He was a woodsy sort of fellow. Tall, strong, and quiet. Everyone in town saw him as rough around the edges, rugged at best. They joked that he was more into shooting things than thinking. He would wake up every morning with the sun. Make the blackest coffee this side of the mountain. He would drink it on the porch, rain or shine. He would drink it slowly, deliberately. Letting the bitterness settle on the back of his throat as the caffeine crept through his veins.
He didn’t trust many people, wasn’t quick to open up, because there were some things people wouldn’t understand. Even the woman who had known him since they were both knee high hadn’t known everything. She had been there for him when his mother took the car for groceries and never came back. She held his hand when his father died of heartbreak. She was with him when the car washed up on the bank of the river. She defended him when the townspeople whispered about his mother, words like crazy, strange, and suicide. Despite their house being full up, two sisters in each of the small bedrooms and parents in the large one, her family took him in. They moved him into the attic, and gave him a permanent seat at the dinner table, a seat he filled every Sunday.
Her parents were kind to him, treated him like kin. They were an honest couple, hellbent on raising honest kids. Her daddy joked that he was happy to finally have another man in the house. Her momma said he wasn’t a man yet, he was still a child, but promised they would take care of him until he was grown. Her sisters were standoffish at first, didn’t like the idea of a boy in the house. Not her, she was happy to have him around. He taught her to shoot small game, using the exact words his father had used whenever they ventured into the woods together, telling her to keep her finger off the trigger until she was ready to shoot. He taught her which berries were safe to eat, even when she insisted that she’d never go into the woods without him because she was scared of bears. They would work on his father’s old truck until the early morning hours, he used the tools while she held the flashlight. They would’ve stayed out there all night if her daddy hadn’t reminded them that they had to go to school the next morning, no matter how tired they were. She taught him how to sew and how to knit. He liked working with a needle and thread, felt it was soothing. He never did finish anything, but on his fifteenth birthday she presented him with a hunting cap made from the scraps he had created. She was everything he wasn’t, witty, charming, intelligent. She was his balance, his other half, and he loved her.
There was never anything more than friendship between them though, unless you count that moment at the lake the summer after they graduated high school. Her momma and daddy took them shopping two towns over, told them as a graduation present they could each pick out one thing from the bargain bin. His hands glided through the soft fabrics. He could hear her argue with her parents about whether or not the bathing suit she picked was one item or two. His fingers trailed over silk and satin. It was all women’s clothing, nothing acceptable for a young man. His choice had been clear when he saw the disappointed look on her face. She had lost the argument and settled for only the bikini top so he picked the bottom half of the swimsuit as his one item. Her parents were so proud of him in that moment. Through teary eyes they both wished his father and momma could’ve been there to see the young man he had become.
When he saw her in that bathing suit, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. They were swimming in the lake, splashing about without a care in the world. He thought she looked beautiful. He wondered what the bathing suit must feel like against her skin. She caught him staring at her. She thought in that moment he was handsome. He was unpolished, but handsome enough, so she closed the distance between them and planted a kiss on his lips. Startled by the contact, he recoiled. Her eyes widened, and she apologized. Warm air swirled between them. He looked into the water, his mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but there were no words. She said he shouldn’t think about it too much because he’d always been and would always be like a brother to her.
He’d never had any long-term relationships. There had been sex, but not much of that either. There was a girl in high school, a cheerleader, who would get drunk and put the moves on him in his truck. He shivered when he remembered their first time. He was at a barn party with his classmates. The girl had been fighting with her boyfriend and needed a ride home. He offered her one. He promised that he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, which was true. He wasn’t a liar. She looked up at him, her eyes grew dark, her lips parted slightly, and she accepted his offer with a nod of her head. Her intentions were obvious to everyone but him. Sometimes he would close his eyes and let the memory of that night dance across his eyelids. The girl’s pleated skirt riding up as she crawled over the center console of his truck. The sound of the horn honking as her ass hit the steering wheel, over and over, the rhythm creating a naughty refrain for the wilderness. He tried to put an end to their encounters, said he felt like he was taking advantage, and each time she’d giggle and slide onto his lap. This went on for months, until she grew bored and moved on.
According to the town gossip, he would’ve made a fine husband. Growing up surrounded by women had made him patient and respectful. He learned to listen and to be kind. They had taught him how to cook and how to get grass stains out of denim. They had taught him the difference between a house and a home. At 19 he moved back into his childhood cabin deep in the woods. He felt comfortable there, in the stillness, isolated in nature. He kept the cabin beautifully decorated and spotlessly clean. Anyone who walked through the door would have been enveloped by the warmth and scent of Loblolly Pine, which he always burned in the fireplace. They would’ve heard the sounds of Pachelbel’s ‘Canon in D Major’ oozing from a record player set atop a bookshelf he had made himself. They would’ve seen hundreds of books about history, chemistry, animals. They would have never seen dishes in the sink or stray items of clothing on the floor. But he was the only one who enjoyed the home he lived in. This was how he preferred it.
