Nice Day for a Picnic Read online

  “Reckon we got about a half-hour left,” says Dad. “What do you think, buddy?”

  “Yeah, you're probably right,” I say, though I don't know. I don't much care, if I'm honest. The roast chicken and ice cream and lemon meringue are all melting down inside my stomach, and there's a breeze coming off the lake, ruffling the treetops. The sun feels like a warm bath, and everything tastes like grass and wild flowers and sugar. I lie back and watch sunspots move through my eyelashes. The sky's so blue it hurts to even look at it.

  I'd be okay spending the whole day like this. Just lying around by the water, in the sun, 'till it starts to get dark and we can pack up all the picnic things and get in the truck and go home. Sounds like a great time to me. But I know this means a lot to Dad, so I don't say anything. Instead I ask him: “What time did it happen when you were a kid?”

  “God. That was a thousand years ago.” Dad settles back on his elbows to watch the copse of trees on the other side of the lake. “But I'm pretty sure it was noon. Exactly noon.

  That's kind of the way these things go, I think. Things happen at the same time, every time. It's ritual, or tradition, or something like that.”

  I glance over at him. He looks older these days. Maybe he aged some when Mom died, or maybe I just notice more things now. He's still bigger than me, though. Big right around the middle, hard and solid, like one of those trees that've been around forever. He's taller than me, too. I guess he probably always will be.

  “How did Grandpa know when they were gonna come?” I ask. I've heard this story before, but I like to hear him tell it.

  “Well, his daddy – that's your great-grandpa –”

  “Bill? The Irish one?”

  “Yep, Great-Grandpa Bill. When my dad was your age, his dad took him here – “

  “This same spot?”

  “Just about. Maybe this exact same spot, come to think of it. But anyhow, he took him here and he told him when they were gonna show up, and that's how your grandpa knew to tell me when I was your age.”

  I pluck a long tough blade of grass and wind it tight around my fingers. “Okay, but how did Great-Grandpa Bill know, then?”

  Dad laughs. “Probably from his daddy, and his daddy before him. And on and on.”

  “Huh.” I bend the blade in half and watch it snap. “Wonder how far back it goes.”

  “Oh...hundreds of years, I'd guess. Maybe thousands. All the way back to the dawn of Man.” Dad sits up, shading his eyes. His face changes, and he nudges me. “Hey,” he says, real quiet. “Look.”

  “Are they –?”

  “Look.” His whole body is totally still.

  I look. Two figures come out of the trees across the lake. The sun is so high and so bright, striking gold off the water. I shade my eyes too, and at first I don't see anything, and then I see them. My mouth opens. I must look funny, because Dad laughs at me a little.

  If I didn't know better I'd think maybe I was looking right into the lake, at our reflections. But the people across the lake – the man and the boy – aren't reflections. They're us.

  The other Dad is dressed just like the real Dad, my Dad: green T-shirt, camo pants, laced boots. He's got my Dad's cracked-leather skin and the old army scar ripping up his forearm, only on the other Dad, it's the left arm, not the right. Light winks off his wrist: he's wearing a watch.

  And then there's me. The me that isn't me. He's wearing my old faded jeans and my Slayer shirt under my camo jacket, and he's got his hair tied back in an elastic band, and as he sets out the red-and-white check cloth and dumps the cooler on top of it I can see the thin brown freckles dotting his arms. I bet he's got my chicken-pox scar under his chin. I bet if he took his shirt off, he'd have ribs that stick out and upper arms that look like bird bones.

  “Holy shit,” I say, to stop myself from thinking about whether or not the other me likes how he looks. I shouldn't be wondering about stuff like that. It's beside the point.

  Dad grins in a way I don't think I've ever seen him grin before. I can see just about every tooth in his skull. “Go get the stuff from the truck,” he says softly.

  I look at him. “Won't they notice?”

  “Naw,” Dad says, still staring over the lake. “They can't see us 'till the sun hits noon. Right on the dot. We got maybe twenty minutes.” He shifts his eyes to me, just for a second. “So hurry your ass.”

  I get up and cross the field to where the truck is parked, under an elm. The grass rustles against my ankles, and my stomach, still full of food, is starting to bubble. I must be getting excited. I know Dad is. He's been looking forward to this for weeks. It was pretty much all he talked about. So this is gonna be fun. Lots and lots of fun.

