American Venery

So there Alison was, standing in front of the sliding plexiglass doors, blue shirt tucked neatly into designer jeans, surrounded by faux wood. George pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment.

She grabbed his waist and pulled the skin between her fingers. "Hey, how's my George?"

"A lot better now, Al, I'll tell you that."

He pulled her toward him for a kiss, but she squirmed loose and squeezed his ribs again. "Not yet. Not here. The car seats are getting hot."

They walked out of the airport and into the harsh afternoon light of Monroe. Inside her car, a tan convertible with black leatherette, he pressed his face against hers and felt her warm against his stomach, the seats hot against his back. "Jesus, Al, you can't imagine how much I've been missing you," he said.

She laughed. "Now I've got you where I want you."

He leaned his head against her shoulder as she drove, holding his hand on her stomach. He watched strip malls glide by, then the highway, cutting straight through empty farmland dotted with stationary tractors and rusting chunks of metal. As the green road signs passed overhead, CLAIBORNE, DOWNSVILLE, JUNCTION CITY, he felt like a foreigner in an imaginary America, more American than America itself. While the wind blew against their faces, Alison talked.

"So things here will take a little while for you to get used to," she said. "If my father reacts badly to you, don't be surprised. It's always difficult to tell what he's going to think."

"You've told me."

"It's amazing how different everything is this year. Last night was the first night when things felt normal at all. We went to Uncle Clyde's house. They were all there--you know Harold, Hayes, Charles, Anna. We ate and then went into the trees behind Clyde's house. We drank forties from Hayes's car and tried to hit squirrels with bottlecaps and Hayes's slingshot."

"Hit squirrels?"

"Yes."

"Did you get any?"

"No. It was like it used to be before college in a way. Charles isn't even in college yet, you know, so it's all the same to him. But it was different, because Hayes is going away next year, moving to Portland, and Harold is still living in New Orleans and drinking too much, and Anna's just unhappy--I think she's on pills. So when we drank I found myself worrying about Harold and already missing Hayes, and watching Anna every time she looked away, which was too often anyway." George nodded against Alison's blue cotton arm; she scratched his head with her hand and went on. "Everyone is moving away. The Grangersons, the Klines, the Hummels, their children are all gone or leaving, and the parents hardly ever walk out of their studies anymore. I didn't see any of them all month, then they were all at the party, with some of their kids, which was strange as Hell."

"The night of the dead and gone."

"What's that? Yes. It makes me feel bad, doing the same thing. You've got to hold onto what you can, you know?"

As she talked she pointed out places she had mentioned in the past: the roadside where Harold had been pulled over, drunk, by a police officer who was friends with his uncle; the lot where Jack had cherry-bombed the gas tank of an abandoned pickup truck. After a while George leaned back over his edge of the car and watched her while she spoke. He couldn't see her eyes through her tortoiseshell sunglasses, so he watched her body, which was just loose enough, barely held together by her clothing and her hands. At Princeton she had been his escape from the cold winter, but here, the landscape was constructed, in concentric circles, around her.

George's roommate at Princeton, Percy, used to say that in every beautiful woman there was a former beautiful woman waiting to emerge. After his worst breakups, Percy would say, "Just wait, George, wait 20 years and see where she is." Alison's mother, Janet Atherton, "Ma'am" to George, made him think of Percy's words and shudder. Janet must have been beautiful once--he could see shades of one-time faces hovering around the edges of her skin--but now her muscles had withered, everything had yellowed, and she had begun twitching in peculiar ways. She quit smoking after an emphysema scare two years earlier, but her tongue darted out, sometimes ten or 15 times each minute, wetting the bottom of her lip, where a cigarette might have been. She smelled like faded smoke, and her eyes were always thick with a watery film.

At dinner that night George became transfixed by Janet's tongue. She was sitting on his right, with Alison and her younger daughter, Eunice, across from him, and her husband, the Captain, on his left. She ate little and sat watching her plate, tongue darting in and out. The Captain leaned back in his chair, pulling in his thick chest and watching George's eyes, almost daring him to glance at the tongue. He smiled in a rich, full manner and asked George patronizing questions about his hometown.

"So, do you eat much lobster up there?"

"At certain times of the year we eat a fair amount of lobster, yes."

