The Rifle by Joseph Damrell
I had me a rifle I thought I could sell. It was an old. 22 with black electrician’ s tape wrapped around the cracked stock, not to mention the front sight and the trigger guard were missing. But it had one of them new steel flashlights attached with plumber’ s strapping underneath the feeder tube below the barrel. I kept her loaded all the time and used it on raccoons when they came to raid the bird feeder at night. But I wearied of killing them. There is an endless supply of this animal, and the more of them you shoot, the more they turn up. I wish I knew where they came from. There were so many I even ate one, as I hate to waste meat. But I am not much for coon. Some folks will say they taste like chicken, but not unless the chicken’ s been eating cat, if you ask me. Anyway, you almost always could find you an Indian down at the Lac Vieux Desert rez who wanted to buy a rifle.
I drove slow and careful along Route 45 to Watersmeet in a fair snowstorm. This was in the U. P. of Michigan, a loose-kicking haunch of a peninsula between Canada and the lower forty-eight, dividing Lake Superior from Lakes Michigan and Huron. It was October, as I recall, and we were at the start of an early winter. Nothing to worry about even though my firewood wasn’ t up as yet, but it might mean digging out the saw logs before the first snows melted off. Snow usually won’ t stick until late fall. Unless we’ re in one of them El Niños, which sometimes cuts us plenty of slack, winter-wise, but usually plays havoc with the weather all the way around, making the winters longer, so give me the normal weather as far as I’ m concerned, early or not. I was in my pickup, which was the Ford with an aluminum topper on her. Crossing the creek bridge at Paulding I stopped to see if the gal who runs the little store there wouldn’ t have a day-old sandwich she could let go for a quarter or a half-dollar. I was about tapped out, ever since I decided that work didn’ t suit me any more after a life of it than it did at the start. Work can always find a man, unless he’ s on guard and twice as careful. It had just about give up looking for me, although around these north woods, it’ ll sneak up on you from three-hundred and sixty degrees. Sometimes it hides behind the snow and just jumps on you. You’ ll have a coal shovel or an ax in your hands before you realize.
The general store there at the Paulding crossroads was already closed for the winter and looking pretty forlorn with the snow building up on the stoop. Out front on the stubby concrete island were the two antique gas pumps secured with rusty padlocks. Ever since tourists started wandering into the Upper Peninsula, it seems businesses forget there are others who have to live here year around, and so when the tourists leave, they close down. Not that we wouldn’ t prefer to winter somewhere more hospitable, but I didn’ t want to test my pickup against the road to warmer country. Besides you can always survive on what you find in the woods. There’ s deer, rabbit, squirrel. I’ m not sure that’ s true other places. Unless you like dog. Which I ain’ t saying I never ate it; I just don’ t favor it. I would rate dog above coon, though, and muskrat, too, for that matter. Beaver they will tell is good, but only the tail, and that has to be fried just so. Forget porcupine unless you are plain starving to death. And then you might as well eat the quills and get it over with. You’ ll catch you a bellyache either way.
The owner wasn’ t about and I turned from the door to leave and noticed there was a car parked alongside the building, pointing toward the back fence. There were people inside. The door was open on the driver’ s side and a foot with a boot on it was sticking out. I thought it might be the store’ s owner or one of the employees and they might have something they’ d like to get rid of for a low price, like a mess of bologna, or maybe they’ d even like them a nice night-shooting rifle.
Well, it was an old man behind the wheel and he wasn’ t going to be buying no kind of gun, if you know what I mean, and I thought it must be his old wife who was sitting there next to him as stoic as a gas pump, like something had locked her mouth shut, or rusted it shut one. Two little kids were shivering in the back seat, because it was getting colder with the snow easing up, and like I said the open door.
They were quiet when I asked could I be of help. The car won’ t start, the woman finally said, and I can’ t move him. How long has he been … like this? I don’ t know. He pulled over here and we thought he was just going to take a nap. Her voice was a harsh monotone, yet kind of high-pitched, like the words were coming in a quiet scream. About two hours, one of the kids said. I looked at the boy. Chapped cheeks that looked blue under the brown tone of his skin. He had him a coal black shock of hair that stuck out from under his stocking
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