by Theresa Boyar

The black welcome mat is permanently bolted to the front stoop of 835 River Street. Darrell Hawkins sits on it with his back to his wife, Betty, who stands at the screen door, running her hands along her green slacks, talking to Darrell in a voice that’s begun to splinter with age, a voice that reminds him now of campfires, the way sparks escape sharp and lucid before blinking out of existence.
 
"So, did the deer do it?" Betty asks.
 
Darrell holds a headless stalk of what used to be a tulip in his lap. He runs his thumb along the broken tip. "Bitten clean off," he says, "but something’s not right."
 
He touches the odd prints in the soil around the tulip beds. Then he examines once more his mesh fencing, the way it’s been uprooted from the garden’s edge, rolled neatly, and placed to the side. "Took the damn fence out," he says. "Who the hell would do this?"
 
He spends the rest of the morning refitting the fence and working outside. He eyes his neighbors as they drift outdoors, and when they say hello, he returns their greetings with a sharp nod of his head, a suspicious jut of his chin.
 
Later, he tells Betty he’d enjoy an apple pie for dessert and sends her to the store for brown sugar and a bag of granny smiths. While she’s gone, a doe wanders by and Darrell sprays her with his hose until she hurries down the block and begins nosing through a neighbor’s petunias. When she lifts her head to look in Darrell’s direction, he squeezes the trigger and releases a cautioning jet of water.
 
In the afternoon, Darrell tells Betty he’d appreciate a glass of lemonade in the backyard, and while he’s sitting in his padded chair, the tumbler cool between his palms, he notices a squirrel darting in and out of his antler pile. The antlers are Darrell’s monument to his own hunting prowess, collected over several decades. They are arranged in a tidy stack that rises a good six feet tall, and as Darrell watches, it becomes clear that the squirrel has made his home among the stack’s bony points and curves.
 
Darrell retrieves his hose and his shovel from the garage, and positions himself by the antlers, holding the shovel over the opening where the squirrel has made most of its comings and goings. With some effort, he squeezes the hose trigger with his left hand, aiming the water inside the nest of antlers. When the squirrel tries to escape through its favored opening, Darrell’s shovel is there. He brings it down hard.
 
There’s a soft crunching noise, followed by the sound of Betty’s "Oh!" from the back porch. Darrell turns to see his wife holding her hand to her mouth.
 
"Was that the neighbor’s cat?" she asks.
 
"For Christ’s sake, Betty. It’s a goddamned squirrel. What kind of animal do you think I am?"
 
He spends the next half hour cleaning the mess by the antler pile and hosing down his shovel.
 
Darrell takes his dinner that evening in the living room. He stations himself in front of the window that overlooks the front yard, the tulip beds. When he’s finished eating, Betty sets a plate of apple pie in front of him with a flourish.
 
"Just as you requested," she says, smiling.
 
The crust is dark brown, black along one edge.
 
"You burnt the damn thing, Betty," Darrell says, before digging in with his fork.
 
That night, Darrell tells Betty to bring his pillow and blanket to him on the sofa. He instructs her to leave the drapes open, and he periodically turns his attention away from the television and toward the front yard. The shovel has been brought inside. It leans against the wall by the door.
 
Betty falls asleep in the armchair during Leno, her mouth open, her dry feet resting on the tops of her moss-colored slippers. Darrell is determined to stay awake the whole night if he has to. He pours a glass of water, tightens his robe, and settles back in front of the television.
 
He awakens with a jolt a few hours later. The room is cold and the television has been turned off, along with all the lights. He can see the armchair just well enough to observe that Betty has gone off to bed.
 
He looks out the window and sees a large buck across the street, chewing on chokecherries from the neighbor’s tree. Darrell’s lip curls and he makes a move to grab his shovel. But where the shovel was, there is only empty wall, and the front door, Darrell now notices, is open.
 
He steps outside and stands on the stoop, his arms folded against the chill, his feet planted on the welcome mat. In the tulip beds, a shadowy shape moves clumsily in the dark. Darrell squints at it.
 
"Who’s there?"
 
The movement stops, but there’s no answer.
 
The buck across the way looks up and begins to walk toward Darrell. The animal is large, a twelve-pointer at least. The neighbors have a string of motion-sensitive lights around their yard and they begin to pop on—one, two, three— as the buck moves closer.
 
Darrell opens his mouth to holler the animal away, but he’s distracted by a slow rustle from the tulip bed, and his words break apart and fail inside him. The buck pauses on the sidewalk and sniffs at Darrell’s mailbox before ducking its head and turning away down the street.
 
From the tulips, there’s a stir and crunch, a snap of green stem, a shower of petals falling on well-tended soil. This time, when Darrell narrows his eyes, he can just make out a pair of moss-colored slippers.

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