{"id":415,"date":"2025-04-26T03:04:51","date_gmt":"2025-04-26T03:04:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/?page_id=415"},"modified":"2025-04-26T03:05:42","modified_gmt":"2025-04-26T03:05:42","slug":"deer-camp","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/fiction\/deer-camp\/","title":{"rendered":"Deer Camp"},"content":{"rendered":"

Eric Schumacher<\/span><\/p>\n

Here at the edge of the firelight, I can just make out the drip of blood. It patters to the ground and pools in the curled leaves, barely audible over the noise from camp. I rub a drop, thick as crude oil, between my thumb and forefinger until it dries.<\/span><\/p>\n

Four deer hang above me from a thick branch nailed between two young hickory trees. They\u2019re upside down, slit from sternum to tail, legs spread by steel gambrels strung from the crossbar. I wipe my hands on my pants and stare at the biggest one, the buck. Empty eyes, lolling tongue. He smells like meat and wet dog.<\/span><\/p>\n

A fat little dog trots in from the darkness and stops just short of the deer. His mismatched eyes dart to me, to the deer, then back to me. His breath steams in the cold. I step away from the carcasses.<\/span><\/p>\n

I say, \u201cknock yourself out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The dog, keeping an eye on me, laps the drying blood. I pull a piece of jerky from my jacket and crouch as close as he\u2019ll allow. He noses my hand as if to test me, then snaps up the jerky in one bite.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGood boy, Mutt,\u201d I say. He rolls over on his back so I can scratch his burr-ridden belly. His ears perk and I turn to see my dad walking toward us from camp, wide-legged like he\u2019s fresh off a horse. Mutt skitters back as I stand.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe were wonderin\u2019 where you went,\u201d Dad says, carrying two beers. He hands me one and opens the other. Mutt growls near my feet and Dad notices him for the first time. Dad darts at Mutt like he\u2019ll kick him, trying to scare him off. Mutt recoils and bares his teeth. Dad turns to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDid you feed that dog?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I crack my beer and drink half in a single pull. It\u2019s cold and tinny and I look at the can.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad kneels in the leaves and pulls a pistol from his boot. I cover my ears.<\/span><\/p>\n

Crack. Crack. Crack.<\/em> Into the air.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mutt runs back into the trees. Camp goes silent except for the crackle of the fire. Everyone is watching us.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry!\u201d Dad yells, \u201cjust that goddamn Miller dog again.\u201d Everyone back at the fire laughs and continues their talk.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWas that necessary?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s Dale Miller\u2019s dog,\u201d he says and slides the pistol home. \u201cBeen calf-assin\u2019 \u2018round here all day. Your grandpa used to feed him. Now he won\u2019t leave.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad looks at me. I look at the deer.<\/span><\/p>\n

We sip our beers and look into grandpa\u2019s woods, or my dad\u2019s now. The branches are skeletal, stripped of color and not yet muscled with snow. My cousins and uncles back by the fire cast long shadows that flit through the trees like rabbits for shelter. They\u2019re talking about tomorrow\u2019s hunt and last year\u2019s and the years before that. They open coolers and pour oil into the turkey fryer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a helluva deer,\u201d I say and point my can toward the hanging carcass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBeautiful animal, isn\u2019t he?\u201d Dad steps to the buck and lifts its head by the antlers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, he was.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis one is your cousin\u2019s.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s shot cleanly behind the front leg. Just what\u2019d I\u2019d expect from Matt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve been catching him on your grandpa\u2019s trail cams all year, Dad says, \u201cbeen calling him Elwood.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The smell of fried catfish drifts through the cold. I\u2019ve seen what I need to see.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get back before the food is gone,\u201d I say and start toward camp.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad drops the buck\u2019s head, and it twists to rest like an old tire swing.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSecond biggest we\u2019ve seen around here,\u201d he says, \u201cthe big boy is still out there.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He yells toward camp. We\u2019re close enough he doesn\u2019t have to.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMatt! How big would you say Jake is?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJake the deer?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, Jake the deer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTwo-thirty, two-forty.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad turns back to me as we step into camp. \u201cWe\u2019ve been trying to get him for years, before that sonuvabitch Dale Miller does. It\u2019s about time somebody got one as big as yours.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I remember my deer being bigger, but everything is bigger when you\u2019re ten.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad, Grandpa, and I left camp before dawn, crunching through the early snow. I\u2019d begged to come this year and received my own shotgun as an early Christmas present. Target practice hadn\u2019t gone that well, but I carried my new gun with pride, fingers already half frozen. As we weaved our way through the stands of burr oak and hackberry, I described in detail the many trophy deer I would kill and how I would kill them.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow many points?\u201d Grandpa asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

