Джеймс Кейн - The Enchanted Isle

“And then, Mandy, disaster struck.

“On our side, a dog appeared on the shore, just a cur, just a wild dog. They’re a feature you don’t think much about, but they’re murder just the same to all wild things in the woods. He didn’t bark, a very bad sign, just pricked up his ears and plunged in. It took him no more than half a minute to swim those twenty yards, but when he walked out and shook himself, Mama was waiting for him. A deer’s no match for a dog, and all she could do was strike at him with her front hooves, but he had to deal with her before he could kill the fawn, which he at once proceeded to do, charging at her, growling, and snapping. So then he got a surprise. Do you know what it was, Mandy?”

“Mother, I would say.”

“That’s right, Mandy, you guessed it. That dog had hardly showed when she was out of the car, scrambling down the hill to the water’s edge. She whipped off her dress, hit the drink, came out, and faced the dog. He tore in, growling and snapping at her legs, but she grabbed him back of the ears, mashed his head to the ground, and then got hold of his tail. Mandy, she swung him like some kind of a hammer, like in the hammer throw of some non-Olympic games! One, two, three, around and around and around, and then she let him go. So he was yipping up in the air as he sailed over the lake, but she didn’t even wait to hear him splash. She grabbed that little fawn, and with Mama pushing alongside, trotting, splashing, and swimming, she brought him across to our side, where he went trotting off to have his turn at the salt lick. She didn’t know what fear was!”

At that, he burst out crying again, and I did. He said, “Mandy, she loved jokes and music and dancing. Pleasure people are brave people! Laughing is brave!”

“Don’t hold back, let it come!” I told him in between sobs. “I love you. Now I know you’re my father. Now I do!”

I kissed him then, on the mouth, holding him close so he would know I was his. When our crying had kind of died off, he said he would go to court and acknowledge me so I could use his name, which he did and I did. So now I’m Amanda Wilmer, five foot two, 36-24-35, of Lacuvidere, Rocky Ridge, Maryland. It was at Lacuvidere, a beautiful, beautiful place, a one-story white house overlooking the lake, with a veranda like at Mount Vernon, that they held the first service for her. Then the bearers carried her down and across, holding her high on the bridge so they could go single file. I almost died when I heard “Dust to dust,” and the minister crumbled earth on the coffin. But then my father touched me, and he was crying too but looking in a direction he wanted me to look, and when I did, there was a little fawn, another little fawn, a tiny spotted thing that couldn’t have been more than one day old, lying under a tree, holding still so as not to be seen. And I knew what was in his mind: that in the little creature a new life was starting out, and it seemed a beautiful thing that it should be staring at her as they lowered her into the grave.

That’s all. I’ve told it.