Deep Winter (16 page)

H
e hadn't seen the three-legged deer in a while. Danny figured she must have gone off to be with her family or something. Maybe she had a baby to tend to or was looking for something to eat. Or maybe the deer knew that Danny was nothing but trouble and the best thing for her would be to leave him lost in the woods to fend for himself. Seemed like everything he was around ended up getting hurt or worse. His folks. Uncle Brett. Now Mindy. He didn't mean for people to get hurt, but trouble always seemed to follow him around. If he could take it all back and be the one who drowned in the pond that day instead of his parents, he would do it in a second.

Danny wished that the doe were still with him but understood why she wasn't. Besides, how could a deer really help him? A deer was just an animal that was even dumber than him. An animal couldn't help him figure out what to do.

But the doe did help him with something—she made him realize that he couldn't fend for himself out in the woods alone and that he needed to find someone he could trust. Someone who was nice to him and would believe that he didn't do nothing wrong. He felt bad for Carl and his kids and all, but he didn't want to get in trouble for something he didn't do. Aside from Mindy, Mr. Bennett had been nothing but good and honest with him for a long time. Mr. Bennett would know that Danny wouldn't hurt no one.

Mr. and Mrs. Bennett had Danny over for dinner one time a few years back. Mrs. Bennett had made a meat loaf with mashed potatoes, buttermilk biscuits, and fresh wax beans. He had never smelled or tasted anything so good in his whole life. Danny had three helpings and could have had a fourth, but he saw the way they were looking at him and he figured he should stop. Then Mrs. Bennett brought out a deep dish of peach cobbler, and Danny thought that he had died and gone to heaven. If that was what heaven was like, Danny wouldn't mind so much going there.

Danny remembered that they just let him eat his dinner and didn't ask him a bunch of questions or make him feel dumb or anything. Mrs. Bennett thanked him for coming, said it was an honor having him as a dinner guest, and gave him a big hug before Mr. Bennett took him back to the laundromat. That was the first hug he'd had since his mama and papa went away. That was one of the best nights in Danny's life for sure.

Danny noticed that his head was starting to feel funny. He put his fingers to his forehead—it was all slick with sweat and hot to the touch. That didn't make sense to Danny. It was real, real cold outside, so how could his head be hot? His jaw still hurt a little, but his feet and hands felt far away from the rest of his body, like they weren't even connected to him anymore. Maybe he had a fever. He
remembered once when he was little, he had felt the same way. Kinda dizzy and light-headed. Uncle Brett made him go to school anyway, because he didn't want Danny at home with him. Danny went to school and felt real sleepy the whole time. He had trouble keeping his eyes open at his desk, his head snapping back and forth when sleep would take him for a second. He sat at the rear of the classroom where Miss Bradley made him sit. She didn't call on him like she did the other kids. She didn't even make him take tests. She told him to color on a piece of scrap paper or look at a picture book while the rest of the kids took the test. Miss Bradley said that he wasn't smart enough to take tests or do homework, so she acted like he wasn't even there. She wasn't mean or anything, but Danny could tell that Miss Bradley wished he weren't in her classroom with all the normal kids. But on that day when he was feeling sick, he remembered that she put her soft palm that smelled like lotion on his forehead and gave him a look that he had never seen her give him before. She sent him to see Doc Pete straightaway, and after that he stayed at home for over a week. Doc Pete said that his fever was real high and he shouldn't be around the other kids. Said he could be contagious. Danny remembered that big word because it rhymed with “outrageous.” Uncle Brett got real mad, because Danny was supposed to be in bed and not go to school, so Danny stayed in his room and tried not to bother him. He ate Cap'n Crunch cereal for a week, because Uncle Brett didn't make him soup like his mama used to make for him when he was feeling sick.

Maybe Mrs. Bennett would have medicine or something for him. When you got sick, you were supposed to drink bad-tasting medicine to make you feel better.

Danny came to a place where the trees thinned out a bit and he could see a lot more daylight. He kept moving and stopped in front
of an old road at the edge of the woods. He was pretty sure that this was the road that led up to the Bennetts' house.

