“You guys gonna be good here?” Stevie’s asking, but not really asking, you kn
“You guys gonna be good here?” Stevie’s asking, but not really asking, you know? He’s in a hurry. We were later getting going than he would have liked, and so he’s anxious to get to his spot, which is all the way on the other side of the lake. Well, I was late getting going, I mean. Just out of practice, I guess, at getting up early and getting my gear together and shit. And so he doesn’t really wait for us to answer or anything, but instead just spreads the last bit of reeds and stuff over the blind before turning around.He doesn’t need to wait for us to answer, though, ‘cause Connor and me’ve shot out of this blind forever – since way back when we only came out one time a year, before we were even old enough for real licenses, when the one day of the Youth Hunt used to have to carry all the expectations of two wide-eyed boys eager to not be boys anymore. And then for all the years after that, when we were finally old enough, getting up at the ass-crack of dawn every single weekend during the season to spend the morning cold and wet and crammed together and waiting, telling quiet jokes and shooting shit and pretending that we hadn’t noticed that Connor’s mother had been pretending not to notice his stepdad pouring a quick glug of whiskey into each of our thermoses of strong, milky coffee. And now, this year, it’s like it’s come back around. It’s like we’re kids again and the pressure’s on to have just this one perfect, special hunt, since this is the only weekend that I could take the time off to drive down from State, the one day it can happen for us. Or for me, I guess, since he said last night he’s still out here every weekend, no fail. But maybe I do mean “us,” though, since when he’s out here alone, by himself, it can’t be the same, right? I mean, I hope not, at least.A lot of things aren’t the same, though. It’d be easy to say that it’s just me, that it’s this thing where I went up to State for girls and glamor and the glory of an ag degree while Connor’s been left here to continue on in his same ol’ rut. And sure, I guess that’s sort of true. But that’s a dick thing to say, anyway, and besides, he HAS still continued on it, you know? On his path here in Dutton. He’s at the factory down in Kearney now, and everybody says he’s making good money, and it’s certainly done good things for him. He looks healthy, I mean – work agrees with him, and his body’s gotten, you know, harder and fuller and even though I know they have machines for that shit, I can still picture him lifting up engine parts or something. You can just see him with a honkin’ piece of metal he can barely wrap his fingers around, one so heavy that he has to grunt to wield it, his muscled arms and sweaty forehead all smeared with grease but the pipe he’s straining to lift still sleek and slick and clean and chrome. Sure, yeah, there’s an edge there, too, a kind of flint glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before and that came out more and more as we drank down at Cleary’s (Terry never cards us) last night. He got quiet, and tense, like he was sort of pent up and maybe even bitter, but I mean, if Dutton’s a small fuckin’ box at least he knows where he fits inside it, right? He doesn’t do this thing where he doesn’t speak up in class or doesn’t talk to people at parties or doesn’t do any of the other shit that a guy at State should do, but doesn’t know to do because there are just too damn many choices. Too many possibilities beyond going to the factory in the morning, getting drunk at your uncle’s bar at night, and shooting some motherfuckin’ ducks on the weekend. So at least he’s learned where he belongs, knows his place, yeah?I notice he’s looking over at me, and that even though he’s sort of smiling, kind of, his eyes have the same cold-but-hot edge to them. That same edge they had in the bar, that same edge they had even more of later, after, when I didn’t know why he was driving us to McLaren’s point, or why he stopped the car and got out, or, at first, what he meant when put his hand on my shoulder.Connor’s learned other people’s places, too.“Yeah, Stevie,” he says, and his voice is so low and thick and quiet I’m pretty sure Stevie wouldn’t hear him even if he weren’t already halfway back to the truck. I don’t look down at Connor’s waders. He reaches up for the fore-end of his shotgun, flexing his fingers and then curling them loosely around the thick tube of heavy, burnished wood. “We’re gonna be real good here.” -- source link