In the Woods Read Free Page A

anyone.’
    Phil put a hand under her chin. ‘I know it’s important to you, darling. I just wish you knew you don’t have to prove yourself. Certainly not to me. To me, you’re already perfect.’
    Angela pursed her lips.
    â€˜Okay, sorry. I know. This isn’t about me. It’s about you.’
    She smiled stiffly. ‘Bring home a rabbit, Phil. I’ll be back for you in a couple of hours.’
    He watched her go, the sway of her round bottom inside her coveralls. He waited until she disappeared into the trees beyond the field. Then, alone, he found a spot near the edge of the woods and waited, motionless, the way Angela told him. As the sun came up, he saw a bird or two, but no squirrels or rabbits. Damn, he wanted to bag something just to show her that he could. To gain her respect. Not that he’d ever compare to Stan, hunting-wise. Stan and Angela had hunted together their whole marriage. They’d come here every year and bagged venison every season. Stan was supposedly a crackerjack shot, whereas Phil had just this year managed to hit a tin can. But if he could hit a rabbit, maybe he could show Angela that he was competent.
    Phil gazed across the field, watching for movement. A chilly breeze rattled the leaves of the trees, swayed the grass and weeds. Occasionally, a bird called out. Other than that, the woods were silent. He looked across the clearing at the trees with their vibrant colored leaves, wondered if Angela had found tracks yet. If she’d actually shoot a bear. Jesus. What if she did? What would they do with it? Mount its head on a board and put it in the den? The thought made Phil queasy. Up ahead, something moved through the grass, making a line. He lifted the rifle to his shoulder, reminded himself: aim, breathe, hold, squeeze. Saw the rabbit through his scope. Took a breath. Held it. Aimed.
    What in God’s name was he doing? Was he really going to shoot at that defenseless little creature? Was he going to kill it? He watched it hold still, trying to become invisible as if it sensed a predator. All he had to do was fire, and he’d have a prize for Angela. He pictured the rabbit, skinned and gutted. Its feet would be good-luck charms on key chains. It was up to him. He had the power over the rabbit’s life or death. Gracious – what was he doing? Phil lowered the rifle. He stared at the weapon, at his hands. Felt sick.
    But what about Angela? He wanted to impress her, ached to have her look up to him the way she looked up to Stan. But Phil could never be like Stan. He was a pharmacist, not an outdoors man. He preferred to garden, watch films, play bridge, drink fine wines. He hoped that Angela loved him for the man he was. Of course she did. She was married to him now, not to Stan. Hunting was simply a passion that she hoped they could share, the way he hoped she’d learn to play bridge.
    The gun was heavy. His new boots felt stiff. The ground was rocky and, even with his flannel shirt, he felt the nip of the air. Phil looked back at the bunny. It was gone.
    He sighed, annoyed with himself. It was just a dumb rabbit – it wasn’t like he was murdering a person. He had to do this for Angela. Just this once. He had do it to prove that he could, and then never again. He held very still, watching the stillness of the field. Recognizing some of the plants – bull thistle over there, day lilies all over. Purple loosestrife. And weren’t those Spanish bluebells? He held still, staring at the plants as the sun peaked higher. There was something Zen-like about standing so still and silent, waiting. He was staring at a privet blossom, letting his eyes drift out of focus when, close behind him, he heard a shot.
    He didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. He could swear he’d felt a whoosh of air along with the crack of the shot. But certainly that had been his imagination. In fact, the shot probably hadn’t been all that close.