A Shattered Wife

On a particularly cold morning in late fall, Bill Landry
woke at his usual pre-dawn hour and hurried through his farm chores. There
weren't many these days; the old farm no longer supported herds of livestock or
fields of corn and wheat. In the barn, his misty breath mingled with heavy
silence and the aroma of hay.

Winter's coming
, he thought, walking back to the
house. After a big breakfast, he made a last minute decision to check out the
old storage barn and get in a little deer hunting at the same time. White-tails
were plentiful on his acreage here in rural Virginia, and he just might get a
clear shot at that old buck. He’d been tracking it for years.

He was a burly man, heavily muscled and tall. His size was only
emphasized by his soft plaid shirt, which bulged at the shoulders and across
his massive chest. The 60-odd years he had lived had only improved his
handsome, rugged appearance by adding a few lines to his face and some silver
at his temples. He was capable and intelligent; a born leader who radiated a
vibrant and infectious energy.

Pulling on heavy hiking boots, Bill checked to see that he
had plenty of shells, then picked up his gun - a powerful 30.06 with telescopic
sights. With a quick kiss and a pat on his wife’s backside, he left.

Martha Landry never questioned how long her husband would be
gone. He hunted frequently on their property and she saw no reason to worry.
Actually, she was happy to be free of his dominating personality for a few
hours. As much as she loved him, she had a hard time getting anything done when
he was underfoot. Watching him saunter across the frosted grass with the fluid
walk of a much younger man, she had no idea it would be the last time she would
ever admire the sight.

Bill shivered inside his jacket. Even though he wore two
shirts underneath, the wind felt cold - much colder than the thermometer
reading - but he decided against going back for a heavier coat. He didn’t like
to admit it, but this year he found it more and more difficult to stay warm. He
decided to make do by buttoning his jacket closer around his thick neck and
putting on the fur-lined gloves he kept in his pocket.

Walking quickly toward the ridge, he finally topped a rise
that allowed him to see his farm. The early morning sun washed across his face
and sparkled out across his rolling pastures. He surveyed the crystal kingdom,
enjoying the powerful feeling of ownership. His breath billowed in puffs of
steam and, on impulse, he raised his hands above his head and bellowed with
pure joy. As far as the eye could see, from ridge to ridge, this was his land.

It hadn’t always been that way, though. The land had first
belonged to Bill’s grandfather and then to his father. A vivid image of
Marshall Landry’s laughing face came to mind. Bill had learned his excellent
hunting and woodsman skills from his father, along with other, more unpleasant
lessons. One in particular was imprinted on Bill’s mind forever. When he was
eight years old, his father lifted him onto the top of a feed barrel in the
barn and urged the boy to jump, promising to catch him. When the boy jumped,
his father backed away, folding his arms and letting him fall to the ground. Laughing
at the surprise and hurt on the child's face, the big man said, "Never
trust anyone, son."

That was only part of the Landry creed. "Stand on your
own two feet. Don’t depend on anyone. Be a man." It had been drilled into
Bill relentlessly over the years: respect the woods, the wildlife and his
weapon. Strength and independence were of utmost importance. In fact, the major
disappointment in his life had come while trying to continue the tradition.
Bill had met with little success when it came to his own son.

Unlike his father and grandfather, he didn’t have to depend
on his skills to survive; hunting was a sport for him, a game. More than just
the excitement of stalking and killing a wild animal, Bill was entranced with
owning, caring for and using guns. He had the best collection of firearms in
three counties.

With a shake of his head, he cleared away the memories. He
knew his father would have been proud of him, and he was proud of himself. He
crossed the field with the same quick strides that had brought him up the bank,
his boots crunching through the brittle leaves, and entered a huge storage
barn. It was at least a hundred and fifty years old, and the seasons had taken
their toll on its appearance. Though the wide, rough-hewn boards were
weathered, it was still solid and strong. He made a quick check in the dim,
dusty interior of the building and saw that everything was secure for the
coming winter, as he knew it would be. He strode back into the morning sunshine
to circle the big building, assuring himself that the exterior could take
another winter.

Without warning another memory flashed through him like a
hot poker, searing his mind with its heat. He turned and looked toward a small
window in the loft of the old barn, and laughed aloud, his breath pluming into
the cold. How many warm, willing women had spent an afternoon with him up
there? Carefully placing his gun against the barn, he lit a cigarette and
leaned against the rough planks, letting better memories warm his mind and body
like good whiskey.

A big buck crossed the field to his right, and Bill’s sharp
eyes caught the flash of white tail. Moving soundlessly, he butted the rifle
against his shoulder and flicked off the safety catch. He took quick, careful
aim through the sights and fired at the animal. The deer hesitated slightly,
then dived into the shelter of nearby trees and continued running.

Bill followed the animal’s path on sure, silent feet. When
he reached the spot where the animal disappeared, he could still hear the
crackling of dried leaves that had been stirred up in its flight. He listened
intently for a few seconds and then smiled to himself. The game had just begun,
and it looked like a good chase.

Bill wasn’t worried.

He always won.

Smiling, he started down the steep grade, still listening as
he made his way through the trees. Suddenly, all he could see was the treetops.
He was flat on the ground in the damp, fallen leaves.

