.”

“All skunks can swim,” he volunteered. “They’re like cats, they just don’t like to if they can avoid it.”

“Well, maybe we can teach him to enjoy it. I’ll take him across to the other side and you call for him, and he’ll swim across to you. He could like it if we make it into a game for him.”

“No. What if he doesn’t?”

“Well, let’s go tease old Charlie,” I said, referring to the giant catfish that haunted our swimming hole.

“Jake, just leave me alone, will you? I know you’re trying to be nice, but I don’t feel like doing anything. Not yet anyway.”

Defeated, I turned and crawled out from under the house, leaving Jeb and Homer to sulk in peace.

Now it was Saturday and Jeb still hadn’t come out of his shell. He went to school and did his chores around the farm, but there was no enthusiasm in his activities, and when he spoke it was in monosyllables.

While we were cleaning out the henhouse, I offered to take Jeb out hunting that afternoon.

“Don’t feel like shooting no jackrabbits,” he mumbled.

“Well, let’s go looking for something more interesting,” I suggested. “You enjoy eating Maw’s venison pies, so let’s go find us a deer. I ain’t managed to shoot one of them yet.” Back then, in our corner of Mississippi, nobody had heard of hunting season. If it moved and tasted good, it was a target. “Think of how it will feel when we have to get Sam and the wagon to bring it home.”

“Why do we have to shoot everything?” he asked. “Oh, all right. I’ll come along, but only ‘cos I don’t think you can get one.”

We finished cleaning the coop and I ran to tell Maw we were going out with the shotgun looking for deer.

“OK, but don’t fire off both barrels at once again, or you’ll get another bruise on your behind when you fall flat on it. Then your Paw will give you another for good luck for wasting ammo,” she warned. “Which direction you headed?”

“I thought we’d go across the river to the thick woods up by the old cotton plantation. Billy Joe said his Paw saw plenty of deer track up there last week.”

“Be back before it gets dark,” she ordered.

Grabbing the shotgun, we took off across the creek that went by the name of Pollen River. Upstream from our swimming hole it was shallow enough to cross without getting the gun wet, and I told Jeb it would be easy to get the wagon across here to pick up our kill.

After half an hour’s slog we reached the edge of the woods, and making sure we kept upwind, we crept into the shade of the trees, making barely a sound. Finding a thick clump of bush, we dropped into cover behind it and waited for something to happen. Jeb quickly got bored with not being able to move around, and was soon snoring. I nudged him with my foot to make him turn over, and the snoring stopped. I was feeling drowsy myself in the heat, but I was determined to stay awake.

I could tell by the position of the sun peeking through the branches overhead that the afternoon was half gone before I saw a swift movement. I reached my hand down and covered Jeb’s mouth so he wouldn’t say anything when he awoke. Cautiously I raised my shotgun and got the deer in my sights. It was a female, and she looked as if she’d be a tad taller than I was. Her dappled colouring blended in well with the undergrowth, and if she hadn’t moved, I’d never have spotted her.

Suddenly, before I had the chance at a shot, I heard the blast of a shotgun, and the deer stood stock still for an instant, then fell heavily to the ground. There followed an excited whoop, and then I heard Billy Joe’s voice yelling, “You got her, Paw.”

Slowly I stood up and called out, “Don’t shoot, it’s me,” then I walked over to the shot deer. I could see straight away that it hadn’t been a clean hit and that she wasn’t dead, and knelt there awestruck as I watched a tear trickle from her eye, and roll down her face. “She’s crying,” I whispered in a kind of daze.

“Let me finish her off, boy, it’s kinder than letting her suffer,” said Billy Joe’s Paw Jerry Lee Browne, gruffly. I nodded and stood shakily, and moved back. I backed into Jeb, who I suddenly realised was looking away from the deer.

“He has to do it Jeb,” I said.

“Yes, I know, but look over there.”

I followed his finger and saw a smaller version of the dying deer just barely visible in a gap between the trees. “It’s her baby,” Jeb said in a hushed voice.

Just then a second shot sounded as Jerry Lee finished off the deer. The baby deer jumped. I swear all four of its hooves left the ground, and it came down running. In its panic, it didn’t watch where it was going, and ran full tilt into my knees. As quick as it was, Jeb was quicker. He had his arms wrapped around its neck before it had chance to realise what it had done.

“You’re not going to kill it,” he yelled across at Billy Joe and his Paw. “You’ll have to shoot me first.”

Jerry Lee Browne looked startled, then grinned. “Don’t reckon I’d dare shoot something as ferocious as you, Jeb. ‘Sides, your Paw would take after me with his shotgun if I did. Don’t want to shoot such a tiny deer neither. Won’t be much eating on it. You can keep it.”

“We ain’t about to eat this,” Jeb yelled indignantly. “He’s mine. I’m going to look after him.”

“Then your Paw will shoot him,” scoffed Jerry Lee. “He’ll eat all your corn, and he’ll have your vegetable garden for afters. Then he’ll get started on your fruit trees, and he’ll end up as a venison pie.”

“He won’t,” denied Jeb. “I can teach him not to eat what he ain’t been given.”

“You’re such a feisty kid, I don’t doubt it,” Jerry Lee conceded. “You planning to put him in the county fair next year?”

“Might.”

Mr Browne stooped, and with a quick heave swung the deer carcass on his shoulders and turned to leave. Just before he disappeared into the trees opposite, he called over his shoulder, “Good luck with talking your Paw into letting you keep it.” Billy Joe picked up his Paw’s shotgun and followed him with a parting wave to Jeb and I.

I looked down at Jeb’s fair head bent over the fawn, as he sang a gentle song to calm and soothe it, and I could feel the knots in my stomach easing for the first time since Thursday evening. Jeb was back to his normal self again, and all was well with the world.

I thought about what Maw would say when she saw that the deer that we’d gone out to get was still alive, and probably hungry for fresh corn and turnip greens. That was something I’d rather not think about for long. I just hoped she hadn’t planned on making venison pie for supper tonight.