He decided to stay in the cover of trees just in case someone was driving around looking for him, and he moved in the same direction as the road. He walked for a ways, not really thinking about much or paying attention to where he was going.

After a while he got to thinking about the doe again. He didn't understand why folks like his Uncle Brett enjoyed hunting and killing deer. Uncle Brett made him eat venison for many dinners even though he never much cared for the taste. Uncle Brett sure enjoyed it, but Danny thought it was too chewy, and the fat stuck to the roof of his mouth. But even the thought of a food that he didn't like all that much still made him feel hungry. The last meal he'd had seemed like days ago. He wondered if he would ever get to drink hot chocolate and have a batch of scrambled eggs at the Friedenshutten again. Probably not.

He caught a whiff of smoke in the air. He thought maybe he was imagining the smell because he was hungry and liked to eat food cooked over a fire, but then he took another sniff and could definitely smell the smoke of burning wood. Probably from a chimney or something. And if it came from a chimney, that meant he was close to someone's house. Danny sure hoped that it was Mr. and Mrs. Bennett's house.

He looked up into the blue sky and saw a cloud of black smoke drifting in the wind. He felt tired and wanted to go back to sleep but knew that he should keep going. Mr. Bennett would know what to do.

The smell of burning wood grew stronger, and Danny kept moving his feet forward. That faraway feeling in his body was getting worse. If he was dreaming, he sure wished he would wake up.

Over the last few hours, his walking had turned more into a stagger, feet barely lifting off the ground. He moved up a slope and stopped at the crest of a hill. There in front of him was a small house, painted blue like a robin's egg. Mr. Bennett's Jeep was parked in the driveway and had about a foot of snow piled on top of it. A small porch ran along the front of the house, and two rocking chairs were partially hidden under a heap of snow and ice. Icicles hung from the rain gutter like crystal daggers—sharp and glistening wet.

Danny wanted to smile at the sight but knew that it would hurt his jaw. He made his way down the slope and walked across the front lawn, where a birdbath and a few colorfully painted birdhouses were hanging from the limbs of birch trees.

He climbed the steps to the porch and stopped in front of the door. It had a doorbell, but Danny decided to knock instead.

T
hey were Danny's footprints in the snow. No doubt about it. Carl watched Sokowski stop at the base of the tree and peer up toward the deer stand that was built on the side of the large pine. Sokowski was winded from the long hike up the hill, chest rising and falling as he tried to get his breath back. The whiskers below his nose and down on the tip of his beard were frozen with snot. He knelt into the snow and took a closer look at the footprints. They were pretty fucking fresh.

“Those his?” Carl asked. He already knew that they were.

Sokowski nodded. “Must have slept up there. Retard's smarter than I thought he was. I was hoping that the dumb bastard would have frozen to death during the night. Would have saved us the trouble.” He stood and looked out into the woods, rubbed at his bad ear to warm it up a little. “He can't be far. Should be able to find him pretty quick.”

Sokowski reached into his jacket and pulled out a Baggie of weed and rolling papers. Carl watched silently while Sokowski rolled a fat joint as easily as buttering a slice of toast, then put it between his lips and fired it up. He took a couple of tokes, held it and offered the joint to Carl. Carl shook his head and looked away.

“Don't be such a pussy. This shit's almost done.”

Carl shivered even though he had on a thick layer of clothing and was sweating a little. He got to thinking about Kelly, probably at home, all pissed off that he hadn't even called. Probably thinking that he'd hooked up with some skank. Carl wished that she just missed him, wanted him at home so they could spend some time together. But Carl knew she wouldn't be thinking something like that—that part of their relationship had ended long ago.

“It ain't right,” Carl mumbled quietly.

“What ain't?”

Carl cleared his throat. “All this. It wasn't supposed to happen. I think we should stop.”

Sokowski took another hit and looked at Carl with a crooked smile. “Just stop and go home? Eat a pizza, watch some TV, and pretend it didn't happen? Kinda late for that, ain't it?”

“That ain't what I'm saying.”

