The Habit of Art: Best Stories from the Indiana University Fiction Workshop

Ways to Kill a Snapper

WAYS TO KILL A SNAPPER [165] Ways to Kill a Snapper GREGORY MILLER The snapping turtle had spent the entire night chained to the birch tree near the old boathouse. There had been a question of its survival —this was, after all, northern Minnesota—but when morning arrived the boy found the seventy-eight-pound turtle alive and well, unaware that a pair of brightly colored moths had settled onto its shell, and that it was to be killed later that afternoon. The boy found the afternoon came quickly. “It’s older than I am,” the boy argued. “It’s prehistoric.” “They’re bad for the lake,” repeated his grandfather. The truck smelled like mints; his grandfather would shake three or four of them into his mouth at a time and then roll them around with his tongue, never biting. “They eat the eggs of fish,” he continued, as he drove. “Northern, sun fish, walleyes. How would you like Lake Alice without northern?” The boy could hear the turtle slash at the sides of the pickup, claws grating against metal. In the distance, the Sheck’s place came into view. “But I caught it, not you. You didn’t catch it.” “We’re not going to argue,” his grandfather said finally. The boy had never met the Shecks in person, but he’d heard enough about them: how they barely supported themselves on the GREGORY MILLER [166] hard land, how they were missing toes and fingers, how their young daughter had once strayed into the deep woods and lost herself there for two days. To the boy, this harsh part of Minnesota was a place to visit, not live. It was his grandfather who owned the cabin, who related all the stories, who had a history with Mr. Sheck, but the family didn’t listen to the grandfather anymore. He was like a radio playing in a dark corner. They’d had enough of him. “How are they going to kill it?” “I’m not sure,” his grandfather replied. “We’re only dropping it off. We’ll leave that to him.” They pulled into the Shecks’ place. It was a clapboard house, much more like a garage, really, with small open windows and large areas of gray rotten wood, places where the thin layer of blue paint had chipped and fallen away. Shingles were strewn haphazardly on the roof as if they’d been flung there from below. A picket fence wound around the yard, but the fence had fallen apart in several places, as if recently under siege, and husks of automobiles sat on the far side, idle. A rusted-out Chevy van, apparently the only running vehicle, was parked in the gravel driveway, above it hanging a twisted basketball hoop. They parked beside the van. The boy’s grandfather cut the motor and opened his door. The boy remained sitting there, listening to the turtle crawl around the back of the pickup. “Just going to wait here?” asked the grandfather. The boy replied, “I’m coming,” and opened his door and climbed out. He looked at the house and the sky above the house and thought it looked like rain. If it rained, all fishing would be off. He decided that if he caught another snapping turtle he would free it right away rather than make the same mistake twice. He should’ve freed the turtle, he thought, instead of hoping to keep it. He should’ve known better. They were in the middle of the driveway when the torn screen door opened and Mr. Sheck came out. He held a rifle, and for a long moment the boy was afraid Mr. Sheck meant to shoot them as trespassers. WAYS TO KILL A SNAPPER [167] “George,” declared Mr. Sheck, nodding and coming toward them. He wore dirt-stained overalls without an undershirt. A black bandanna was knotted in a tight skullcap around his head. His eyes were beady but bright, his face rough and red, cracked like pavement from the summers and winters of northern Minnesota. He looked at least as old and just as tall as the boy’s grandfather, but in a fight the boy didn’t have to wonder who would win. The Shecks had Ojibway in them. Maybe they’ve been here forever, the boy thought. Maybe they have arrowheads stacked up like pennies in their bedrooms. “It’s in the...