Still Time: Introduction

[It’s impossible to market a novel these days. In addition to the fact that there are no more book stores, people just aren’t reading fiction. They are especially not reading fiction by a Vermont writer whose claim to fame is that he has created a fictional “jungle” where he rallies a motley crew of fellow sub-humanoids. If that’s not a recipe for success, what is?

The first section “Deer Camp” was published several weeks ago due to what the author decribes as “gross professional incompetance.” With that rousing introduction, and an imaginary drum roll, Silverback Digest proudly presents “Still Time: Stories of The ‘Stead.” Please feel free to comment along the way. SB SM]

Deer Camp

November

The men (Henry, Emil, Manny, and Manny’s teenage son, Leo) arrive at deer camp in the fading light of afternoon. The cabin is a rustic, primitive structure, more of a temple of masculinity than a shelter. It is a rough-hewn cathedral of wood, seasoned over decades by woodsmoke, wet wool, and cheap beer.

They put things in order with an uncharacteristic, rhythmic efficiency. Beer is jammed into the cooler with ice, and hunting gear is laid out at the ready. Almost immediately, the ribbing begins. Manny and Emil start joking about Henry’s infamous “Moosecrap joke,” a legendary piece of camp lore that young Leo, relegated to the most sagging bunk, has never heard.

Henry takes his rightful place at the stove, initiating the ritual preparation of dinner. The foundational rule of camp is absolute: no one is allowed to ask what goes into the pot. Teasing abounds, tempered eventually by strategy talk for the morning. It is agreed that Emil and Manny will hike up to the high ridge, while Henry and Leo will take the stands downhill. The uphill men will try to drive the deer downward into the valley. Emil, who has done some thorough pre-hunt scouting, swears there is an eight-point buck up there with their names on it. He has already cleared the brush for two prime deer stands.

Meanwhile …

Back at the house, Grace is executing her own quiet strategy. She begins the mise en place for her Christmas baking, meticulously laying out the ingredients, the heavy copper cookware, and the flour-dusted recipe cards. With the kitchen staged, she calls Olive, inviting her over for the following evening to watch a movie.

When all the pieces are perfectly in place, Grace pours herself a generous glass of wine, lights a beeswax candle, and puts on lush classical music. She runs a deep bubble bath and sinks into the warmth. She falls asleep briefly, the music drifting in from the hallway, but wakes just before the water turns too cold. After toweling off, she wraps herself in a flannel robe and spends a long moment studying her face in the mirror as she applies moisturizer. It’s a rare pause for self-reflection. She makes no effort to disguise or resist age. Her wrinkles tell the story well. Suffering, wisdom, compassion, generosity, lust, kindness … yup, it’s all there. No artificial ingredients added! She’s old, but she likes the way she looks.

Meanwhile …

Swaddled and moisturized, she blows out the candle, turns off the music, adjusts the thermostat, and goes upstairs. She settles under the covers, turns on the TV, sets the timer, and drifts off to the familiar patter of a Sex and the City rerun.

The men at deer camp wake in the thick, unforgiving dark of early morning. Henry gets the coffee going, the heavy scent of dark roast cutting through the chill as the others mumble, snort, and boot themselves into readiness. Henry lays out thick slices of bread and packets of jerky for them to stuff into their hunting jackets, then fills their insulated cups to the brim. He sends Leo into the dark first, telling the boy he will be right up as soon as the kitchen cleanup is complete. The camp is developing a funky smell.

In truth, Henry dawdles. He lingers over his own mug, washes the tin plates with deliberate slowness, and lets the morning stretch out before he finally wanders to his stand. Deep down, surrounded by the quiet gray woods, he secretly hopes he won’t see a deer at all.

Meanwhile …

Grace is a blur of efficiency in the kitchen. By midmorning, the counters are a landscape of festive, aromatic confections. She is creating six distinct types of Christmas cookies, destined for the neighbors’ doorsteps precisely twelve days before Christmas. The chocolate rum balls are her personal favorite, rich, dark, and heavy on the rum, but the cooling racks are also stacked high with classic buttery spritz cookies dyed a pale festive green, powdered-sugar wedding cakes rich with walnuts, gingerbread men with real ginger snap, delicate raspberry-filled Linzer tarts, and chewy molasses crinkles that smell of clove and cinnamon.