“Yeah? Well, what exactly
are
you saying, Carl?”

Carl looked at him. Wished that Sokowski wasn't so damned bullheaded, but he knew that he would never change. Never.

“Nothing.”

“That's what I figured. Fuck, you're thick.” Sokowski took another hit of the joint and pinched off the tip and put the roach into his pocket. He slung his rifle to the other shoulder and started following Danny's footprints deeper into the woods. Carl looked up at the deer stand, then followed after Sokowski like a beaten pup.

T
he two amped-up coonhounds paced back and forth in the bed of the pickup truck—they were wound up and ready for a hunt, something they were born to do. Their black nails clicked on the metal floor of the pickup, and their tails snapped feverishly in pure excitement. The younger of the two lifted her head and let out a low howl, while the older hound poked her snout up into the air and watched the passing countryside with her chocolate brown eyes. The truck scared up a few grouse hiding in the brush, and their wings snapped rapid-fire as they darted across the road. Both coonhounds tracked the birds' flight, whining and quivering at the sight of them.

The pickup slowed and pulled off to the side of Brewer Hollow Road. As soon as the engine cut off, both dogs leaped out of the back of the truck and ran to the cab, wagging and waiting for their master.

Scott stepped out first and patted both dogs fondly. They were
his dogs. Loved them like children. Skeeter and his wife had three healthy children, two boys and a girl. Scott and Paula had one. Tammy. Poor little Tammy.

Scott and Paula had had a whole lot of trouble conceiving. After getting married they tried for five or six years, and it proved to be an agonizing process. Scott wasn't sure if the problem was with him or Paula. They didn't discuss that or go to a doctor to see which one of their bodies didn't want to cooperate. They kept trying, kept failing. They never discussed adoption either. Folks around Wyalusing just didn't do that kind of thing. Adoption seemed like something that weak people resorted to. It got to the point of being embarrassing that Scott didn't have any young'uns running around—like he wasn't man enough to have children. All his friends had three or four kids, and Scott didn't even have one. He didn't like visiting friends because he didn't like watching what he didn't have.

Just when they were ready to give up, lo and behold, Paula finally got pregnant. They were thrilled beyond words. Relieved that at last they had been blessed by God and were able to start a family. Paula had a pretty easy pregnancy, and Tammy was born near to the day that she was expected. But when she was born, there was something different about her, something a little off. She had all her toes and fingers and weighed over eight pounds, but her face was unusually round. Her brown eyes were almond-shaped, and her tiny tongue was perpetually sticking out of her tiny mouth. Scott and Paula both knew what her condition was when the doctor sat them down and explained the situation—they had seen babies like Tammy before when they took a trip to Wilkes-Barre to do some Christmas shopping or to look at a new truck in all the dealerships they had down that way. Tammy had Down's syndrome. And to make matters worse, she had a bad heart. The doctor said it was a common
condition in children with Down's syndrome. Tammy had a congenital heart defect. The doctor advised them of the life expectancy of children afflicted with the disorder. Many children could grow up to be adults and live a healthy and productive life. Many lived well into their forties. But the doctor also warned them that raising a child with Down's syndrome would take a lot of care and a lot of patience and a whole lot of love due to her special needs.

Scott and Paula took Tammy home to where her room had been carefully painted yellow and outfitted with a slew of stuffed animals and baby gear. They had the changing table, a stroller, crib, baby clothes, and a ton of diapers at the ready. They had planned carefully for their daughter's arrival, but the addition to the family fell far short of their expectations.

Tammy cried and fussed a lot. It didn't matter if she was held or swaddled up nice and tight. Paula tried breast-feeding a few times but gave up quickly and instead switched to bottle-feeding. A few days went by, and Scott watched how Paula handled the baby. She changed Tammy when she needed a new diaper, fed her, burped her, gave her all the necessary care that babies need, but his wife never looked at Tammy. Never looked her in the eyes. Scott had imagined that the two of them would always be fighting over who gets to hold the baby, who gets to put her down for a nap, but that never happened. Scott never admitted it to his wife, but he didn't like holding his own child. She was different from what she was supposed to be. When he looked at his daughter, he didn't feel pride or joy. He could never put words to it, but he didn't feel connected to the child. It didn't feel like she was his own blood.

