The Dove Shoot

by Robert Morris Kennedy

 

We were twenty or so spread out in the sun, resting our guns on bails of hay in a field of brown-topped millet, up where the sand hills roll above the Withlacoochee .

A black speck condensed out of the blue void. You locked on, moved with it, pushed just beyond, squeezed the trigger. Copper shot snatched the shade midair and threw it into stubble and sandspurs.

You walked to the spot where it fell, expecting to find a dead bird. Instead, the dove sat as if brooding on eggs. It flapped a wing as you approached, and you thought for a second it might shake off what happened and fly back into the void.

Then you picked it up, left hand scraping something jagged on the side you couldn't see. Warm blood smeared your fingers, and you eased the bird back down.

It wasn't supposed to be alive. But the gun had recoiled and left the dove’s fate in your hands. You couldn't shake off the last moment and fade back into the weeds.

The bird watched you kneel and open the knife -- black handle, sliver of moonlight honed on the edge, with you since boyhood, the same one you brought to the funeral home.

That night, you sat in your truck and watched as all of Wachula lined up to pay their respects. Two men in black suits lifted your stricken brother up the steps in his wheelchair, where he joined cousins with restless kids in tow.

Finally the crowd dwindled. She and her parents stumbled out, leaning together, toting the iron weight of grief and rage.

Once they were gone, you tottered onto the sidewalk and slipped inside. There he was, eyes shut, hair just so, in a blue steel coffin with white lining, his favorite suede jacket zipped beneath folded hands. They always said he had his mama's hands.

You pulled out the knife, oiled and sharpened, cleaned and shined, just the way your daddy taught you. But your hands shook and the knife slipped out of your fingers so you had to feel beneath your son's hard side to retrieve it.

That done, you tucked it into his jacket pocket, buttoned the flap so no one would know, and took one last look at your handsome boy's face, trying to see past the undertaker's chalky illusions.

Then you headed north toward the sand hills -- just you, your bird gun and the shakes.

Your hands had been steady that afternoon in the dove field. They slipped that blade through the bird's downy collar without hesitation. The head fell, eye blank, onto sand, and you tucked the body into your camouflage jacket.

As darkness gathered and we turned for home, other hunters gave us two more birds, for they were there for sport alone. One for each of us.

© 2006 Robert Morris Kennedy