DUCK HUNT

By David White

        

     Had he really been gone that long?

      George Thornhill stood over the ditch that used to be the pond.  Grass and weeds sprouted in every direction, but there wasn’t a drop of water to be found.  No ducks either, which meant he couldn’t feed them.  The last time he was here was just before he left to fight overseas.  And now, now that he was back, he wanted to get into old habits again.  He’d only been gone a short time. 

      But they filled the damn thing in. 

      George followed the trail down a small hill as the sun beat on his neck.  It was hot and sweat formed under his armpits.  It probably stained his shirt.  But that was okay, he didn’t have to look good until tomorrow when he’d see Carolyn.  He pictured her beautiful hair tied back in a bun, wearing a sun dress, smiling her bright white teeth at him.  He missed her most of all.  He missed her so bad he felt it in the pit of his stomach.

      He limped to a park bench to sit and watch the people go by.  The limp wasn’t from the shrapnel in his leg.  No, the doctors said he recovered from that.  It was from his service revolver.  The last time he was in this park, before he went to the war, some kids came and pushed him around.  They took his wallet, and he didn’t do anything about it.  But he was different now.  Just like the filled in lake, he changed too.  He was a military man.  And if anyone tried to push him around, George had an answer.

      It was the perfect day to sit in the park.   The sun shined, not a cloud in the sky.  It was a bit humid, but it was always humid in August around here.  The grass smelt fresh, just cut.  There was a slight breeze.  If he couldn’t feed the ducks, he could at least relax.

      I can’t believe they filled it in, George thought.

      “Where are the ducks?” he said aloud.

      Something inside him told him it was time to move.  Maybe he could find a different park bench to sit on, a place where the ducks would come to him.  Pushing himself out of the seat, George felt his knees crack.  Maybe the war had more of an impact on him than he thought.  All he knew was, those kids came around again, he’d have an answer for him.

      Kids.  They were his age before he left, they’d be his age now.  He just had more years experience behind him.  He knew what to do.  He’d killed people overseas.  It gave him the right to call them kids.  He was more mature, he’d seen things no one else had seen.  Thing he never wanted to see again.  Things these kids couldn’t understand.

      George moved down the trail, seeing two small children playing catch with a baseball.  The small boy closest to him missed a catch and the baseball rolled in front of George’s feet.  He bent over and picked the ball up, thought about hurling it toward the other child, but instead smiled and handed it back to the one who missed the catch. 

      “A southpaw,” George said to the child.  “Keep practicing and you’ll make the big leagues one day.  Learn a screw ball.”

      The child took the ball and looked confused.  “Thank you,” he said.  Then hesitated.  “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

      The boy ran off with the ball.  Smiling, George continued walking, the gun still weighing heavily in his pocket.

      Finding another park bench, George sat down again.  This time he leaned back and exhaled a long breath.  It was hot out.  And it would probably get hotter.  He thought of asking Carolyn to marry him tomorrow.  How hot would it be then?  Would his sweat be because of nerves or because of the sun?  Did it matter?  Not if she said yes. 

      “Where are the ducks?” he asked, again.

      There was no sign of them, no animals in sight.  Frustration welled inside him, and he balled his first.  What a waste of a day!  No ducks.

      “No ducks!” he said.

      Two kids made their way up the trail toward him as he spoke.  They were dressed like hell, shirts untucked, wearing hats like Yogi Berra, loose pants.  The military would never stand for it.  George didn’t like it much either.  Kids, they were the same kind of kids that messed with him earlier.  He felt the weight of the gun at his side as they approached.

      “Hey, Mister, heard you talking down there,” the black one said.

      “Yeah,” the brown one talked now.  “You okay?”

      “I just want to see the ducks,” George said.

      “Ducks?” the black one said.  “They don’t have ducks here.”

      “There was a pond.  I remember a pond.”

      “Yeah, man,” the brown one started.  “They filled that in.”

      The black one was now sitting next to him on the bench.  Relaxing on his left.  The brown one was standing in front of him.  Neither saw his right pocket.  The one that made him limp.

      “Why did they do that?” George asked.

      “It was dirty, yo.  It was a mess, mud and litter and shit.  They couldn’t keep it up.”

      “Yeah, how you gonna feed the ducks anyway, Mister?  You ain’t got no bread.”

      George waved them away and grumbled.  He didn’t care about the bread.  He would find something to do with them.  Hell, he just liked watching the ducks walk by.  And as he did that he could sit in the sun and get a nice tan for when he saw Carolyn the next day. 

      “You okay, Mister?” the black one said again. 

      “I’m fine.”

      “You just look, I dunno, a little confused.”