After some consideration, I said \u201ctwelve.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOnly twelve?\u201d Grandpa feigned surprise.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe won\u2019t kill shit,\u201d Dad said, \u201cif you two don\u2019t quiet down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Grandpa gave Dad a look and squeezed my shoulder. He wished us luck then split off to his own stand beyond the ravine. Dad and I sloped down to a shallow valley where he had planted clover in the spring.<\/span><\/p>\n

We climbed into our stand and waited. Quiet, dark and cold, I leaned against the tree and watched the dawn creep orange across the purple snow. Dad sipped coffee and scanned the woods.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow long do we wait?\u201d I asked.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUntil we see something.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I pretended my breath was cigarette smoke and thought hunting was far more boring than I\u2019d realized. When you\u2019re looking for antlers, every tree branch looks like antlers. Eventually, movement caught my eye. I saw a buck tiptoe along the edge of our little valley and into the clearing by the creek. He was roped with muscle, graceful and silent. I watched him bend his great neck and nuzzle through the snow for clover, but I didn\u2019t tell my dad.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Camp is just like I remember from twenty years ago. The fire bigger than it needs to be, stained coveralls and red coolers, a jumble of pickup trucks and popup campers. The circle of men, every uncle and male cousin now that I\u2019m back, is bigger and louder, but the spirit is the same. On one side of the fire, my younger cousins are like teenage variations of myself, their faces furrowed with acne, soon to scar. On the other side, graying men whose lips bulge with chaw and whose knees ache from a lifetime of manual labor. This year, the uncles each wear one of Grandpa\u2019s old ball caps like they\u2019re a ragtag softball team.<\/span><\/p>\n

From my right, Matt passes me a jug of blackberry wine. He\u2019s tall now, lean and broad-shouldered since he came back from basic. The homemade wine is silty and oversweet. It tastes like summer on the farm.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour grandpa would be happy to see you out here,\u201d Dad says to my left.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a good year to come. It\u2019s been a while.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

From my right, a cousins asks, \u201cyou hunting tomorrow?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m retired,\u201d I say. \u201cI don\u2019t want to embarrass you.\u201d Everyone in earshot laughs, my cousin included.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d Uncle Jim says, I think Matt might have the crown now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I drink again and pass the bottle left. Bourbon comes next. Then amaretto. Apple pie moonshine, then gin. When the wine circles again, I\u2019m already hammered. Mercifully, the next round is food \u2013 catfish and venison, thick-cut onion rings that soak through doubled up paper plates. I blister my tongue on the first bite, cool it with cheap beer, and toss my can in a white garbage bag nailed to the nearest tree.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCans go in the black bags,\u201d Matt says from behind me. \u201cFor the scholarship fund at the Knights of Columbus.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I fetch my can, the only one in the white bag, and we both toss our cans in the black one.<\/span><\/p>\n

Matt and I walk in step to the cooler. \u201cGrab me one while you\u2019re in there,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUncle Jim doesn\u2019t care?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you can die for your country, you can drink a beer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFair enough.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I pull two beers from the ice and hand him one, point mine toward Matt\u2019s buck.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a helluva deer,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOne big sonuvabitch,\u201d Dad whispered when he finally noticed the buck, now only thirty yards out. He lowered his own gun and guided mine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCareful,\u201d he said as the deer turned broadside. I clicked the safety off.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight behind the shoulder. Aim for the lungs and the heart, not the head.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I held my breath.<\/span><\/p>\n