  I whip the tarpaulin off the truck bed and sling the rifles over my shoulder. Stuff my pouches full of rounds. Strap one of the Bowie knives to my hip and keep the other in my hand to bring to Dad. The hilt's hot, burning my palm. It's real heavy, all of it. I try not to stagger as I head back to Dad.

  “Attaboy.” Dad takes one of the rifles and checks the magazine. He saw me load them at home, so I don't know why he needs to do that. Doesn't hurt to make sure, I guess. I hand him the knife. He takes it without looking and straps it to his leg.

  I settle down next to him and check my own magazine, mostly just because he did, and look back over the river. The other Dad and the other me still haven't seen us. “Shouldn't we take the shot now?” I ask. “You know, before they get a chance to look our way?”

  Dad shakes his head and sprawls forward on his stomach, placing the butt of the rifle over his shoulder, lining up the sights. “Not how it works, buddy. You've got to give them a chance. Be patient. That's the key.”

  I copy him. The butt digs into my shoulder blade and the metal is real hot, but I keep my finger on the trigger.

  We watch them. For what feels like forever. Sweat drips in my eyes but I don't dare move my hands to wipe it off, so I do my best to blink it away. The other Dad and the other me are eating and talking, laughing. The other me stretches out on the grass. He's got a paper plate next to him that he keeps picking pieces off. I look through the sights. Deep brown crust, a little burned. Frothy white on top, bright yellow in the middle. Lemon meringue.

  I don't focus on their faces. I don't want to even try and guess at what they might be saying to each other. The real Dad and the real me don't say anything at all. Grasshoppers sing. The sun climbs. An ant crawls up my arm, dances on the knuckle of my trigger finger. I could almost fall asleep.

  Then I hear Dad suck in a breath and I know. I duck down, stare through the sights.

  The other Dad and the other me are staring back at us. They see us. They see us.

  Dad breathes out, real sharp and quick, and the air splits around us as he pulls the trigger. Birds scream out of the trees and break off into the sky. The other Dad yells something, I can't tell what, and he and the other me turn and dash off into the woods.

  “Yeah!” Dad's got that grin again, and there's a light burning deep inside both his eyes. Probably the sun's making them water, like mine. He slings his rifle over his shoulder and stands, striding down to the riverbank. “C'mon, buddy, it's on! Can't let the bastards get away!”

  I eye the lake. I didn't notice before, somehow, but up close it looks real filthy. Green paste all along the bottom and white sludge that looks like birdshit. “Through the water?”

  “Only way, buddy.” He hoists up his gun and marches right in, waist-deep. “Come on!” He gestures with his head, hard stubbled chin jabbing the air. “Not afraid to get your hands dirty, are ya?”

  That kind of catches at me, sparks something hot inside. I'm not afraid. I just don't want to get sick. Getting sick is what happened to Mom, which you'd think he'd remember, seeing as how he's the one who told it to me. But I'm not afraid. Fuck it, I decide; if I get sick, I get sick. I grip the gun tight and hold it over my head and plunge into the water as quick and deep as I can. I thought it'd at least be warm, given the heat, bu
t it's cold, so unbelievably fucking cold; I feel like my nuts are shrivelling back up inside my body. Dad doesn't seem to feel the cold, or anything else; he's splashing ahead, churning the water to foam, leaving me to struggle along in the wake. My legs are almost numb by the time I reach the bank, and I have to set the gun down for a second so I can get some balance back, but Dad doesn't stop for even a minute. He's shaking water off his legs as he goes, trampling over the check cloth the other us's left behind, ducking into the underbrush so fast I nearly lose him. I hurry close behind, almost tripping over the picnic basket and half-eaten plates of food. I don't know this place like he does. I don't want to get lost out here.

  It's darker inside the forest, quieter. No grasshoppers or birds. The leaves are thick and close, shutting out the world. There are only trunks and branches and the smell of wet dirt all around. My shirt is sticking to my chest. I should've taken off my jacket back at the picnic ground but it's too late to worry about it now. Dad still seems fine. Finer than I've ever seen him, actually. There's a red flush creeping up his neck, and the veins in his arms are sticking out like wires. He can't seem to stop grinning.

  “Okay, buddy,” he says, reloading. “Look down. What do you see?”