      “Leave me alone,” George said, waving them away again.

      The black one turned to the brown one.  “Man, Carlos,” he said.  “You try to help a guy out and he gets rude with you.”

      “I don’t know, Trace.  Guy has an attitude and shit.”

      “Watch your language,” George said.  Even in the military, he hated the four letter words.  Guys in his company would spit them out and he’d try to ignore them, or tell the other soldiers to shut up, depending on whether he outranked them.  Usually he had to ignore them.  That bothered him too.

      “Who do you think you are, Mister?  We can talk however we want,” Carlos said.

      “My father’s ‘Mister.’  Call me George.”

      “Your father?” Carlos’ eyes were open wide and he looked around the park like he couldn’t believe what was going on. “What the fuck?  I don’t care who your father was.  I’m trying to help you out here.”

      “You’re bothering me,” George said.  “I don’t need help.  Go away.”

      Trace took Carlos by the shoulder.  “Come on, man.  Leave him alone.  Let’s get out of here.” 

      Trace started to walk away, but Carlos didn’t turn.  He held his palm out toward Trace and said, “Naw man.  I don’t like being treated with disrespect.  No matter who it is.”

      Disrespect?  The words weren’t registering with George.  He’d been feeling this way sometimes, since he got back from the war.  What did his sergeant call it?  Shell shocked?  That’s right.  Things didn’t always work right.  His knees hurt, he felt tired sometimes, and sometimes he felt confused. But it didn’t matter what these two kids were talking about, he just wanted to be left alone.

      The breeze rustled the trees again, and George caught a whiff of the freshly cut grass again.  He smiled.  This was what it was all about.

      “What the hell are you smiling about?” Carlos sounded mad.  “You insult me, tell me to go away.  Then you smile?  Hell no.”

      Trace took Carlos’ arm this time.  “Come on, Carlos.  He’s just an—“

      Carlos spun on Trace.  “You ain’t gonna back me up here?  You my boy.”

      Trace sighed and let go.  He shook his head.  “Man, this ain’t right.”

      “Go away.”  George thought maybe if he said it with more force.  Like the drill sergeants who ordered them around.  “I want to see the ducks.”

      “Shut up about the ducks!” Carlos yelled.  “Yo, I should just—“

      “What are you going to do, Carlos?”

      “Man, I don’t know.  Look at him, he’s all crazy.  He’s pissing me off too.  We should fuck with him.”

      They were talking about George like he wasn’t even there.  But this shell shock was setting in.  He couldn’t snap out of it.  Nothing was working for him.  He didn’t know what to do.  Where were the ducks?

      “Don’t do nothing,” Trace whispered.

      “I’m gonna take his wallet,” Carlos said and turned back toward George.  “Gimme your wallet.”

      Wallet?  That registered.  It was like those kids who took his wallet before he left to fight.  It snapped him out of the shock.  George’s eyes flashed to life. 

      “I said, gimme your wallet.”

      Over Carlos’ shoulder, George could see the soccer field, the children playing catch, and behind that the road.  One the road was a police car.  For a second, he thought of flagging it down.  But that wouldn’t prove anything had changed since before the war. 

      George Thornhill reached into his pocket and pulled the revolver.  At the same time, he tried to stand, but the knees still wouldn’t work for him.  He aimed the gun back and forth, Carlos first, then Trace. 

      “Yo, man, put that shit away,” Trace said.

      Carlos backed up a step.  But he didn’t seem all that scared.  “You gonna shoot us now?  That thing looks a little old.  I’m not sure it will work.”

      Old?  It was his service revolver.  Of course it worked.  It just came back with him from the war.  Maybe it got a little battered in his luggage, but it wasn’t old.  And damn straight it fired.

      “Leave me alone,” George said.  “Go away.”

      Carlos smiled, making George even more angry. 

      “Yeah, we’ll go.  Just give me your wallet first,” Carlos said.

      The kid started to reach toward the gun.  Over his shoulder, George saw a woman running across the soccer field.  Brown hair flapping in the wind.  Waving. 

      Carolyn. 

      What was she doing here?  He wasn’t supposed to see her until tomorrow.

      Before Carlos could reach the gun, George pulled the trigger.  The gun fired and Carlos fell backward.  Birds scattered from the trees.  The shot echoed through the park like thunder. 

      Turning toward Trace now, George fired again.  It was even louder this time.  Trace backpedaled and the bullet hit him square in the chest.  He fell on to his back. 

      The smoke started to clear.  The boys playing baseball were watching.  One of them was crying hard.  Carolyn was still running toward him.  It sounded like she was screaming.  She was going to be so proud of George, how he stood up for himself.