Squeezed the trigger.<\/span><\/p>\n

Crack<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

The deer crashed into the snow then scrambled to his feet like he was running on ice. My ears rang and my shoulder ached from the recoil.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGot him!\u201d Dad said and pulled me into a sideways hug.<\/span><\/p>\n

The buck shambled down the hillside, shaking and barking, sliding in the snow. Falling, getting up again but slower, and slower still, down toward the creek and grandpa\u2019s stand. We climbed down from our stand, Dad faster than you\u2019d think and me slowly, trying not to fall. He grabbed me under the armpits and lowered me down the last few steps.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go!\u201d Dad said and jogged off through the clearing.<\/span><\/p>\n

We followed the deer\u2019s trail, red as spring cardinals, to the edge of the creek. Grandpa was already there, kneeling beside the deer. Nose and neck dripping red, breath like smoke, slather foaming pink. The deer tried to stand but couldn\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNice shot,\u201d Grandpa said to Dad, \u201cthat one\u2019s going on the wall.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot my wall,\u201d Dad said and clapped me on my sore shoulder. I just shivered and stared.<\/span><\/p>\n

Grandpa eased the shotgun from my cold hands, racked it, and handed it back. He pointed at the deer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know it\u2019s hard,\u201d Grandpa said, \u201cbut you can\u2019t let him suffer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t move for a good long while. Grandpa tilted my chin, so I could look him in the eyes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he said, released my chin and raised his own gun.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s his deer,\u201d Dad said, \u201che can do it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The buck pulled in long, squeaky breaths like a cracked woodwind. His eyes wet and panicked but still beautiful.<\/span><\/p>\n

I raised my gun.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

A shrill, two-fingered whistle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEveryone listen up,\u201d Dad says as the circle quiets. He\u2019s standing on a tree stump and holds a small cardboard box. His voice is raspy with smoke.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s good to see everyone here tonight,\u201d he says. \u201cThis is the first time in a long time we\u2019ve all been here together.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

A few eyes, Matt\u2019s included, look sidelong at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have a gift for everyone, or rather Grandpa does,\u201d Dad says. He opens the box and hands it to the nearest person. \u201cTake one and pass it down.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Each cousin and uncle pull something from the box and pass it along. Dad follows the box with his eyes until it reaches me. I take one and hold it up to the light. They\u2019re shotgun cartridges. Twelve-gauge, blue plastic and brass. The uncles recognize something special in them but I don\u2019t. Matt takes the last cartridge and hands the empty box to Dad.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEach one,\u201d Dad says, \u201cis packed with Grandpa\u2019s ashes.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

As a group, we are rarely quiet, much less hushed. Now we are hushed \u2013 just the crackling fire and the far-off honk of geese. I turn the cartridge in my hands like I\u2019m trying to solve a puzzle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOne more thing,\u201d Dad says, \u201cand this comes from the man himself. Don\u2019t save \u2018em, don\u2019t use \u2018em for target practice. Shoot at something worth killing.\u201d Everyone laughs. Dad steps down from the stump and picks up his beer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you going to do with yours?\u201d Matt asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The blackberry wine returns and I down what\u2019s left of this bottle. Someone throws more logs on the fire. Coolers creak open. The cold brass squeezed warm in my hand. This is what\u2019s left of my grandpa.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

The creek exploded with my shot, well wide of the deer. I threw my new shotgun into the water and ran up the hill, back toward camp. Dad yelled something but I couldn\u2019t say what. I was halfway up the ridge before I heard the second shot.<\/span><\/p>\n