  I look down. There are two sets of bootprints etched in the mud, leading off into the deep woods. “Tracks,” I say.

  “Good boy.” He hands me a few more rounds. “Let's split up. Cover more ground. You follow this set – “ He points to the larger prints “– And I'll follow the other. Sound good?”

  “Yeah.” He didn't tell me he was planning on splitting up. I look to my right and left. I can barely see anything, all around me. How am I gonna find my way back? “Yeah,” I say again, louder.

  “Yeah,” Dad repeats. He adjusts his sights and stares off in the direction the smaller tracks are heading. “We're good,” he says. He looks at me. “Don't you get nervous now, buddy,” he says. “You just gotta stay calm. That's the only way to bag 'em, right?”

  I didn't know I looked nervous. I shrug and smile. “Right.” I adjust my own sights. “We'll bag 'em,” I say. “We'll fuckin' nail 'em. Yeah? Right between the eyes.”

  Dad laughs and ruffles my hair. “You're a hell of a kid, buddy boy.” He turns away and disappears into the trees.

  So I'm alone now. For a moment I don't know what I'm supposed to do or where I'm supposed to go, then I remember the big set of tracks. I follow them up the sloping ground, trying to pay attention to everything around me, anything moving or breathing that shouldn't be. But everything's still. You'd never even know there was anything alive out here. I'd never even know I was here.

  I wonder if the other us's know we've followed them. They'd have to, right? I'd know. So the other me probably does, too. He just wouldn't know why. One minute he's eating pie on a picnic in the sun with his Dad, and the next thing he knows, pow, someone's shooting at him. And he'd just never be able to figure out why.

  I push aside hanging strings of Spanish moss with my gun barrel. But they're not real, right? The other us's. They're not, like, actual people. Not like me and Dad. The other me – the one who looks like me, I should say – he wouldn't feel things the way I do. Hell, he probably doesn't feel anything at all. Like Dad said, this kind of thing's been going on for years and years. It must be all right, because if it wasn't, people just wouldn't do it.

  The woods are even darker now, even deeper. I can hear running water someplace, smell it too, that kind of rainy-day smell like metal and wet tree bark. Leaves break apart under my boots. The branches knot overhead like spider webs.

  A thought hits me: what if they have guns, too? If they're really the same as us, then they'd have guns, wouldn't they? The thought makes me feel better and worse at the same time. Shit, I don't want to get shot at. But if they do have guns, it's kind of fairer. That way, if we take them out, I guess it's actually like self-defence, almost.

  Christ, it's so cold out here. Making it hard to think. Probably it's my pants, still wet from the river. I can feel the denim clinging to my legs, raising the skin up in shivery little bumps. I hope I don't get a cold. Hope I don't get sick.

  I decide they probably do have guns. It makes it easier to shove my thoughts out of the way. Dad warned me I might have to do that. He really did a lot to get me ready for this. Weeks of showing me how to aim and shoot. I didn't even know how to load a gun a couple months ago, let alone fire it at a moving target. Must've been annoying as shit but he never let on: just kept showing me how until I finally got it. He was real cool about it. Real calm, real strong. I can't pussy out now. He'll think he wasted his time.

  I look back, trying to get some idea of where I am, how far from the lakeside. I can't see anything. Just endless green and brown. The shreds of wood and leaf underfoot are so thick I can't even make out my own tracks anymore. The other set of tracks, what about them? I look around and don't see a thing. Not a goddamn thing. Aw, fuck me, I've lost him. I've lost him.

  I sit down on a fallen log and put the rifle on the ground and I feel like maybe I'm gonna cry, though of course I'm not gonna cry. I'm cold and I'm pretty sure I'm lost, and I don't know how Dad's gonna find me, but I don't want him to find me. Not now that I lost sight of the game. The whole point of this day, the whole point of all that training and stuff leading up to it, was for me to bag at least one of them, and I fucked it up. Dad's gonna be so pissed. No, he won't be pissed. He never is. Probably he won't even say anything. But I'll see his face, and I'll know.

  I should fire a couple shots. That way maybe he'll hear it, and he'll at least know I tried.

