Джон Макдональд - S*E*V*E*N

He ran out and pulled the paper target off the board and came running back. His grandfather studied it and spat. “Throwing low and left,” he said. “Pretty good group, but low and left.” So he adjusted the sights, and the second group was even with the middle of the target but still a little bit left. The third group was off to the right. The last group was centered.

The next day his grandfather painted a crude picture of the woodchuck life-size on white paper, lifted up on his back end, muzzle high, front legs in the air.

Aldo squatted near the old man, who took a long time before he squeezed off the first shot. Aldo waited for the next one but his grandfather said to go get the target and bring it back, because there was going to be time for just one shot. The hole was centered right in the head of the painted woodchuck.

“Now we’ll get him for sure, boy. He stays so close to that hole of his, I got to get him perfect or he’ll go deep on us. And you haven’t got enough size yet and I haven’t got enough arms or wind to dig him out.”

So they began the vigil. They would get up at the first gray of false dawn and trudge up the road in the morning chill, go around behind the ridge, and sneak up to the prepared place, and his grandfather would rest the rifle on the sandbag, the muzzle sticking out through the leaves.

Twice, as the sun was coming up, there was a clear shot, but the wind was blowing hard from left to right, and his grandfather explained that so much wind could move the slug a couple or three inches off. Once Aldo had seen him first and had whispered, “There he is, Grampa!” And the old chuck had lumbered quickly to the burrow and disappeared.

“Boy, he’s got ears like a bat and eyesight like a buzzard. He heard you just as good as I did.”

Another time his grandfather forgot to work the bolt action beforehand to jack the bullet into the chamber. At the cautious snickety-clicking sound, the chuck disappeared, and his grandfather said bad words for a long time.

Aldo began to be afraid, in late August, that they would take him back to the city to start the second grade, and he would never be there to see his grandfather get the old son of a bitch.

One night it rained and the road was damp, and they were in position when the first pale gold of the sun began to shine through the misty morning sky. Aldo saw the old woodchuck come out and stop eight feet from his hole. He held his breath. The chuck sat upright, sniffing at the morning air. The crack of the rifle made Aldo jump, and he saw the chuck moving toward his hole. His grandfather jumped up faster than Aldo had ever seen him move, and Aldo had to run hard to catch up with him. The woodchuck was half in and half out of his burrow, back legs sprawled. His grandfather, wheezing and gasping, grabbed a rear leg and yanked the old woodchuck back out, let go quickly, and moved back.

“Right... through the head,” his grandfather said. “Even so, the old son of a bitch nearly got underground.”

“Right through the head,” Aldo said.

His grandfather rested the rifle against the slope and looked quietly down at the dead animal. He was getting his breath back. Finally he said, “Sheee-yit!”

“What’s the matter, Grampa?”

“Nothing, Aldie. Nothing.”

“Why are you acting so cross?”

“I’m not cross, boy.”

“Are... you sorry for him?”

“Sorry? No. I’m not sorry.” His grandfather looked down at him, frowning. “What I’m thinking about, the old son of a bitch is no longer up here to come git. No reason anymore to think about how I’m going to get him because... it’s all done and over.”

Mr. Aldo Bellinger looked at the sleeping wife of Mr. Rountree and knew that sometime within the next week, aboard Winkler’s sloop, he would tell Anne Faxton how, as he saw Liz sprawled beside him, fading down into sleep, that same wistful regret had come into his mind with the remembered weary sound of Grampa’s voice saying “Sheee- yit! ”

He looked down at himself, torpid between the thick tough thighs with the hard weave of muscle under the curly sun-scalded hair, aware of the beginning now of the first thickening of new tumescence. Twenty-five visits a year to Marburg for the tests and measurements, and the sophisticated changes in the level of the dosages of steroids, cortisones, supplementary testosterone. Five thousand a year to Marburg to keep the sexual clock set back a dozen years. So get full value, Bellinger.

He eased himself carefully close, moved a pillow to the right place for his head, then gently slid his left arm under her, under her neck and around, to place the flat of his hand against her back. With the fingers of his right hand he tenderly combed the blond hair back away from her face, feeling the slight sweat-dampness that still remained near the roots.

She opened unfocused eyes, befuddled, uncomprehending. He moved his right hand down to the steep soft cleft of her waist. He saw her pale blue eyes come into a sharp focus of recognition. He saw the memory and awareness hit her, a savage impact. Pam, guilt, shock, shame. She tried to twist away from him, pushing at his chest with her hands, straining to free herself and roll away from him.

“No, Liz,” he said gently. He held her firmly.

Her effort weakened and faded away. She covered her face with her hands and made a snorting noise.

“Don’t cry. Please, honey.”

“Just let me go. Let me go.”

“We have to talk about this.”

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“Back to my room.”

“In a bikini, back to the other wing?”

She spread her fingers, and a damp miserable eye stared at him. She lifted up and looked over him toward the glass doors, then fell back limply. “What time is it?”

“A little after eight. We both fell asleep.”

“Oh God. What’ll I do?”

“Is your room key in that canvas bag, or down at the desk?”

“In... that bag of mine, I think. Yes.”

“Good. I can wander over there and pick up what you need in my dispatch case and bring it back here.”

“Then that makes everything all right? Oh God, Mr. Bellinger, I wish I was dead. I really do.”

He felt such a great warmth and affection and sympathy for her that it made his eyes sting. Not an Amazon at all. Just a scared, heart-sick, troubled young girl, looking unexpectedly small beside him. It pleased him to think of how he would and could raise her spirits. It had worked before and would work every time, whenever there was enough guilt and enough shame.

“Can you ever forgive me, darling?” he asked.

“Forgive you!”

“For a long time I lay just like this, with my arms around you, watching you sleep, trying to understand how it could have happened. I had no idea of anything like this happening when I asked you to come up here. I just wanted to... see your eyes sparkle and see your smile when I told you about my plans for Lee. And then I... oh God, Liz, I’m so sorry. I just didn’t realize the sun and booze and... It was all my fault.”

She rubbed her tears away with her thumb knuckles, snuffed hard. “Oh boy. Sure. All your fault, Aldo. I stretch out on your bed in a bikini and start kissing you. What the hell did I expect you to do? I was asking for it. And I got it. I really got it. I was going to go through my whole life never cheating on Lee, and it wasn’t going to be any kind of big character thing either. I never had any reason to cheat. I never thought I even could. I thought I’d vomit if a man other than Lee put his hands on me even.”

“We were both smashed, Liz. Drinks and sunshine and fun and jokes. We’ve always enjoyed each other, liked each other. But I’ve always... been aware of you in a sexual way. I’ve wanted you and been absolutely certain I’d never have you.”