I sat on the step of the camper, red-faced and runny-nosed when Grandpa walked back into camp. He kneeled down and pulled my stocking hat over my stinging ears.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe first one can be tough,\u201d he said, \u201cno one is mad at you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t like hunting.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay. Let\u2019s sit someplace warm.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We sat in Grandpa\u2019s pickup with the heat on while Dad field dressed the deer. Grandpa read aloud from The Little Prince, which I\u2019d brought along in my sleeping bag. He spoke in an exaggerated French accent, getting more and more outrageous until I smiled.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad steps in next to me, a new bottle of wine in his hands. We are almost touching shoulders.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you,\u201d I say, \u201cfor the shell.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad is watching me close. He looks tired and proud in his dirty seed company hat. The world smears and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. He slips his own shotgun shell into his left breast pocket and presses it to his chest. I do too.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it for me,\u201d Dad says, \u201cgood night.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He hands me the wine and walks toward the camper. Matt shakes an empty can at me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou got a few more left in you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYep.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

One by one, everybody heads to bed. Soon Matt and I are the only ones up. He\u2019s already shot his deer, and I\u2019m not planning to get up early tomorrow. Tonight\u2019s the first time we\u2019ve both been in Illinois since grandpa\u2019s funeral. We talk about Matt\u2019s time in the National Guard, which he says is difficult but worth it, and my grad school, which is difficult, and I don\u2019t know what it\u2019s worth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAfter 9\/11,\u201d I tell Matt, \u201cI thought about joining the Navy.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCool,\u201d he says.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I can barely keep my eyes open, we head for the camper. Matt concedes he\u2019s been out drank tonight. I concede my little cousin has outgrown me, but I still claim the bigger deer. Matt grants me this small concession.<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad is snoring like a diesel engine on his side of the popup camper. I smell propane. The little gas stove has been turned on low for heat. I click it off and unzip the window flap for fresh air. Dad\u2019s snoring at least tells me he\u2019s alive. When I think I\u2019ve let out enough fumes, I lay down on the trundle bed in the middle of the camper. Matt is already asleep on the other side.<\/span><\/p>\n

On my back, the camper sways like a ship at sea. I try putting a foot on the ground but it doesn\u2019t stop the dizziness. Neither does laying on my stomach, nor eating more jerky. I decide it\u2019s better to stay up until I\u2019m sober, however long that may be. I step out of bed and put on a headlamp. Click it on, kneel, and pull a long, padded case from under my bed. I unzip it on the tiny counter. It\u2019s an antique Browning Superposed shotgun, heavy and inlaid with brass. Not a Walmart model like my first. It looks unreal in the harsh blue light of the LED headlamp.<\/span><\/p>\n

I click off the shotgun\u2019s safety, flip the lever, and break open the action. The bottom barrel is empty. The top is still loaded.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGoddammit, Grandpa,\u201d I say to myself and laugh.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI know you don\u2019t care about guns,\u201d Grandpa said, \u201cbut this Browning may be worth some money now.\u201d We sat in his living room, he in his rented hospital bed, I in a dining room chair pulled close. He had shown me this gun many times before. A Belgian shotgun, made in the thirties, that he bought because Hemingway had one.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYour uncles might try to trade you, but don\u2019t you listen.\u201d I ran my fingers across the engravings. It was a beautiful gun, the first I\u2019d held since I threw mine in the creek.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThank you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt probably still shoots okay if you do want to come back to camp this year,\u201d Grandpa said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019d like that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He laid back in bed and coughed until I called in the nurse for his breathing treatment. I set the gun on the floor and picked up a broken-spined copy of The Nick Adams Stories<\/em> from the nightstand. I read aloud from \u201cBig Two Hearted River\u201d until Grandpa started to doze. I turned off the lights except for the reading lamp and watched him breathe. He was a fraction of his former size.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

A twig outside snaps. I look up from the gun and see movement though the half-open window flap. I scan the darkness, smell the smoke from the still smoldering fire. My head spins less now that I\u2019m focusing. After what feels like a long time, the thing moves again like liquid through the trees. It\u2019s hard to tell, but it looks big. Almost too big to be a deer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cJake,\u201d I whisper.<\/span><\/p>\n

I pull Grandpa\u2019s shell from my breast pocket, slide it into the empty chamber, and lock the barrel into place. I push the button-latch on the camper door, creep out, and ease the door back into place as quietly as I can. I slip behind a nearby truck in my socks and lift the Browning over the bed. I think Jake was moving east across the edge of the clearing. I aim where I think he\u2019ll be next.<\/span><\/p>\n

