When my dad finally decides I am big enough to go bird
hunting, he starts with a lesson in gun safety.
“Shoot at it,” he says, indicating a 46 ounce can of tomato
juice sitting on a pile of dirt at the edge of the rice field.
At a range of less than 20 yards, this seems like a fairly manageable task, even for an 11-year-old girl with minimal shooting experience.
With my 20 gauge pushed against my shoulder, I step forward with my right foot and close my right eye.
“You’ve got it backwards.”
Dad corrects my stance and reminds me that I am right-handed. Years later, he will confess that I favored my left hand as an infant.
“Being left-handed is a pain in the ass,” he will tell me one day. “You would pick up a spoon in your left hand, so I would take it and put it in your right hand.”
I adjust my stance and try to steady the gun as I place the bead at the end of the barrel just above the juice can. The gun jerks up as I flinch pulling the trigger, but the close range and shot pattern are forgiving. Tomato juice gushes from the holes in the can, soaking the clumps of dirt and husks underneath.
“I got it,” I tell him, as if the juicy red perforated mess in front of us requires further explanation.
He nods without smiling. “Yup. Now, that’s exactly what happened to Mr. Allen’s eye when Freddie Brand accidentally shot him.”
In that instant, I realize I am supposed to be learning something from this experience besides how to successfully shoot a stationary object within spitting distance. As I am a fifth grade girl, however, my response is simply “Gross.”
“Remember,” he continues. “This is what you can do to another person with a shotgun if you aren’t careful.”
For a moment, I feel like maybe I actually have shot someone or have at least failed some sort of test. With the shot-riddled can oozing the remaining fluid in front of me, I imagine myself shooting at a low bird or forgetting to switch on the safety and impulsively squeezing the trigger. I could end up like Freddie Brand, who blinded his hunting buddy for life- or worse, I could accidentally shoot my dog just like Red Acock did. I think of Mr. Allen’s eye bursting in its socket, of how ashamed Freddie must feel every day when he remembers what he did.
But I want to shoot. I have wanted to shoot ever since I was old enough to sit next to my grandfather and retrieve his birds for him. My father and brother easily bag a limit any time they go hunting, and even my mother is known as a good shot. I weigh the feeling of being left out against the apprehension of accidentally shooting someone and incurring the wrath of my father. I decide I’m willing to risk causing grievous bodily harm to others in order to get my shot at being another Quinlen sharp shooter.
When dove season finally arrives in September, I get my own stool and a bullet belt along with my gun. My dad sets me up in high traffic areas whenever he can, and I shoot at everything that flies over. I approach each new hunt as an opportunity to bag as many birds as I can, but I never even get close to the 15 bird limit.
On a Wednesday afternoon, my dad checks me out of school early to go to a hunt in Mississippi. On a weekday, my primary competition for space and doves is a handful of retired men, slow and hard of hearing. With this advantage, I start to accumulate what might almost approach a limit. Before I can accomplish this feat, however, the sun begins to set.
“Why don’t you bring your stool and your birds on over to the truck,” my dad says. He is not asking.
Defeated, I make my way toward our Ford pickup, where my mother is already breasting her birds and discarding the carcasses. She pulls the heads and wings off with her bare hands, something I haven’t been able to do yet.
“Coming over!” one of the old men shouts, and I stop to look for the incoming bird. By the time I drop my gear and hoist the shotgun to my shoulder, the bird is out of range. In the distance, however, I can see another bird approaching.
“Just one more,” I think as it gets closer.
I am already squeezing the trigger when I hear my dad’s “No no!” When the bird hits the ground, I see why: it is clearly not a mourning dove. My chest tightens, and I remember Dad’s story about Buddy Hughes shooting the canvasback. He tried to hide from the game wardens who had been tracking the duck, but he still got caught. Had he gone to jail? I can’t recall in the moment.
“That’s not a dove, baby.”
My dad and I approach the bird from opposite sides. In between us, it shudders, its brown wings spread out across the floor of the dusty sunflower field. With its head is tucked under, heavy on the ground, it has the appearance of being crucified.
“It’s still alive,” I say, unable to take my eyes away from the struggle. Then I blurt out “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it happens,” my dad says, surprisingly reassuring. “Anyway, it’s just a killdee.”
He scoops the bird up and pops the head off, an act of mercy I already know I am unable to perform myself.
As he tosses the head and the body back into the dirt, I feel the heavy push of sorrow in my gut.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to.”
My dad pats me on the back, just hard enough that it hurts- like he always does. “It happens sometimes- you’ll get better at telling the doves apart from other birds.”
But as the week goes by, I keep visiting the little killdee
in my mind. The next weekend, I think about it bleeding in the dust each time I
lift my gun to shoot what I believe is a dove. I still shoot, but I pray each time that I’ve chosen the
right bird. I never manage to get my limit.
As dove season comes back around each September, I continue to hunt. However, I never quite match the enthusiasm of those first hunts. In my memory, I still feel the pressing ache of regret, and I continue to fear another mistake. As I scrutinize each bird flying over, I begin to notice features like their calls and flight patterns and plumage. I start shooting less and less, and eventually, I put the gun down altogether and start bringing a book to read instead.
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“Are you shooting?” my dad asks.
It’s a hot Sunday afternoon just outside of Forrest City. He hands me my stool and my bullet belt, and pulls my shotgun out of its case.
“I’m not sure.”
He shrugs, accepting but not understanding.
I load the shells and put the gun across my lap, careful to point the barrel away from anyone nearby. In front of me, a great white egret descends and lights on the pond behind the trees across the sunflower field. I imagine myself accidentally shooting it, watching that impossibly long and graceful body crumple and drop to the ground, and I unload my gun.