  I'm about to pick the rifle back up again when suddenly there's this huge crash to the right of me and a figure stumbles out of the bushes, panting and gasping, little flecks of blood and sweat flying off of his face and neck. Camo and cracked skin and a big hard jaw all covered in stubble. Dad, I think; but then I see it, the scar on his arm, the left arm, the wrong arm. I snatch up the rifle and have it cocked before he's even fully turned around, and by the time he sees me I've got him dead to rights.

  He stares at me, full in the face, and he reels back a little, swaying, like maybe he's gonna fall down. He's hurt his leg. The camo's all ripped up one side and there's this great big oozing gash all down his calf, soaking into his sock. Maybe it was something he did to himself, running away. Or maybe it was from when Dad shot at him earlier. Maybe he's been running on it this whole time, a big slug in his leg, bleeding out.

  Doesn't matter. I pull back the hammer and get ready to shoot. The heart. That's what Dad told me. If you can, aim straight for the heart. That way you don't do too much damage.

  He keeps looking at me. I can see the veins in his eyes. And their colour, that deep bluish grey. I almost tell him to close his eyes, or look away, or something, but I stop myself, because if I talk to him there's no way I'll be able to do this.

  I should shoot. I should pull the fucking trigger. The heart, the heart, the heart.

  We stare at each other. His hands are up and his face looks frozen. He could probably rush me right now, grab the gun off of me, bash my head in or shoot me in the face. But he doesn't move.

  I have to do it. But I can't. I can't. It's Dad. Even though I know it isn't really, it's Dad.

  I let the rifle fall to my side and jerk my head in the opposite direction. He lowers his hands halfway, keeps his eyes on me. Even though I know I shouldn't, I'm the one who looks away.

  “Fucking go,” I mutter, and by the time I look back, he has.

  I start to shake all over, all the feeling coming out of me in one big shiver. I let my breath out, not thinking about anything except the air leaving my lungs, and as it does I hear this gigantic bang, so hard against my eardrums it might as well be right next to me. I stand still. All my muscles are rigid. Dad, I think. They got him. They had guns after all and they got Dad.

  Boots on the forest floor. Oh, shit, they're coming after me now. I should've never let the bastard go. Should've blasted his ri
bs apart, blown his heart right out through his back. I snatch up my gun and aim it at the rustling leaves.

  And out he comes. I almost pull the trigger, come this close, but I don't, thank God I don't, because I see the leg of his pants – no torn cloth, no blood – and I know it's him. Dad, my Dad, the only real and true Dad there is. A big dumb grin just about splits my face in half and I'm about to call out to him when I see that he's carrying something. And I see what he's carrying. And I stop. My whole body just stops.

  He's got me. The other me. Slung over his shoulder like a side of beef. Half of the other me's side – my side – is blown away, a big mess of blood and ribs and some hanging loops that look like sausage links, but when Dad shifts a little and the other me's head lolls to one side, I see that the gunshot isn't what killed him. His throat is cut, so wide and so deep I can see the bone. His head's only hanging on by this little strip of meat. All you'd have to do to take it off completely is twist. You wouldn't even have to twist real hard.

  I can see my own face, hanging from my Dad's big broad shoulder. Mouth open. Eyes open. He saw it coming.

  Dad turns all the way around and I lift my gun. I don't know why, but I do. He's covered in blood, my blood. It's soaking the front of his T-shirt, turning it from olive-green to black. His face is coated in it, like he's painted it up. His eyes are shining and blank. For a second I don't think he recognizes me, and I don't know if I recognize him either. But then he does, and he gives me that grin again.

  “Woo! Hey there, buddy boy.” He slings the other me down on the ground and stands there with a boot on his dead chest, grinning, grinning, grinning. He's still got the Bowie knife in his fist; the handle and blade are sticky with gore. He's covered in blood, I realize, because he would've had to get right up close to me to slit my throat. My blood would've been spraying him in the face the whole time. He would've looked me right in the eye as he did it.

  He sees me looking and glances down at the knife. “Oh, right.” He laughs and slips it back into its sheath. “Shit, forgot I was even holding it.” He wipes his hand on his pants and I see my blood come away onto the camo. “Put up a hell of a fight, I tell you what,” he says, leaning against a tree. “Woo-ee. I mean, I am just running on pure adrenaline right now. Little fucker just about wiped me out. But I got him in the end. I surely did.” He looks up from my dead face to my living one. Not that there's much difference now. I can't feel anything. Nothing at all. “So where's yours?”