I stare between the trucks and into the trees, but nothing comes. My shoulders ache. My mouth is dry. I yawn and try to focus on the trees. When the birds begin to stir and the first gray light crawls through the sky, I finally drop the barrel.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then there\u2019s sound again. I lean forward. In front of me? Behind me? My ears and eyes strain. I hear quick, quiet steps. A rustle. Something is moving. It\u2019s close but I can\u2019t place where it is. I slip my finger into the trigger guard and squint, afraid to lift the gun for being seen.<\/span><\/p>\n

Something warm and wet as a tongue slides across my trigger hand. I shout in surprise; my whole body contracts.<\/span><\/p>\n

Crack<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

The shot echoes like thunder in my skull. I fall to the ground screaming. Mutt is where the deer should be, tail between his legs, darting into woods. Tents unzip. Aluminum doors swat their campers. Running feet like rubber mallets.<\/span><\/p>\n

I scream again and I don\u2019t stop. I feel sick and disoriented. My eyes can barely focus. Dad, dressed only in his long johns, grabs my shoulders and crowds my vision. He demands my attention.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat happened? Are you okay?\u201d His sounds both scared and angry, a voice I haven\u2019t heard since I was kid. He shakes me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI saw Jake,\u201d I say and nearly black out.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh shit,\u201d uncle Jim says, \u201chis foot.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Flashlights converge on the shapeless mess that used to be a whole foot. There is more blood than I can imagine in me. It soaks my sock to the ankle. I reach for what\u2019s left of my toes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t touch it,\u201d Dad says, beside me now. \u201cGive him space!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Uncle Jim says to me, \u201cdon\u2019t look. Most of your toes are gone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe need to find my toes,\u201d I say, and struggle to stand. The pain, so terrible an instant ago, is gone. My heart is racing.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEasy now,\u201d Dad says and presses me back to the ground. \u201cThere aren\u2019t toes to find.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Matt runs in with a first aid kit. Everyone steps back. I can feel Matt pressing on my foot but I can\u2019t see what he\u2019s doing. I kick at him in pain but he goes right on working. He barks orders and people run to fulfill them. He wraps my foot as tight as a sausage casing. An uncle packs it with ice. I feel ready for market.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are voices all around me. Several people try their phones but there is no service<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDo you have bars?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s no signal out here.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll drive him,\u201d Dad says. \u201cSomeone go to the Millers down the way. Call 911.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He and Matt lift me and drape my arms over their shoulders. Dad turns to me. \u201cGive me your keys,\u201d he says, \u201cYou parked the rest of us in.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

My little car was not built for roads like this. The bottom scrapes along the rutted lane that leads out of our property and to the gravel road, then to the blacktop, then the highway. Dad pulls out of the woods and flies east toward the nearest hospital. It\u2019s a thirty minute drive. The pain in my foot is back. I roll the window down for air and the cold feels good.<\/span><\/p>\n

I pull my phone from my pocket and try to call 911. Nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The engine whines as Dad picks up speed. The rising sun is in our faces. It\u2019s hard to see. The road towards town hugs the edge of our woods to the north. The south is drainage ditch and barren field. I wince at every pothole, almost unavoidable on these back roads.<\/span><\/p>\n

I realize I\u2019m still holding the shotgun. My fingers ache from the grip.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDad, do you have signal?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad reaches down for his phone. He can\u2019t get his bloody hands into his jeans pocket while he\u2019s sitting. We drift toward the drainage ditch and into loose gravel. An enormous deer jumps out of the woods and lands in front of the car.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDad!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The airbag whips my head into the back of the seat. Everything crunches. The car, the deer, the gravel under our tires. Dad jerks the wheel. We slide off the road and smash into the bottom of the ditch. Lightning crackles in my foot, thunder booms in my head. For the second time this morning, I\u2019m overwhelmed with pain.<\/span><\/p>\n