Her monumental work is complete by noon. She scrubs the kitchen down until it gleams, only to realize she suddenly has five hours entirely to herself before Olive arrives. For a few minutes, habit takes over; she casts about the house looking for something that needs to be straightened, cleaned, or put away. But then she stops herself. She walks into the library, sinks into the deep cushions of the couch, and spends the next two hours pulling books down from the shelves. She spends a few minutes visiting with each one like an old friend before exchanging it for another. Satisfied and thoroughly relaxed, she closes the last book and takes a long, undisturbed nap.

Meanwhile …

It is a highly successful day on the mountain, mostly because no one has shot anything—or anyone. Back at the cabin, the beer is flowing freely. Leo is on the floor, meticulously building a pyramid out of the empty aluminum cans.

Once a solid base has been established, Manny starts pestering Henry to finally tell the moosecrap joke for Leo’s benefit. Henry is at the stove, stirring another round of a thick, anonymous mystery stew. Finally, after Emil starts banging a tin cup on the table, initiating a rhythmic “We want the joke!” chant, Henry gives in. He wipes his hands on a dishtowel and turns around.

“All right, all right,” Henry grins. “So, these guys are at hunting camp, and it’s dinnertime. No one wants to cook, because all the other guys do is complain about the food. So, after a while, they come up with a rule: they’ll draw straws to see who goes first, but the absolute second anyone complains about a meal, they have to take over as the camp cook. They all agree and draw straws. The loser puts on the apron and cooks spaghetti for dinner. It’s just dry noodles and a jar of cheap sauce, but you’d think he’d just served up a Michelin-starred meal, because no one wants to complain and get stuck at the stove.

“The next night, the guy serves up baked potatoes, which he deliberately leaves hard and undercooked, smothered in Cheez Whiz. But still, no one complains. He even gets a few strained compliments. The third night, the cook goes out into the woods until he finds this massive, steaming pile of fresh moose crap. He brings it back to camp, scoops it into a fancy pie shell, and bakes it. They all gather around for dinner, and the cook proudly brings out the pie. The first guy takes a massive, heaping bite, chews for a second, and goes: ‘ARGGHGHG … MOOSECRAP!! … (wait for it, wait for it) … BUT GOOD!!'”

The cabin erupts, Leo laughing loudest of all as the punchline echoes off the rafters.

Meanwhile …

Olive shows up on the dot, bearing her usual energy. She and Grace set to work, gently swaddling the Christmas cookies in colored tissue paper before packing them tightly into the colorful vintage tins Grace has hunted down at yard sales and thrift shops over the past year.

As they finish the last tin, Olive pulls a small wooden pipe from her pocket. “Do you want some of this?” she asks, leaning against the counter. “It’s this year’s harvest. I grew two plants out back.”

Grace considers it for a split second, looking at the pipe, then smiles and declines. “I haven’t done any of that since the dorm room, senior year. I think I’ll stay with my Campari on the rocks.”

“Suit yourself,” Olive says with a laugh, carrying her pipe onto the porch and into the crisp evening air.

Later, they settle in to watch the movie on TV, but quickly get sidetracked by a fierce debate about the all-time leading men of cinema. Olive champions the smoldering charm of Richard Gere and Robert Redford, while Grace argues for the classic elegance of Cary Grant and the effortless cool of Brad Pitt. The debate becomes so spirited and full of laughter that they lose track of time. The movie is forgotten, and they wind up happily watching a couple more episodes of Sex and the City.

Meanwhile …

The men are a little later getting onto the mountain the next morning. The cabin moves at a slower pace, and almost every sip of hot coffee or bite of charred toast provides someone with a renewed excuse to loudly repeat the previous night’s punchline. The local deer population remains entirely safe.

That evening, the truck finally rattles into the driveway. Henry arrives home, smelling of woodsmoke and old grease, and heads straight for the bathroom to jump in the shower.

After he is washed, dressed, and back to normal, he walks into the kitchen. Grace looks up from her book, a knowing smile on her face.

“Did anyone shoot anything?” she asks.

“No,” Henry admits, opening the fridge. “For the eighteenth consecutive year, I have failed to get my buck, and for the eighteenth consecutive year, I’ve told the same lousy joke. I tell ya, Babe, I haven’t lost a thing!”

“Moosecrap …” Grace says to no one. “Wait for it, wait for it … but good.”