Ron Rash - Serena

"I must admit," Mrs. Calhoun said, "that from the way she put on there were a few moments I almost believed the old woman could see the future."

"She played her role well," her husband agreed. "Never a hint of a smile the whole time."

Pemberton lifted his watch from his pocket and opened the case with no attempt to hide his purpose. The watch hands wavered like compass needles, causing Pemberton to raise the watch closer to his face.

"It's been a wonderful evening," he said, "but it's time for our revelry to end if you're to be at the station when the Asheville train leaves."

"But you must open your present first," Serena said. "Galloway can call the depot in Waynesville and have them hold the train."

Serena lifted a long cylinder-shaped cardboard box from under the table. She passed the box to Pemberton and he opened the flap, slowly removed a rifle. Pemberton placed his hands under the stock and set the weapon before him so the others could see.

"A Winchester 1895," Serena said, "albeit a more personalized one, as you can see from the wood and gold trigger and plating. And the scrollwork, of course. In the Rockies it's the weapon of choice for hunting mountain lions."

Pemberton picked up the rifle and ran his hand over the wood's glossed finish.

"I know about this gun," he said. "It's the one Roosevelt called 'Big Medicine.'"

"Too bad Teddy didn't use it on himself," Calhoun said.

"Yes, but who knows," Pemberton said, raising the rifle toward the window and feigning disappointment when he squeezed the trigger and there was only a click. "Perhaps that cousin of his will show up, and I'll take a shot at him."

Pemberton handed the rifle to Mr. Salvatore. The gift slowly circled the table, the women passing it with palms underneath as if a platter, except for Mrs. De Man, who like the men jostled the rifle in her hands, nodding appreciatively at the gun's heft and sturdiness.

"The scrollwork, Mrs. Pemberton," Mr. Lowenstein said. "It's beautifully done, but I don't recognize the depiction."

"The shield of Achilles."

"Such a gun would do good service in Quebec with our brown bears," Mrs. De Man noted as she passed the rifle to her husband.

Pemberton filled his tumbler again, sloshing scotch onto the table as he poured. When the rifle was passed back to him, he leaned it against the table.

"I'll kill my mountain lion first," Pemberton boasted, "then a jaguar."

"Brazil," Lowenstein mused. "What an adventure for the two of you."

"Indeed," Calhoun said. "Forests enough for a lifetime and plenty left over."

Pemberton raised his hand and waved it dismissively.

"Give us a lifetime and Mrs. Pemberton and I will cut down every tree, not just in Brazil but in the world."

The words inside Pemberton's head were luminous enough, but he knew that he'd tried to say too much. Vowels and consonants had dragged and halted like gears that wouldn't mesh, the words hopelessly slurred.

Salvatore nodded at his wife and stood.

"We should be going now. Our train back to Chicago leaves rather early in the morning."

The other guests rose and made their goodbyes, began leaving as well. Pemberton tried to rise from his chair, but as he did the room tilted. He sat back down, focused his eyes and saw Serena still sat opposite him, the table lengthening out between them.

"See them to the train?" Pemberton asked. "Not sure I can."

Serena looked at him steadily.

"They know the way, Pemberton," Serena said, watching him steadily.

The room slowly leaned back and forth, not as bad as when he'd stood up, but enough to make him grip the table's edge, feel the smooth waxed wood against his palms. He gripped the table harder. An image almost like a dream came to him of being alone on a vast sea and hanging onto a piece of wood as waves lapped against him, and then he let go.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING PEMBERTON AWOKE with the worst hangover of his life. It was early, but what light filtered through the window stung his eyes. His tongue felt coated with a foul dust that had liquefied in his stomach. The previous evening returned in a series of blurry images that passed before him like boxcars come to unload freight he didn't want.

Serena still slept, so he turned on his side and closed his eyes but couldn't fall back asleep. He waited, not seeing but feeling the sun slowly brighten the room. After a while, Serena stirred beside him, her bare hip brushing against his. Pemberton could not remember if they'd coupled last night, or even how he'd gotten back to the house. He turned and looked at Serena through bleary eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Sorry about what?"

"Imbibing too much last night."

"It was your birthday, and you celebrated," Serena said. "There's no crime in that."

"But it may have cost us a couple of investors."

"I doubt it, Pemberton. Profits matter more than social graces."

Serena sat upright. The bed sheet fell away, and Pemberton saw her long slim back and the slight taper before the flare of her hips. She faced the window, and the morning sun fell lambent over her profile. Enough light to make his bloodshot eyes squint, but he did not turn away. How could anything else have ever mattered, Pemberton wondered. He reached out and held her wrist as Serena prepared to leave the bed.

"Not yet," he said softly.

Pemberton slid closer to wrap his other arm around Serena's waist. He pressed his face to the small of her back, closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of her.

"You need to get up," Serena said, freeing herself and leaving the bed.

"Why?" Pemberton asked, opening his eyes. "It's Sunday."

"Galloway said be ready by eleven," Serena replied, slipping on her breeches and riding jacket. "Your mountain lion awaits you."

"I'd forgotten," Pemberton said, and slowly sat up, the room leaning for a few moments then righting itself.

He rose, still groggy as he walked over to the chifforobe. He lifted his duckcloth pants and wool socks from the shelf, stripped his hunting jacket from a hanger. Pemberton tossed them on the bed, then retrieved his heavy lace-up hunting boots from the hall closet before sitting beside Serena, who was pulling on her jodhpurs. He closed his eyes, trying to stall the headache the morning light intensified.

"And you're fine here alone?" Pemberton said, his eyes still shut as he spoke.

"Yes, all I've got to do is make sure what's left in the kitchen and the commissary gets loaded on a railcar. But first I'll take the eagle out, a final hunt before we leave this place."

Serena rose, looking toward the door as she spoke.

"I have to go."

Pemberton reached for her hand, held it a moment.

"Thank you for the rifle, and the birthday party."

"You're welcome," Serena said, withdrawing her hand. "I hope you find your panther, Pemberton."

After Serena left, he contemplated going to the dining hall for breakfast, but his stomach argued against it. He dressed but for his boots, then lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes. For just a few minutes, he told himself, but Pemberton didn't wake until Galloway knocked on the door.

Pemberton yelled he'd be out in ten minutes and went to the bathroom. He filled the basin with cold water and plunged his whole head into it, kept it submerged as long as he could stand. He raised up and did the same thing again. The cold water helped. Pemberton toweled off and combed his hair so it lay sleek against his scalp, then he brushed his teeth as well to dim the nauseating smell of his own breath. He found the aspirin bottle on the medicine shelf and took out two, capped the bottle and put it in his pocket. As he was about to turn, he saw himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and his pallor could have been better, but his being up and about at all seemed a triumph considering how he'd felt earlier. Pemberton picked up his jacket from the bed and went into the front of the house where the new rifle lay on the fireboard. He couldn't remember setting it there last night, or being given the box of.35 caliber bullets beside it.