      George sat on the bench, gun extended still, watching the smoke clear. 

      Where the hell were the ducks?

*   *   *

      The moments flashed by in front of George’s eyes.  He could feel the shell shock set in again.  Everything blurred.  Someone had their arms around him.  There were flashing lights and loud wails.  The weight in his hand lightened and he heard something clatter. 

      Where was he?  Why was it so damned hot?  A fog enveloped him, pressing on his brain.

      He may have screamed.  Nothing was working.  Head hurting, he felt fear deep in the pit of his stomach.  Maybe he should close his eyes and sleep. 

      There were voices, lots of voices.  Were they talking to him?  Why wouldn’t they leave him alone.

      Shell shocked, he sat and let everything come back into focus.

*   *   *

      Two men in blue uniforms aimed pistols at George.  He blinked his eyes in the sun.  The men were cops. 

      “Put your hands in the air!” one yelled.

      “Ma’am, kick the gun over here.”

      He felt a woman’s arms around him.  The woman kicked a gun toward the policeman.  It scraped along the pavement. 

      The woman holding him had long brown hair.  It fell near her shoulders.  There were tears in her eyes.  Her lips were wrong, but the rest of her looked so familiar.

      “What have you done?” she asked between sobs.

      “Carolyn.  Carolyn, why are you here?” he asked.  “Tomorrow.  We were going to see each other tomorrow.”

      Carolyn’s stepped back, turning rigid.  The tears poured from her wide eyes.  He mouth hung open.  She was surprised.  Or scared.  George couldn’t tell.

      “Ma’am, step away from him,” one cop ordered.

      She kept saying “no” over and over again, hand covering her mouth.

      “Do you know him?” the cop asked.

      “Yes,” Carolyn said.  “I do.”

      “You’re not supposed to be here.  I just came to see the ducks.  Tomorrow, I was going to ask you to marry me.  The war is over.  We can be happy,” George pleaded.

      “I’m not Carolyn,” she said.  She was crying hard now. 

      The pain in his head returned, the hazy fog.  “Of course you are,” he said.

      “No.  Carolyn died four years ago, Dad.  I’m Nancy.”  Her whole body wracked.  “I’m your daughter.”

      “Ma’am,” the cop who seemed to take charge said, “this is your father?”

      George saw the two bodies on the ground for the first time, blood pouring from their chests.  What happened to them?  What was going on?  Nancy was here.  She’d take care of it.  She’d been such a good daughter since Carolyn died.  He flashed her a proud smile.

      “Yes, it’s my father.  He has Alzheimer’s.  We just moved him in from the retirement home he was in.  They couldn’t handle him.  Oh my God, I just went to take a shower.  The boxes, they were open.  He must have found his gun, the revolver from Korea.  I didn’t realize.  He must have found it and wandered off.  Oh my God.” 

      Nancy fell to her knees crying.  She was too emotional.  He told her that all the time.  And she always rambled. 

      “He’s going to have to come with us.  You should too.”

      The officer who didn’t speak came toward him slowly.  The other one knelt beside Nancy.  Somewhere in the distance he heard sirens.  Probably an ambulance for those two kids. 

      “Come on, sir.  Why don’t you stand up?”

      There were two boys watching the police.  They both had baseball gloves.  One of them wore his on his right hand.  A leftie.  George wanted to tell the kid to learn a slider.  Maybe a screwball.  He couldn’t remember anyone throwing a screwball these days.  The batters wouldn’t know what to do.  He waved at the boy, who turned his face away.  Must have been shy.

      “Nancy, it’s going to be okay,” he said. 

      “No, Dad.  I don’t think it is.”

      She still cried.  The sobs shook him to the bone.  He felt tears at the corners of his eyes as well.

      The police officer helped him to his feet.  The knees creaked, but they managed to do their job finally.  The officer held him by the arm as they walked toward the flashing lights.  An ambulance skidded to a halt next to the cop car.

      “You know,” George said to the officer, “there used to be a pond here.  My wife and I, we would come and feed the ducks all the time.  But the ducks don’t come here anymore.” 

      “No, sir.”  The officer kept walking him toward the lights.  “Not since they filled in the lake.”

      George smiled as he was helped into the back of the car.  He took a long look at the park.  It really was a perfect day, blue skies, a breeze, sun reflecting off the tree leaves. 

      “Can we come back next week?” he asked the officer.

      The cop shook his head and closed the door. 

 

Copyright 2006 by David White

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David White is an 8th Grade Language Arts Teacher. His stories have appeared in several magazines and anthologies. His first novel When One Man Dies is scheduled to be released in September 2007. He lives in New Jersey. You can visit his website at jacksondonne.blogspot.com