There was a reason he didn’t let anyone get close, and though he missed his parents every day they weren’t the reason he secluded himself. He wasn’t afraid of creating then losing a family, like the townspeople prattled on about. It was something else, something he never quite knew how to tell anyone. That day by the lake when she kissed him, he almost told her, though at that point it was barely a seed planted in his head. If he couldn’t tell her, his best friend, how could he tell anyone else? When would he bring it up? The first date? The third date? Before they’d fallen in love? Almost positively ruining any chance of love blossoming. After they’d fallen in love? When it would feel more like a betrayal. How would he bring it up? Casually, over appetizers? Nervously, over drinks? It took him a long time to be comfortable enough with it himself, he didn’t have the energy, or the words, to explain it, or defend it, to anyone else. He knew some people would be offended, and most people wouldn’t understand, not in this backwoods town, not now, not ever. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, so he kept his private life to himself.
His days were simple. During the week, he’d go to work wherever help was needed. He was a freelance tradesman. He often worked for the sawmill, helped a few local farmers, and assisted with animals at the veterinarian’s office one town over. You have a way with animals, the vet would say, they just love you. Like his morning routine, his evenings were all the same. He would come home from work at 6:30. He would remove his shoes in the foyer. He would be covered in dirt, or sawdust, or remnants of whatever job he had completed that day. He would turn on the shower, cold water first, then hot. He would stand under the water, completely still, and take five deep breaths. He would wash his hands, then hair, then face and body. He would use a pumice stone on his feet, which kept them soft and smooth. He would step out of the shower and dry himself off. Then he’d get dressed for dinner.
Every Tuesday evening the phone would ring as he put a chicken or rabbit or quail in the oven. She would already be talking when the phone hit his ear. Warm air swirled around him as he listened to her voice. She’d chatter on about the sordid comings and goings of the locals. The townies, the rubes, she’d call them. He’d laugh and say that she was too sophisticated for him now that she was a college graduate. She’d jokingly agree and continue her story. He could picture her dangling her legs into the lake, one hand holding the phone to her ear, one hand gesturing wildly.
She was the one who knew him the best. But what she never knew was that Tuesday was the day he wore the blue dress, the tan wedges, and the pearl necklace that had belonged to his grandmother. His momma’s momma, whom he’d never met. She had died three days before he was born. His momma used to say that he had her spirit. All grit and gumption. He held the phone to his ear with his right hand and his left hand absentmindedly played wth the pearls. His cheeks tugged his mouth upward into a contented smile.
Before the weekly conversation ended, she would always invite him to come have a beer at the tavern, and he would always decline, preferring to lounge around in the soft fabric of the dress over venturing into town bothered by the rigidity of unrelenting denim. Occasionally he would invite her over, knowing she would say no. She hated the woods, was still scared of bears, her fear larger now after all that time in the big city. He would joke with her about how bears hate nagging, so she’d be safe. She would tell him it wasn’t funny. He rarely saw bears, but he never mentioned that. Let her have her fears, her fears kept his fears at bay.
Every Sunday morning, while the entire town was crammed into its only church, he would wake early. He would grab his 20-gauge shotgun, step onto his front porch, take in the silence for a moment, then tromp deeper into the woods. He hunted for food, never for sport. He would always kill something, and whatever it was, he would take it to family dinner. She’d answer the door and invite him in. He would hand the small game over to her momma, while one of her sisters would ask how he could play with those dogs during the week, then shoot innocent animals on the weekends. He would joke that he wanted to eat them before they ate him. The sister would grimace while the rest of the family offered him subtle smiles. Sunday dinner was a weekly reminder that he was never alone, a reminder that he was loved. He missed his parents, but was grateful to be a part of this family. He was at peace, until he stood up to clear the dishes and the lace of his panties grazed his behind. At that moment, every week, his happiness was tempered with guilt.
*****
The sun shooting through his curtains woke him up later than usual that Sunday. A chill settled on him as he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. Head down, hands on his knees. He blinked hard a few times, attempting to clear the fog from his mind. He took a deep breath and stood up. Something shiny caught his eye. He turned slowly toward the dresser. He saw the nearly empty glass. He picked it up and studied it. A splash of bourbon shifted at the bottom. Bourbon had been his momma’s drink. She’d sit in her rocking chair every evening, sipping her old-fashioned, eyes closed, breaths shallow, lips leaving a deep red stain on the rim of the glass. He preferred his bourbon straight, but shared his momma’s affinity for the deep red lip color. He used his thumb to wipe the stain from the glass as he carried it to the kitchen sink. He looked out the kitchen window. It was late. He had to get out there, into the woods, catch dinner. He didn’t want to disappoint his family.