He lay still for a moment, catching his breath, and then
carefully pushed himself to a sitting position. One leg was sunk past the knee
into a deep hole in the ground that had been painstakingly camouflaged by the
many groundhogs in the area. The other leg was twisted outward at an awkward
angle. As Bill struggled to free his imprisoned leg, blinding pain shot through
his hip and he bit his lip to keep from crying out.

The deer stopped, too. Only a few yards away, it pricked its
ears forward, listening. Alert and poised for flight, it took a few tentative
steps in the direction from which it had come.

"Goddammit!" Bill shouted, and with one last
powerful effort, he freed his leg. He had never had a broken bone in his life;
had not imagined the pain could be this incredible.

"Goddamn, fuckin’ groundhogs!" He examined his
broken limb. Then he looked up and saw the deer. It stood perfectly still with
watchful, almost curious brown eyes, well within firing range. Challenging him.

The game wasn’t over.

Breathing quietly through his pain, Bill drew his gun
through the leaves and used it as a lever to push himself unsteadily to his feet.
He felt lightheaded and nauseous.

The deer stood still, seeing the movement, yet waiting for
the man to make the next move.

Sheer determination forced Bill to ignore the pain and
dizziness. He centered the animal’s head in the crosshairs of the scope and
squeezed the trigger.

The shell fired from the man’s gun buried itself deep into
the trunk of a large pine tree just above the deer’s head. Instinct took over
and the deer bounded away.

Bill swore again at the pain that was making him feel weak
and caused him to miss the perfect target. His breath was coming in little
streaming gasps and he suddenly felt clammy. Then he heard leaves rustle again
and thought he saw wide, brown eyes challenging him from among dense pine
growth farther to his left.

"You’re asking for it, you bastard," he snarled,
continuing to ignore the pain in his leg. Turning awkwardly and taking aim
again, he fired.

The big man lost his balance, and the shell went wild.
Moving in a slow motion nightmare, he plunged over the steep embankment. Limbs
and briars grabbed at his clothing as if to check his uncontrollable speed, and
sharp rocks gouged his chest and shoulders.

His headlong crash ended with a sudden bone-jarring jolt
that knocked him breathless again. Lying at a crazy, twisted angle with his
spine lodged painfully against the rough trunk of a tall pine, his breath
finally came back in painful, whistling gasps. Scratched, bruised and hurting
in places he never thought possible, he tried to shift his position to ease the
intense, white-hot pain that had moved from his broken leg to his back.

Nothing happened. His body failed to respond.

He tried to calm his pounding heart and assess the damage
done by the fall. A combination of sweet-smelling pine needles and crushed, dry
leaves made him sneeze. Pain flashed through him like a bolt of lightning. He
screamed. After a few moments, he concentrated on moving again and managed to
drag himself to a full sitting position.

He had never imagined such blood chilling agony. It felt as
though he had been cut in half and all of the pain from his leg was transferred
to his back and spreading out of control through his arms and chest. Yet, he
could feel nothing from the waist down. He knew his damaged legs were still
there - he could see them - but they refused to obey his commands to move.

Panic rose within him and he fought to control it. Sweat
trickled down his face and dripped off his upper lip onto his unfeeling legs.
Somewhere overhead a bird twittered from tree to tree. The sun was much higher
in the sky and he wondered if he had passed out. If so, how long had it been?
Counting slowly to 100, trying to corral his churning thoughts into some
semblance of order, he tried to move his legs again.

Nothing.

A low, sinister growl brought his immediate worries to an
abrupt halt. Bill looked up to see a mangy, half-starved mongrel crouched about
10 feet away. The animal’s matted fur hugged its stringy body and its yellow
eyes were wild with fear, hunger or both. For what seemed like an eternity,
Bill and the ravenous dog stared at each other.

He swallowed hard and looked around him, trying to locate
his gun. He had lost it in the fall. He realized that he had no protection.

Another growl, a little louder. More menacing this time. The
dog crept forward on its belly and showed long, pointed yellow teeth. Even at
this distance, its breath was hot and foul smelling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bill spotted a forked pine
branch and pulled it toward him. He was vaguely aware of the sticky resin
covering his hands. The animal emitted another deep, rumbling growl, showing
more of those pointed yellow teeth.

With a sudden, jerky movement that brought pain blasting
through him again and made the scenery swim sickeningly, Bill struck the ground
with the branch and shouted as loud as he could.

The filthy dog screeched in terror and scurried off into the
dense underbrush.

Bill collapsed back against the tree. His face, chest and
arms were covered with cold sweat and in total agony. He rested, willing the
pain to go away. When it had eased somewhat, he tapped his left foot gently
with the pine branch.

Nothing.

He hit it again, harder. No feeling whatsoever. Fear barely
flicked through his emotions; he was consumed by anger. He shouted loudly,
incoherent and full of rage. At first he cursed the groundhogs, because they
dug the holes in his land and then he cursed the deer that openly challenged
him. His voice only echoed through the valley. Exhausted and breathing heavily,
his head finally sagged against the tree.

The bird began to sing overhead again. The familiar smells
of the forest reached him and he shivered. He had never felt this kind of cold
before and wondered, absently, how long it took to freeze to death.