Timmy put his hands in his coat pockets and was surprised at what he found. A fresh hand-warmer, still sheathed in plastic. Delighted by this discovery, he tore the package open and shook the pouch to start the chemical reaction. His father must have put it in there when Timmy was still asleep. For Timmy, these little pouches were pure magic. His father had gone to great lengths to explain the science involved in the hand warmer’s transformation, but Timmy still believed that some measure of sorcery was involved and he liked his own explanation better.
His uncle scooted his chair forward and propped the rifle on his lap with the barrel pointing out the window. His eyes scanned the edges of the field for any signs of movement. Timmy’s father had explained to Timmy that although deer were color blind, their eyes were adept at detecting motion. However, his whispered instructions to sit still when a deer emerged were never needed. His father usually saw them first, and after long silent minutes spent inches apart Timmy would immediately sense his father’s sudden stillness, the heightened intensity in the hands that held the gun. The deer appeared gradually, sniffing the snow. This time of year the fawns were speckled white and stuck close to their mother’s haunches, their tails twitching. Timmy became breathless at the sight of them, as though the movement of his ribs might give him away. There was something about the long wait, the hours without event, that made each sighting a moment of surprising drama.
His uncle removed his gloves and sipped from his thermos. He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat. The cigarette was held between index finger and thumb, partially hidden in the palm of his hand. He spent the whole working year looking forward to these moments and was intent on savoring every empty, windy minute.
“Can’t the deer smell the smoke?” Timmy asked.
“Bah…isn’t the smoke that spooks ‘em. It’s the smell of people.”
“But what can we do about that?”
“Stay downwind as much as possible.”
“But the wind changes direction.”
“Not much. Up here it blows from the northwest. That’s why this blind is on the southeast corner of the field.”
His uncle’s voice was soft and raspy, notched with smoke. He spoke with the rural mid-westerner’s lack of ambivalence. Things either were or they weren’t. Mussing with the middle-ground or musing over philosophical shades of gray was for people who bought their meat in stores.
“Could someone put on a deer skin so that they smelled like a deer?”
His uncle looked at him. He grinned, impressed.
“The Indians used to do that. Though it may have been a tactic used more in hunting buffalo.”
“But the buffalo are gone right? We learned that in school. In school we call them Native Americans. We always read about them before Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah, the buffalo are mostly gone. But it wasn’t the Indians that did it.”
Timmy figured that if it wasn’t the Indians, then it must have been the pilgrims. Who else was there?