The world is quiet. The airbags hang limp in front of us. We\u2019re both dusted in white powder. It sticks to the blood on our shirts. Dad turns to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He tries to start the car. It clicks and grinds but doesn\u2019t turn over. He drops his hands into his lap and sighs.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou were right,\u201d I say. \u201cI shouldn\u2019t of bought a Ford. You hit one goddamn deer and it quits on you.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad laughs then coughs.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t matter,\u201d he says. \u201cIt\u2019s just a car. It\u2019s just a deer.\u201d He turns to look at me and squeezes my knee. \u201cNone of it matters\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

We stare at the sunrise through the cracked windshield.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have to go for help,\u201d and unbuckles his seatbelt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cStay here,\u201d I say.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone else will be coming behind us. I can flag them down at the last turn.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Dad struggles out of the mangled car, so I give him a push. His feet are bare and he slips climbing out of the ditch.. He jogs as best he can back the way we came.<\/span><\/p>\n

I feel woozy and tired. I check my phone. Still no signal.<\/span><\/p>\n

My door is pressed shut by the ditch, so I unbuckle my seat belt and crawl to Dad\u2019s side. I shake loose the heavy ice packs and bang my foot against the gear shift. Pain radiates up my leg. I grunt and fall into the driver\u2019s seat. The door is heavy at this angle. It closes on me each I try to crawl through. I breathe deep, smell beer-sweat, smoke, and vomit.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I\u2019m finally out, I lean against the car. and wonder when I vomited. I reach down and poke the spot where my toes used to be. They were right \u2013 the big one is still there, maybe a little of the pinky toe too. It\u2019s hard to say with the bandages. Blood seeps through the gauze.<\/span><\/p>\n

There\u2019s a trail of blood in the gravel and long grass at the edge of the road. Not my blood, I realize. The streak goes up the ditch and into the empty field. What\u2019s left of the corn stalks poke through the earth like rotted teeth.<\/span><\/p>\n

Something is moving out there. I pull the shotgun from the passenger seat and limp toward the motion. I drop down into the ditch and I\u2019m calf-deep in freezing brown water. The cold feels good on my ruined foot and terrible everywhere else. I wrestle myself up the edge of the embankment, using the gun as a crutch and grabbing handfuls of woody grass. Each dragging step is agony.<\/span><\/p>\n

The deer is lying in the field, maybe two hundred yards away. It\u2019s Jake, judging by the size. I limp up to him. His antlers are splintered, muzzle and neck dripping blood. The legs closest to me are twisted and useless. Jake tries to run, either towards me or away, but he can\u2019t stand. Each attempt gains him a foot at the most. I shiver.<\/span><\/p>\n

Horns blare. A line of pickup trucks pulls alongside my battered car. From the opposite direction, the flashing red lights of the ambulance. Matt jumps from the driver seat of Dad\u2019s truck and clears the ditch no problem. Dad lumbers up behind him.<\/span><\/p>\n

Jake whips his neck at me, but his antlers are useless at this distance. His two good hooves can\u2019t gain traction in the mud. Blood and saliva and drip to the earth. His breath is torn, his eyes savage.<\/span><\/p>\n

I raise the gun.<\/span><\/p>\n

Jake falls to his side. His breath quickens.<\/span><\/p>\n

The sun is cold on my face. The wind whistles in my ears.<\/span><\/p>\n

I sway on my feet and lift Grandpa\u2019s gun.<\/span><\/p>\n

Shouts at my back, boots stomp in the mud.<\/span><\/p>\n

They\u2019ll be here any minute.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Eric Schumacher Here at the edge of the firelight, I can just make out the drip of blood. It patters to the ground and pools in the curled leaves, barely audible over the noise from camp. I rub a drop, thick as crude oil, between my thumb and forefinger until it dries. Four deer hang… Continue Reading Deer Camp<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":83,"featured_media":0,"parent":17,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"elementor_theme","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-415","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/415","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/83"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=415"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/415\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":429,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/415\/revisions\/429"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/17"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/euphemism.illinoisstate.edu\/20-2\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=415"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}