Back in the bedroom, he pulled on his jeans and flannel shirt, he moved gingerly to keep the ache behind his eyes from spreading. He put on his boots and hunting cap, grabbed his gun, and headed for the door. He paused. One hand on the gun, the other on the door knob. He glanced around his cabin, looking for evidence of his solo dance party from the night before. Satisfied that he’d hidden himself away, he opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. With his eyes closed he breathed in deep, the scent of the woods filling his nose, fresh air filling his lungs. He left the porch and walked north.
The crunch of earth under his boots was the only sound he heard. He stepped on a rock awkwardly and realized how much his feet ached. He shook his head, mad at himself for putting on those strappy silver heels. They didn’t fit, were two sizes too small. They had belonged to his momma, and he only wore them on nights he was overwhelmed with missing her. He remembered the last time she wore them. It was about six months before she drove into the river. It was her birthday. She had seemed so happy. Letting his father twirl her as they danced in the living room. They had loved to dance, and so did he. If that’s what you could call it, the three of them, holding hands and bouncing around the cabin. He shook off the memory.
He turned east. The ache behind his eyes, magnified by the sun through the trees, had spread and grown into a pounding headache. He wished he had brought a bottle of aspirin with him. He thought about the aspirin in its place in the bathroom medicine cabinet, on a shelf below his bottles of nail polish and tubes of lipstick. Last night he had chosen the deep red lipstick and a matching nail polish. He looked down at his hands. His nails were clean. He hadn’t polished his nails, but he got the bottle out, didn’t he? Did he put it away? He heard a rustling. He turned toward the sound. Had he put the dress away? He had taken it off after his fourth drink. He remembered dancing in just the bra and panties. The dress was strapless and had to be hung up using clothespins. Had he gotten the clothespins? Had he put the dress away? He heard the rustling again. He stopped. He stood completely still. He could hear something, something familiar. His heartbeat sped up, his head pounded.
He closed his eyes to pinpoint the direction the sound was coming from. He moved toward it slowly. To be as quiet as possible, he walked on his toes, like he did when he wore the burgundy stilettos. He had purchased them in a department store just across the state line. He remembered the look on the cashier’s face as he put the women’s size 12 shoes on the counter. I got a tall sister, he told the girl. Relief washed over him when she smiled, believing his story. He got closer to the sound, and as he approached the source it became clear, the sound of an animal cooing. He stopped. He was completely still. He heard a crunch, it reverberated off the trees around him and into his head. He closed his eyes and slowly turned. He opened his eyes. His gaze moved upward until he was looking into the face of the bear cub’s mother. He stood there in between mother and child, and he hoped everyone would try to understand. The bear lunged.
The mother bear’s giant right paw slashed across his face with such force that he hit the ground face down. He rolled over just as she attacked. He went for the bear’s eyes, but couldn’t reach them, his fingers landing inside her snout instead. The bear didn’t slow down, she ripped and clawed, tearing through clothing, then skin. Blood oozed from his mouth as the bear ripped open the flesh of his chest. His skin burned. The bear lifted her head and roared. His muscles screamed. He tried to roll away, but his legs were crushed under the weight of her body. Pain radiated through him. His breath came in short ragged wheezes. He closed his eyes and stilled himself, he thought of her and the family that had saved him. Each of their faces drifted through his mind. He hoped they knew how grateful he was. He hoped he had put the dress away. The bear sniffed him. He should’ve told her, one of those Tuesday’s on the phone. He could’ve explained it. Maybe he had underestimated her. The mother bear nudged his face, she knew he was done fighting. He had nothing left. Tears gathered and rolled down his cheeks. He thought about his grandmother’s pearls and his mother’s silver heels. He wondered who would find them. What would they think? What would they think about the size 12 stilettos and lipstick? He hoped they would understand. He felt the mother bear’s breath on his face. He opened his eyes and she looked back at him, almost apologetically, as if saying I hope you understand, I had to protect my family. He hoped they would know that he had been protecting them. He hoped until the forest absorbed his last breath.
Samantha Crane is a Chicago based writer currently riding out this pandemic in a small Florida beach town. Her work can be read online at Dream Pop Press, Coffin Bell, and HASH Journal. Follow her on Twitter @dangercrane.