Feather came to the picnic. I knew, because Herbert whined. I turned just in time to see her walk out of the woods, which was strange.
She sat on a blown-over sycamore trunk, watching. Her head turned, slowly, this way, that way. I think she took in everything. One man tried to speak to her. But she did not even look at him. She seemed waiting.
I stood on the porch, seeing all the picnic tables and kegs filling my yard, and the tent. Cars parked all along the road. People carried in bowls and baskets for the potluck supper. They crowded on my yard and spilled into the field next door, where my neighbor hays.
Billy came last. He carried an open bottle of Jack Daniels, a quarter already gone. He laughed and slapped backs and put his hands on the younger women’s shoulders and tried to stare into their eyes.
Cara had come early, for the setting up. Now she helped start a fire and put out hotdogs to roast. But she stopped working to watch Billy. She noticed me on the porch and walked over.
"Kevin," she said. "Will you go stand with him? To….You know."
"I can’t do much," I said.
She put her hand on my arm.
"Please, Kevin," she said. "If I go, he’ll get nasty."
A lot of people at Bronk Printing don’t drink, especially the newer employees who do website design and other computer work. They don’t smoke, either. They ride bicycles, really fast, wearing tight Lycra suits and helmets. At picnics most of the employees sip a drink, to be social. They talk a while, and then leave early, before the party gets raucous. At picnics I’d usually chat a little with those people, about office things, eat something, and then sort of fade away. But this was my house so I had to stay.
Some of the employees do drink a lot. Mostly they’re people who went to school with us, and played football and basketball with Billy. They crowded around him now, holding giant paper cups full of beer. Billy held the floor.
"….so I told the little shaman, ‘I paid big bucks for this expedition here, one-on-one, and I’ll shoot what I want to shoot!’"
He was telling them about his Brazil trip.
"Hey, here’s the Kevinator," he said. "Kevin, from here to out in that hayfield, think I could shoot an apple off your head?"
"You’re a crack shot, Billy," I said.
He stared at me. Then he took a big swig from his bourbon bottle.
"You bet I am," he said. "So, anyway…."
He told them about the white jaguar. Only this time the jaguar charged him, and he couldn’t get a clear shot through the branches, but the discharge frightened the animal away. He didn’t mention about it turning into an albino warrior.
"So day after day we’re out, and not one clear shot at anything," Billy told them. "You know how ticked I get."
He took another swig.
"Then I saw these birds."
They circled high over the valley, a pair of hawks. He watched them spin around each other. They made a high-pitched call, like a scream, but jubilant. They weren’t hunting, so high. Just enjoying the sky and each other.
"They irritated me, those two birds," Billy said. "Go figure."
He put his rifle to his shoulder. He squinted through the telescopic sight. But his guide, the aged little native shaman, grabbed the barrel and pulled it down.
"No, these not birds," he hissed. "Not birds like you know."
"Right, they’re black, with gold heads and tails, so they’re not like any hawks I know," Billy told the old man.
Then he pushed him away. The old man fell back onto the grass.
Billy aimed again, picking out one of the circling hawks through the telescopic sight, following it. From its size he figured it must be the male. He tracked it awhile through the sight. Then he shot.
High up, the hawk stumbled. Its wings faltered. Through the sight, he saw it go inert. It plummeted.
"What a shot," Billy said. "That other hawk followed it down, all the way, screaming bloody murder, and I was thinking, ‘How do you get a damned hawk mounted for your wall?’"
But his prize fell into a dense clump of trees. He didn’t feel like searching for it. He thought: just a bird. Then, above his head, he heard a scream. He looked up, and talons stabbed into his face.
"Man, she hovered there, those wings flapping, with those damned claws stuck into my face, drilling me with her eyes," Billy said. "Weird!"
He grabbed for her, but she shot upwards, screaming. And suddenly his left cheek throbbed and burned.
And the little shaman sat on the grass, where Billy pushed him, looking up, his expression hard to read.
"She’s marked you," he said. "She marked your soul for eating."
Billy thought the old man looked pleased.
"I should have fried his shaman soul for lunch," Billy said. "Except I needed him to get me back to the village, about all he was good for—three weeks in the Amazon, and all I shot was a damned bird."
He laughed, as if he’d told a joke. Others laughed, too. But not so much.
And then a young man and woman from the new Internet Services Division walked across the lawn toward us. They stopped in front of me, with their backs to Billy.
"Kevin, we’ve got a business question," the woman said.
These new internet people we hire have a different attitude. Probably it’s because they’ve had so much education, and can get jobs just about anywhere, and really love their work. They focus right in.
"For that Maureen’s Organics account, Kevin, the web site," the man said. "It needs something interactive, and we’ve…."
Everyone had gone quiet now. Billy stood looking.
"Billy’s right here," I told them.
Now the woman glanced at Billy.
"Yeah, right," she said, looking back at me. "What do you think, Kevin?"
Her co-worker never bothered to look at Billy at all.
Monday, I told them. We’d work on it then, in the office. But now more people crowded around. A guy from the Print Division asked me about ink color for an advertisement we were designing.
I could see Billy’s face working.
Monday, I told him.
By now almost everyone had gathered around, even Herbert. He sat leaning against my left leg. Cara came along. She stood next to me, too, on the other side.
Billy had now drunk half the Jack Daniels in his bottle. His face looked muddier than usual, but not just from the liquor. He pointed a finger at a guy, an old high-school teammate, now fat.
"Hey, get my rifle, will you Carl? Out of my Beamer’s back seat?" he said. "I’ll show you some shooting."
I heard Cara moan.
"Billy, don’t," she said. "You’ve drunk too much, and all these people crowded around…."
Billy stared down at Cara. He stepped toward her, looking down at her. Suddenly he reached down and grabbed her butt.
"Kevin, you’d like to do that, huh?" he said. "Since maybe third grade?"
Cara looked mortified, her face red. She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away.
"Everybody doesn’t think you’re cute," she shouted at him. "Everybody’s not your mother."
Billy stared at her, blinking. It was hard to tell what he thought. But then Carl marched up carrying Billy’s rifle over one shoulder, like a soldier on parade, except tripping sometimes because of all the beer.
"Here it is, Colonel Bronk," he said, handing the rifle to Billy. "It’s your Green Beret special!"