He came home from work one night after Tammy had been home for a few weeks, and the house was filled with the constant hoarse cry of the baby. He found Tammy in her crib, wet with pee
and smelling of poop, red-faced and bawling, left all alone in her room. Paula was on the back porch, swinging side to side on the hammock, smoking a cigarette. She had a vacant look about her. Scott sat beside her until she finally gazed at him like he was a stranger. Then she started to cry. Scott cried along with her. The three of them cried together but separate.

The next day Scott called the county and went about starting the process of giving up Tammy for adoption. They were interviewed by a half dozen different county workers who asked them a lot of questions and made them feel guilty for what they were planning to do. Paula lost twenty pounds over the next month and was put on an antidepressant, but it didn't help matters much. Scott was angry at how the county was treating them. Angry with Paula for letting this happen to his baby. Angry with God for ruining his life. Angry with himself that he couldn't even bear to look at his own flesh and blood. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't raise a child like that. It wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

The day that they bundled up Tammy for the last time and drove her down to Wilkes-Barre, Scott and Paula didn't talk. Tammy cried the whole way there in the baby seat that had been barely used. For over an hour, the baby bawled and neither her mother nor father tried to soothe her. They didn't talk when they walked her into the county hospital and handed over their baby. They didn't talk when they got back home and Scott broke down the crib and packed away all the baby stuff. He and Paula didn't talk other than saying the token “Good morning” and “Good night” for over a month. The house felt dead and empty even after every remnant of Tammy was thrown away. They couldn't box up and throw away their memories. They had coexisted in the house over the last few years, but little joy was shared between them.

Scott was a supportive and doting uncle to Skeeter's kids, but watching them grow up made his grief even worse. The two hounds, Queenie and Charlotte, didn't sleep in coops like most hunting dogs. They slept at the foot of Scott's bed, which was in Tammy's old room now, and they followed him near everywhere in the house. They were the closest things to kids he would ever have.

“Okay, girls. You ready?” Charlotte let out an antsy yelp, her tail whipping a mile a minute. Scott reached inside the cab and removed Danny's pillowcase. He held it out for the two hounds. They shoved their noses into the fabric and took a good long sniff. Low growls worked up from their bellies, and their hindquarters quivered with anticipation.

“All right. Go on!” Both dogs lowered their heads toward the snow and bounded into the forest, yelping and barking as they began the search for their prey.

Skeeter handed Scott his rifle, and the two brothers followed after the hounds. They stepped over a barbed-wire fence that ran alongside the ditch and moved into the woods. They heard Charlotte and Queenie ahead of them and marched along in silence for a while.

Scott looked at his younger brother and was the first to speak. “Let me do it.”

Skeeter regarded him, not exactly sure what he was getting at.

“Let me take him down. No sense in both of us going to jail.”

Skeeter blew some snot out of his nose before saying anything. “I don't know. I thought we were in this together. One for all and all for one, kind of thing.”

Scott tried to smile but wasn't really able to. He didn't think he was gonna be able to smile for a good long time. “You got Betty and the kids.”

Skeeter thought about this. “Maybe we should just take him in. Ma's already lost one kid today.”

Now it was Scott's turn to mull over the idea. “Maybe. But I just don't think I'm gonna be able to let him walk away from this. If we find him first, I don't think I'll be able to do that. Not after what he did.”

Skeeter knew that his brother was right. They walked in silence again, arms and legs moving at the same exact tempo, listening to the hounds' calls ahead of them. Scott put a pinch of chew in his mouth and handed the pouch to his brother. They both walked along, spitting brown juice into the snow as they went.

“You replace the alternator in Murphy's Chevy yet?” Scott asked.

Skeeter shook his head. “Part's supposed to come in tomorrow.”

Scott nodded and spit again. “Yesterday was Mindy's birthday, you know?”

Skeeter looked ahead of him and nodded. “Yup. It was.”