"I'm sorry, you'll have to speak slower, son."

"Yes, quite a bit of lobster."

"That's what I hear."

Janet's turkey was well-cooked, if tasteless, and much of the dinner was eaten in silence, apart from the chewing sounds and the muffled rustlings of the dog. After dessert was over, George asked about the dog, and the Captain said, still smiling, "The dog will be dying soon."

Eunice looked up from her plate. She looked prematurely old--older, certainly, than Alison. "Dad, you don't need to talk in that manner about Samson."

"I don't know what manner you're talking about, Eunice. I think what I said was entirely appropriate."

"You talk about Samson as if he was an old toaster, Dad, and I think that's wrong."

"The dog is fat and useless and has done nothing but sit under the table for years, darling."

"He spent the best years of his life hunting with you and now you make him forage his own food."

"We have a Scottish terrier at home," George said.

Alison touched George's wrist. "Dad doesn't like small dogs."

"Dad doesn't like anything alive," Eunice added.

Captain Atherton laid his napkin on the table. "This conversation is over," he said. He smiled and looked at George. "Eunice is very into literature, George," he said. "She gets ideas."

The family resumed eating in silence. Eunice looked at her father, then her mother, then took a plastic kangaroo off a shelf behind her. Silently, deliberately, she wound it up and placed it on the table. The winder spun and the kangaroo hopped, then hopped again, then hopped again, slowly moving across the table, toward Janet's half-empty glass of wine. Eunice watched the kangaroo, Alison and George watched Eunice, Captain Atherton looked at a picture of a boat on the wall to his right. The clock ticked audibly. Then the kangaroo ran, with a tink, into Janet's wine glass. The liquid shuddered, and the kangaroo sat, grring, its gears jammed, feet pulling vainly against the tablecloth. Eunice moved the glass of wine. Janet's tongue stopped darting. The kangaroo plunged forward, then halted, out of energy, inches from the table's edge.

"Well," George said, looking around and trying to catch Alison's eye, "my clock is off. I guess I'll be making my way to bed."

"We'll be up early in the morning for the hunting," the Captain said.

"Oh, yes, of course. I've been looking forward to some good, old-fashioned, American venery at dawn."

The Captain nodded. "The hunting, son, the hunting. The pleasure is mine."

The Captain and his future son-in-law were out the following morning at 4 am, sitting in the cab of a pickup truck on a dark road outside town. They had spoken little before the sun rose, eating cereal, orange juice, and peppered grits Janet had cooked the night before, warmed in the microwave. At some point before George rose, the Captain had laid out two pairs of waders, camouflage jackets, thick gloves, and two guns. The pickup truck was waiting, loaded with the ATV and a sizable cardboard box.

As the sun rose and the truck's motor reached an even hum, the Captain began to talk. He pointed out the sunrise and told George that if he listened he could hear the ducks rising in the early morning light. Soon he was talking about his daughter as well.

"So the marriage will be next spring, Alison informs me."

"That's what we're planning on."

"She said you proposed on top of some mountain in New Hampshire."

"That's correct, sir."

They drove in silence for a while. As they turned off the main road the Captain looked at George again. "You realize Alison is very important to me," he said.

George nodded. "Oh yes," he said, "I can see how you feel about your daughters."

The Captain shook his head. "No, Eunice is different. She is not going to be marrying any time soon. She's hardly ever left town. She reads all day--Jane Austen, George Eliot--good books, I read many of them when I was young as well, but it's not the same."

George nodded, and the Captain looked at him with searching eyes.

"Have you been with many women in your life, George?"

"Pardon me, sir?"

"Would you say you are, well, experienced with women?"

"I'm not sure if I understand your meaning."

"That's a bad sign."

"No, I mean, I think I have a decent idea."

"A decent idea."

"Yes."

The Captain leaned back in his seat and looked over the horizon. A lake was visible in the distant left and the horizon was black with flying ducks. Their squeals were growing ever louder as the light grew increasingly bright. George felt air gathering in the center of his chest. The Captain spoke again.

"I have three rules about women, George."

"All right, sir."

"First, if they want to play you, play them right back," he said. He looked at George meaningfully. "Play them right back."

"Yes, sir."

"Second, listen to your instincts. A woman cannot resist a man who listens to his instincts. Athertons trust their instincts."

