Daddy’s red and white 1955 Ford Fairlane slowly lumbers down a lonely dirt road toward Lake Conroe. The long, winding path cuts through a forest of pristine pines interspersed with a smattering of white birch and dogwood. Grass wet with dew separates the two ribbons of reddish dirt from each other. The tree line on either side is edged with woodland plants for groundcover.
Daddy decides to drive slowly so he doesn’t pitch up any dust. I can see the damp dirt is packed too tight to throw any dust this morning, but I don’t dare say anything to Daddy about that fact. His temper is such that I have learned to bite my tongue. Because of his reactions to my implied misdeeds, I often make a choice to be silent. As a result, I have been labeled shy by anyone close to our family.
Power pole after power pole zigzags along the western tree line, looking out of place among the pines. The sun rises above the eastern treetops penetrating lower branches, blinding anyone looking in that direction. Remnant patches of fog hover over the power lines. A pair of woodpeckers hammer out a piercing percussionist’s symphony on one of the scattered white birches.
It is a brisk morning, but I am not cold.
Daddy pulls the Fairlane to an abrupt halt. The dust remains on the ground. Squinting through his cheap filling station sunglasses, the old man stares at the tree line. He pauses and takes a deep breath before he whispers with urgency in a low tone. “Quick, boy — get your gun.”
I reach into the back seat and pull out my Model 12 pump-action .22 Remington rifle. The Remington is loaded and ready for bear. Of course, there hadn’t been any bear sightings around Lake Conroe in over 10 years.
Daddy pushes his sunglasses down to the end of his nose, and, without taking his eyes off of something at the tree line, shoves a box of .22 Smokeless Rim Fire Cartridges into my hand. It’s an old red and silver Union Metallic box that looks like something from the 1880’s, and knowing how cheap Daddy is, it just might be that.
“Right tree line, boy. Two o’clock.”
“Whaaat … is it, Dad?”
“Ssshhh – Armadilla.”
We have Nine-Banded Armadillos in our part of Texas. I know because we studied them in school. Daddy, a backwoods country boy, calls them armadillas.
There is no way I am going to correct him and say O – armadill-O – Dad. One time, a spilled glass of milk at the dinner table almost cost me my left eye. No way am I going to interrupt his train of thought and question his intelligence. I only have one good eye left.
“Open the door. Sneak up on the hood.”
I do what I am told. Daddy puts his index finger up to his lips warning me to be quiet. I slowly open the door and climb out. He nods at me, reminding me not to spook the armadilla. I gently close the door.
I glance at Daddy. His stern face motivates me to continue moving forward. When I get to the front of the Fairlane, I jump up onto the hood. The wetness glides me completely over to the other side and I fall to the muddy ground below. Somehow, I am able to hold the gun upright. When I spring back up, I look at Daddy’s face. I can’t tell what he is thinking. He is somewhere between disgust and hysterical laughter. Embarrassment clouds my mind as I try to knock the mud off of my tan jeans. I know if I don’t get the mud off Daddy won’t let me back in the car.
“Dammit, hurry up. He’s still sitting there.”
I climb back up on the hood of the Fairlane, this time lying flat on my stomach, stretched fully across the hood. My Remington is pointed in the direction of my target.
With my good eye, I line up my aim. I keep praying that the rising sun won’t blind my view. Or maybe I keep praying that it will blind my view. It does briefly as a bead of sweat runs down my forehead. I draw the small thick body of the armadillo into my gunsight. This poor little soldier of the forest sits in a clearing basking in the early sun, impervious to danger, thinking he is protected by his layers of leathery hide. Another bead of sweat runs down my forehead and into my right eye. It burns and my eye blinks uncontrollably. My breathing turns to panting. My internal clock ticks thunder. I squeeze the trigger.
BLAM!
The acoustics created by the walls of pine on either side of the clearing make the echo of the gunshot sound more like a .30-06 than a .22. My bullet penetrates the protective armor of the poor defenseless animal. He runs a couple of feet before falling with a thud. His armor does not protect him this day. Nothing does.
“Atta boy – you got ‘em, Son!”
Daddy is beaming from ear to ear. Finally, I have done something he is proud of. I let out a cheer.
“Woohoo!”
Maybe the old man really does love me.
As I gaze across the open field to the tree line, I see the blood-splattered armadillo’s lifeless body. I feel numb. This unfortunate innocent animal’s death makes Daddy happy. And even though I am happy that Daddy is happy; my hands, my feet, my nose, and my ears feel the sting of frost-bitten cold.
I wonder if this is what a cold-blooded killer feels like.
The old man makes me sit on the hood of the car the rest of the way to the lake. I am the hood-ornament. Daddy watches me. I sit tall and proud.
BLAM… BLAM… BLAM…
Every quarter of a mile or so, Daddy pulls over and forces me to shoot more armadillas. I slaughter at least thirty on this momentous day. Blood and guts cover tree trunks and power poles. Their lifeless bodies discarded like old hubcaps. Daddy hoots and hollers all morning long. He is so proud of me.
But I have a secret. I am sick to my stomach and on the verge of throwing up. I can’t let him know. I have to protect myself.
As we head on down the road to the lake the old man grins at me and I smile with ambiguity. He stares at my reaction a little too long, penetrating my armor of deceit.
Oh my God. Does he know? Burning liquid from the back of my throat floods my nostrils.
The sun is coming up, but I have never felt so cold.
John William Young is a classically trained, award winning actor, director, playwright, and screenwriter. He is best known for the iconic character “Tinker” in the cult classic film Road House, starring Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliott.
He has also worked as a script analyst, script doctor, ghost writer, contest judge, and served as fiction editor for the Northridge Review Literary Magazine, and is a published author of short fiction. He has three sons and loves sports, nature and puppies.
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He has also worked as a script analyst, script doctor, ghost writer, contest judge, and served as fiction editor for the Northridge Review Literary Magazine, and is a published author of short fiction. He has three sons and loves sports, nature and puppies.
