The Hunt

They broke through the trees and dad lifted the shotgun, waiting. The dogs had given up the chase and had grown strangely quiet. The wind shifted, leaves rustled, a twig snapped close by. The dogs perked up their ears and Bryce held his breath. Something flashed in the undergrowth.

The shot rang out almost at once, but Bryce had his eyes screwed shut, and it wasn’t until his dad trussed up his kill, carelessly throwing the carcass over his shoulder, that Bryce felt bile flood his mouth, a knot twisting in his stomach…

Bryce stared at the box, a forgotten relic. What had his mother said once? Something about life taking its course, straightening him out. Dad had clipped him around the ear, sent him to his room; that night he had lit his first fire, watched the magnificent arc fill the sky, burning brighter, hotter, until all that was left was the crisp, dead earth and the black stumps of trees, spilling acrid smoke into the night.

‘It’s all I could keep. I was starting to think no one would show up. I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.’ Bryce nodded. The woman smiled at him sadly. What did she expect him to say? She smoothed her white apron. There was a name tag on the lapel: Evelyn. She was standing close; he could smell her, a scent of fresh linen and floral perfume with a hint of cinnamon. Suddenly, an older nurse stuck her head in the door – Evelyn had to get back to work. Tight curls bounced against her shoulders as she paused at the doorway. ‘He was well looked after. I hope that’s some sort of consolation,’ Evelyn said.

Bryce sat behind the wheel of his car and eyed the box in the passenger seat. It was lighter than he had expected. His father had always been larger than life. Imposing. And here he was now, reduced to a few trinkets in a cardboard box. No, he thought. His father had forfeited the right to be remembered, to be mourned, long ago. Instead, a black fury burned in his chest, a fury he hadn’t felt since being released.

Lucy was there to greet him when he got home, jumping up at him and yapping at his heels. He fed her, thought about fixing a light meal for himself, changed his mind, and grabbed a beer instead. The screen door which led out to the garden was half-open and a tree-dappled sunlight streamed in. He was restless. The blind fury he had felt before had fizzled away. There had been a time when the anger was all he had known, a blazing purpose that filled every waking moment. But now, standing in the shade of a willow tree, all he could feel was the light breeze on his face and a contentment he hadn’t felt since his mother’s death. He heard a high-pitched whine and looked down to see Lucy brush up against him, a rubber ball clamped between her teeth.

He couldn’t sleep that night. Why had he gone to the hospice? What had he hoped to discover? Some part of him had been curious, some part of him had been hoping to find something of the squalor and hopelessness his mother had had to endure, another part of him had simply wanted closure. He wanted to move on. He had built too much resentment, wasted too much time. He made up his mind. He threw back the covers, trudged his way into the living room and fetched the box from where he had left it on the mantelpiece. He riffled through the letters, photographs. There was a broken frame of his mother which he set on the table in front of him. He extracted the letters. Most of them had been from Bryce’s uncles, relatives he hadn’t kept in touch with. There were a few legal documents, newspaper clippings. One heading from a local paper caught his attention: Arsonist Tragedy Strikes in Chiswick Community.

In the early hours of Monday morning, a fire blazed through the Benton property on the outskirts of Chiswick…Police are investigating the tragic death of Olivia Benton…

He put the article aside, picked up a letter. It was addressed to him. He recognized his father’s handwriting.

Dear Bryce,

I hear you are on track for parole, which is good. I may or may not see you. My health is not what it used to be, but I am managing well and the nurses here are good at what they do.

I wanted you to know I loved your mother. Maybe I didn’t always express that love, but she was everything to me. We had some great memories, too. Do you remember our hunting trip?

You may not forgive me, but I want you to remember that prison has treated you well. On the other hand, an old man like me…

Bryce crumpled the letter and gathered everything except the picture frame. When he finally slipped back into bed, Lucy curled up beside him, he felt free.