"Okay."

"The last one is the most important," he said. "Have you ever heard the Latin phrase, carpe diem? It means 'seize the day.' Seize the day with the woman, son. It only comes once."

"All right."

"And if that means have an affair, then have an affair. God knows I lost Janet long ago."

George closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. The shrieking of the ducks was louder now, loud enough to vibrate in the window, an intense, contained quivering against the awkward shudders of the truck.

George and the Captain sat in the blind for an hour without a single duck landing within firing range. The decoys bobbed stupidly in front of them, and George draped his shoulders around the trunk of the tree the blind was constructed around. The Captain continued to stand, peering in the air, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally he spoke.

"I'm going to try something, son."

"Yes, sir."

"Sometimes you have to be patient, but I'm an old man and my patience is limited."

"Certainly."

"So I'm going to try something."

He waded into the water, through the decoys, and around the blind. George heard rustling where the ATV was parked, on a small outcropping of land. Then the Captain emerged, gingerly holding the cardboard box above the water. In italics across the sides, George could see the words, FATAL DE-DUCK-TION. The Captain dropped the box on the floor of the blind and stared at it.

"I will tell you, this item is in very high demand."

He opened the box and pulled out two pieces of black metal. He turned them around in his hand, then went out to the decoys, snapped them firmly together, and dug the pointed end deep into the ground underneath. Then he came back to the box, and pulled out a plastic duck, in landing position, wings outstretched. He waded back out to the pieces of metal and slid them into the duck's belly. Then he flipped a switch under its bill, and the wings started to rotate, making a low whirring noise. He returned to the blind.

"The ducks cannot resist this," he said. "The white wings reflect on the water and they all come down to join in. They cannot resist a landing duck."

George stared at the Fatal De-Duck-Tion, stuck in a perpetual moment of almost-landing, flapping relentlessly against its black metal pole. The Captain resumed his act of peering for ducks in the air.

A few moments later, he nudged George. "Get the widow-maker ready, son," he said, "two are on their way." George lifted his gun and watched the sky through the trees. Two brown-and-white ducks dived down and around, flirting with the possibility of landing, eyeing the plastic flapping bird. George cocked the rifle and shot. The birds froze and then began to fly higher. George shot again. One dropped to the ground and started writhing and squeaking against the water. The Captain waded out to it and grabbed it by the neck, then swung it round in his hands, six, seven, eight times.

He returned to the blind and laid the duck at George's feet. George turned back toward the dying bird and watched it twitching. The Captain laughed at his future son-in-law's squeamishness. Duck blood glowed dark red against his neck.

"Congratulations, son," he said. "You have just made your first fatal de-duck-tion."

By the time George and the Captain returned for lunch, Janet had laid out a full table of meats and cheeses and fruits, with a cooler full of ice and beer, on the patio. She was sitting beside her table waiting, Alison was watching movies in the basement, and Eunice was reading on the kitchen floor.

"We killed five ducks today," the Captain announced loudly as he walked in the front door and hung up his hat. He passed through the front hall and found Janet on the patio. George followed him and grabbed a seat in the middle of the table.

"And the new device was outstanding," the Captain said. He looked at George for support.

"Yes, it seemed to bring the ducks in fast."

Janet smiled, her tongue darting in and out. Alison hopped over the doorstep, followed by Eunice, and they began passing food around the table. The Captain heaped a plate full with pasta salad, red roast beef, braised duck, and cold corn. "This is absolutely outstanding, Janet, outstanding," he said under his breath as he piled his plate full. When they were all seated, he cleared his throat and spoke again.

"Yes, George and I had a very nice time today. We did some duck hunting, and I think he enjoyed it, didn't you, son?" George nodded vigorously, and the Captain continued. "Yes, but duck hunting wasn't the only thing we did." He grinned widely and looked around the table. "We also talked about other things. I explained a few rules to George. I'm not sure what George's father is like, but I get the sense that this young man could use some advice about women before tying the knot with Alison. I explained to him how I believe things should be." He drove his fork into his food.

Eunice spoke first. "Jesus Christ, Dad."

Janet put her knife down hard. "Eunice, do not speak like that to your father."

"Is one family not enough, Dad?" Eunice asked. "Do you need more?" The Captain shoveled a piece of roast beef into his mouth.

