THE PALE LIGHT OF SUNSET: SCATTERSHOTS AND HALLUCINATIONS IN AN IMAGINED LIFE

Thanksgiving - 1943

13 1943 Thanksgiving The cabin has only two rooms. We sleep, sit and “visit” in one, cook and eat in the other. A good cabin does not need any more rooms. My father built the cabin. He stuck the tiny shack on the side of a hill, tucked it in behind an enormous oak, one corner of the cabin firmly attached to the tree. Hug that tree, boy, my father says, because if it ever disappears this cabin will surely slide off the hill. A narrow porch runs along the front of the cabin, hanging out over the hillside, a long drop to the ground. Creaking wooden steps lead down off the end of the porch to where the hill flattens out and a small field catches the acorns and hickory nuts that came down from the hill in the autumn. Beyond the field, a creek cuts along the base of the next ridge, a creek that will flood the field at least once each year. The shotgun, always unloaded, hangs on pegs over the front door, where my father can reach up and grab it as he goes out onto the small porch. It is almost Thanksgiving. There is no money to buy the things that are bought at Thanksgiving. Even if there were money, the nearest town Lee Maynard 14 where such things can be bought is forty miles away, half of it over an unpaved road. And there is seldom gas for the old car. But it is not my job to think about these things, not my job to wonder why there is no money, here in the dark heart of Appalachia. Whatever is, is. It is all natural, the way we live; the way things are supposed to be. It is my job to watch my father, and watch the gun. I cannot reach it, up there on the pegs. But I can watch it in the glow of the kerosene lamps and see the soft shine of the stock and marvel at how the wood meets the steel in a seamless blending of power and beauty. I know the slide works like silk and I swear the fore-grip has grooves in it that exactly match my father’s fingers. On cold mornings when my father takes the gun down, he will sometimes put his hand in the pocket of his tattered hunting coat, finger the heavy red shells that bulge there, and cock his head at me. It is the signal that I can go along. But not this day. It is now the day before Thanksgiving and my father knows there are wild turkeys in the hills. Hunting turkeys is not the same as hunting squirrels; there is little room for error, no tolerance for the clumsy steps of a seven-year-old. I am sad, but I understand. The early cold clamps the hills, stiffening the tree branches and sometimes snapping them in the frigid breeze. I know my father does not really want to go hunting. I know that, for once, he would rather sit beside the pot-bellied stove and read his books, or talk to my mother. For once, he does not want to go out and freeze, looking for food. But I know he will go. He hugs my mother and runs his fingers through my hair. When he does that, I know it is now my job to stay at home, the man of the house until he comes back. The Pale Light of Sunset 15 He reaches up and takes down the shotgun and slings it in the crook of his arm, his other hand in his coat pocket. He fingers the heavy shells. And then he loads the shotgun. I have never seen him do that before, load the shotgun before he goes out the door. And why he does it on this day, I will never understand . He just does it. My father is the sort of hunter who starts hunting when he picks up the gun, even if he is inside the house. His voice becomes lower, his step careful and silent, his whole attitude switching to one of constant alertness. If he is going to hunt, he wants to succeed. It isn’t a game. It isn’t a sport. But he never loads the shotgun before he goes outside. He eases the door open, feels the cold against...