the view through the scope still floated.
Breathe out, Norm said. And squeeze.
Now the picture sat still. She had the bull’s-eye lined up. She hesitated, just to be sure, then ran out of breath. She lowered the gun and yawned.
Take your time.
She glanced back at him. Norm had his fingers in his ears and his eyes were wide open.
She tried again – concentrated, aimed, held the butt firmly against her shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. Holy fuck. The noise shocked her. It was very loud and very fast. You almost doubted it after you heard it. Now she understood how a gunshot in a movie sounded fake. It sure ain’t cracked celery in a sound studio, that’s for sure.
Norm said, That’s gunpowder for you.
Hannah’s ears were ringing and adrenalin was prickling in her fingertips. There had been no kickback. Her heart was racing. She put the gun down as if denouncing the power of it.She shook her hands loose at the wrists. I have no idea, she said, whether I hit that or not.
They started off at a walk, then Hannah broke into a run. Not only had she hit the cardboard, she was two inches shy of the bull’s-eye at fifty paces.
Norm said, I think you’ll be fine.
Hannah took two more shots. Neither shot was as close, but good enough in Norm’s opinion and closer than both of his, though he took his standing.
They got into the car and headed back for the city, where Norm’s friends were expecting them for dinner. But then Norm pulled over at a spot where the trees thinned out and you could see the long clearing of a run of power lines. I’ve seen caribou in here before, he said, so they stood at the edge of the highway and got geared up. It was mid-October and they had rubber boots and rain pants and rain jackets and sweaters. They had orange toques and Hannah had bought a cheap plastic orange safety vest that was so large she had to tie it in a knot at the front. How do I look?
You look like you don’t want to get shot.
Norm tossed her a pair of thin white cotton gloves.
What are these for?
So you don’t cut your hands when you’re gutting the animal, he said.
You think we’ll get one now?
You never know.
Norm carried the rifle and a cracked waxed army surplus bag that was heavy for its size. Inside were bandages and a lighter in an old tobacco tin, a compass, topographical map, a small axe, hunting knife, whetstone, disassembled handsaw, and a yellow cardboard pack of rifle cartridges. The shells were for a Lee-Enfield .303 – an English rifle made in 1943. WhenHannah called home before leaving and happened to mention to her father what kind of gun they’d be hunting with, Tim Crowe had said, That’s the same gun I used as a fifteen-year-old cadet in the British Army. I used to win sharpshooting competitions. And Hannah had said, I wonder if it’s in the blood.
They followed the razed path beneath the power lines, then headed into the woods. Norm gave Hannah the gun and she didn’t hand it back. They saw nothing, and after a while the shooting and the anticipation and the physical exertion of carrying a twelve-pound rifle and the joyful privacy of walking where there were no trails and the clarity of the bright sunshine on the red grass and the brittle grey branches of dead trees and the dark green fur of the stunted junipers made them feel very alive.
We haven’t talked about you beating me up for a long time, Hannah said.
Norm had come up behind her. He was unbuckling his belt.
They had got lost inside a fantasy, in the early days of their relationship, born of a desire to merge, to obliterate and dominate each other. It was, for Hannah, a way of exploring the rare temptation to surrender, of wanting to be broken open, but not knowing how, short of an act of violence. I wanted you to drag me through the woods by my hair, she said, remember? We talked about coming to a place like this and doing it.
Norm dropped his pants and Hannah heard the clink of .303 cartridges in the front pocket of
Breathe out, Norm said. And squeeze.
Now the picture sat still. She had the bull’s-eye lined up. She hesitated, just to be sure, then ran out of breath. She lowered the gun and yawned.
Take your time.
She glanced back at him. Norm had his fingers in his ears and his eyes were wide open.
She tried again – concentrated, aimed, held the butt firmly against her shoulder, and squeezed the trigger. Holy fuck. The noise shocked her. It was very loud and very fast. You almost doubted it after you heard it. Now she understood how a gunshot in a movie sounded fake. It sure ain’t cracked celery in a sound studio, that’s for sure.
Norm said, That’s gunpowder for you.
Hannah’s ears were ringing and adrenalin was prickling in her fingertips. There had been no kickback. Her heart was racing. She put the gun down as if denouncing the power of it.She shook her hands loose at the wrists. I have no idea, she said, whether I hit that or not.
They started off at a walk, then Hannah broke into a run. Not only had she hit the cardboard, she was two inches shy of the bull’s-eye at fifty paces.
Norm said, I think you’ll be fine.
Hannah took two more shots. Neither shot was as close, but good enough in Norm’s opinion and closer than both of his, though he took his standing.
They got into the car and headed back for the city, where Norm’s friends were expecting them for dinner. But then Norm pulled over at a spot where the trees thinned out and you could see the long clearing of a run of power lines. I’ve seen caribou in here before, he said, so they stood at the edge of the highway and got geared up. It was mid-October and they had rubber boots and rain pants and rain jackets and sweaters. They had orange toques and Hannah had bought a cheap plastic orange safety vest that was so large she had to tie it in a knot at the front. How do I look?
You look like you don’t want to get shot.
Norm tossed her a pair of thin white cotton gloves.
What are these for?
So you don’t cut your hands when you’re gutting the animal, he said.
You think we’ll get one now?
You never know.
Norm carried the rifle and a cracked waxed army surplus bag that was heavy for its size. Inside were bandages and a lighter in an old tobacco tin, a compass, topographical map, a small axe, hunting knife, whetstone, disassembled handsaw, and a yellow cardboard pack of rifle cartridges. The shells were for a Lee-Enfield .303 – an English rifle made in 1943. WhenHannah called home before leaving and happened to mention to her father what kind of gun they’d be hunting with, Tim Crowe had said, That’s the same gun I used as a fifteen-year-old cadet in the British Army. I used to win sharpshooting competitions. And Hannah had said, I wonder if it’s in the blood.
They followed the razed path beneath the power lines, then headed into the woods. Norm gave Hannah the gun and she didn’t hand it back. They saw nothing, and after a while the shooting and the anticipation and the physical exertion of carrying a twelve-pound rifle and the joyful privacy of walking where there were no trails and the clarity of the bright sunshine on the red grass and the brittle grey branches of dead trees and the dark green fur of the stunted junipers made them feel very alive.
We haven’t talked about you beating me up for a long time, Hannah said.
Norm had come up behind her. He was unbuckling his belt.
They had got lost inside a fantasy, in the early days of their relationship, born of a desire to merge, to obliterate and dominate each other. It was, for Hannah, a way of exploring the rare temptation to surrender, of wanting to be broken open, but not knowing how, short of an act of violence. I wanted you to drag me through the woods by my hair, she said, remember? We talked about coming to a place like this and doing it.
Norm dropped his pants and Hannah heard the clink of .303 cartridges in the front pocket of
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