"Go to your room right now, Eunice," Janet said, staring at her hard. She pointed directly upward with her finger. "Your room. Now."

Alison looked up from her plate. "Eunice, you know better."

Eunice put her napkin down and went to the patio door. She snapped for Samson, but he only looked up from under the table and stared. After a brief pause and a glance around the table, she disappeared.

Janet began eating again. They finished the meal in silence.

After lunch, Janet and Eunice huddled over the dishes, and the Captain drank rye whiskey on the patio, looking out over the cotton fields. Alison and George walked behind the house to the spot where the pickup truck was parked after the morning hunt. Alison swung the back open and laid flat pieces of metal between the truck bed and the ground.

"Stand right there, George. When I push the ATV down, catch it and stop it rolling." George stood on the ground behind the truck, and she pushed. The small vehicle thudded over the metal and rammed against George's weakly extended hands and shins. It shuddered to a rapid halt.

Alison slammed the truck shut and hopped in the front of the ATV. "Grab on the back here, see, and put your feet here. Be careful and let me know if you're falling." In a moment, she was driving along the dirt road, over the bridge, past the old sharecroppers' cabins, into the cotton fields. George held onto the back, knuckles mottled white, knees awkwardly extended, eyes squinting hard against the wind. As Alison drove over the edges of the cotton-rows, the ATV rose and fell in a quick succession of jolts, and George felt his pelvis floating free and jerky in the air.

After a few minutes they hit a road, and Alison jammed the accelerator down. They passed a gas stop and a convenience store, then turned left through some trees and emerged in another field. Some men were leaning on a tractor on the side near the road, smoking cigarettes or joints, and talking. They smiled at Alison and gave cold eyes to George. The setting sun was yellow on their backs and made the sparse remains of the cotton glow hazy gray against the fields.

Alison drove until they reached a dip on the far edge of the field, against another row of trees. Then she parked the ATV and snapped it off, plunging them into a sudden late-afternoon silence. George dropped off the vehicle and sank into the crackling grass; she leaned back in the driver's chair. They could see the top of the cotton gin and its canisters of cotton wool, against the yellowing sky.

"Do you mind if I take off my shirt?" she asked.

George looked up. "No, I don't."

She pulled her shirt around and over her head; she was wearing nothing underneath. She leaned back against the ATV and thrust her body, orange and goose-pimpled, toward the sun.

He sighed. "That was a crazy day, Al."

"I guess."

"It made me worry about some things."

"I'm sure it did."

She rolled off the ATV and pressed her body against his side, gently kissing his cheek. "In two days, we'll be gone, George, up North, and all this will be past."

He pressed his face against her shoulder. "I know. But I don't understand your father, Al, I just don't get him. Something about his words, his actions, it scares me."

She arched her back and looked at George's face. "That happens to everybody. You just don't know him yet. You don't understand. My mother doesn't understand either. He's not what you think he is." George closed his eyes and felt her arms against his chest.

"You see the canisters over there?" She arched her back and nodded at them. "When I was little I used to sit on top of them and smoke with Harold and Anna and Hayes. One time, Hayes held his cigarette too far over the cylinder, and hot ashes dropped into the cotton wool. In a second it was all lit, burning horribly, and we all huddled, right around here, hiding under the ditch, waiting for my father to see what was happening. All that cotton, burnt, the cylinder charred and unusable. We thought he would be furious."

"And?"

"He ran to the canister and watched the cotton burn. Then he came over here, like he knew where we were hiding. 'Boys, girls, get out here,' he said. 'Alison, go tell your mother that a canister of cotton wool has burned.' Or something like that. Later, Mom asked me if we had done anything to light the canister on fire, and I said no. He looked at Mom and asked, 'How can you ask that of your daughter in good conscience?'"

Alison felt George shudder against the soft pressure of her hand. She kissed him again, rubbed his knee with her hand, and rolled on top of him, in her spectacular Southern nakedness. The sky glowed orange, like fire. "He only fails you if you don't earn his respect," she said. "And he respects you, I can tell."

George thought about the airport, Alison's mother, the ducks, the things that Percy used to say. Alison stroked his arm and rubbed her body against his.

"Everything will be fine," she said.

He looked away.