Hunting

Jenni's husband is determined to shoot a moose this year and every night he slides into bed with a hunting magazine, the grayish pages filled with stories of bearded men who all seem to have the same dog. Jenni tries to read over his shoulder but she can't understand the sentences, the way they veer and sputter into strange, choppy paragraphs. Every so often an apostrophe appears, as if by magic, dangling so helplessly at the end of a word that Jenni feels sorry for that small, muted dot of ink.

Most of these magazines have centerfolds of sorts, a colored, two-page spread of a man with a bear or deer or sometimes a wild pig from Arizona, the animal splayed out across the ground with its legs opened wide. Jenni thinks of the men's magazines she sometimes buys at the mini-mart across town, the plastic covers cool and exotic against her stomach as she sneaks them into the bathroom. The women inside wear the same look as these animals, as if waiting to be caught, by a man instead of a gun, though it's the same difference: that sudden, sharp explosion. Jenni imagines herself spread out across two pages, silk sheets shining between the possibilities of her opened thighs.

**

Years ago when she was fresh out of college, Jenni danced at a topless bar for a year. This was after she first moved to Alaska and found herself overwhelmed by the cloudy skies and the stern, silent mountains. After living so long in the Southwest, she couldn't shake the feeling of misplacement, of ending up in a land so foreign that even the water tasted unfamiliar, wetter and grayer, as if the color of the sky had somehow blotted the taste.

She drank more than water in those days: a few shots of tequila before work in the evening and, as the night wore on and her make-up began to cake beneath the heated lights, small sips of vodka from the silver flask she kept in her boot. She favored the cheaper brands, Monarch and Smirnoff, anything to uphold the illusion of sliding down, fast, into the shabbier, messier realms of life, the life her mother had often warned was in store for her, those nights she had come in late from dates, her sweaters misbuttoned and her hair scattered from some boy's hot hands.

Sometimes she even snorted a few lines of cocaine, spread out over the dressing room counter, a rolled hundred dollar bill (or, if tips were exceptionally poor, a fifty or even a twenty) stuck up her nose and smelling like other people's pockets. She liked the feeling of being on edge, not quite high and not quite drunk but moving firmly in that direction. It gave her, as she danced and smiled and stuck her pelvis in unfamiliar men's faces, a sobering sense of perspective.

**

Jennie met her husband in Seattle, where she had gone for one of those bounce back weekends advertised in the newspaper. What she was bouncing back from was an affair, an ugly, shameful mess involving two men, neither of whom she loved, or even liked much, for that matter. Still, she felt so used and betrayed that she had to spend money, lots of it, as if to console herself, or prove that she was worthy of something: a new sweater or a pair of shiny, high-heeled boots. At night she watched old movies and cried into the crisp, bleach-smelling hotel sheets until she fell asleep, slightly drunk from the small bottles of wine that magically replenished themselves in the tiny refrigerator by the bathroom.

So when she stumbled into a tall, reddish-haired man at the airport, she was ready, if not for him, then for a change. She felt right at home with his flannel shirt and running shoes, the way his voice swung so low she had to lean forward to make out his words. He had been in Seattle on business and was waiting for the next flight back to Anchorage. Jenni sat beside him on that humming, droning plane, her travel bag filled with the lingerie she had picked up cheap at outlet stores, each rustle of the bag reminding her of the fiction she was creating while sitting with this man who may or may not have seen her sweaty and jiggling in a G-string so small she could fit it in the palm of her hand.

Nevertheless, she gave him her phone number and when he called, less than a week later, met him twice before quitting her job and sealing her shiny, glistening underthings into a box with duct tape. She started working at the electric company and bought a dozen pair of white, Fruit of the Loom underpants, the high-rise kind, like fat women and minister's wives wore. It pleased her, this new identity she had created, though she wondered if it might have been there all along. Maybe it had just taken her longer to find it.

**

Jenni has never told her husband about her past, though she has tried a few times, suggesting they do something different, rent a racy movie or check out one of the strip clubs, each suggestion met with such an awkward, drawn-out silence that Jenni worries she might be deficient, lacking in the mundane, everyday desires most women take for granted. At such times, her husband reminds her of the smiling pumpkin on the canned pie mix her mother used to buy: bland and wholesome and cleaned of all seeds. In bed he is tender and gentle and amazingly uninventive. Jenni can close her eyes and know, at any given moment, what is to come next, and for how long.

In the beginning, this was a welcome change from sex in fitting rooms and public bathrooms and restaurants with white tablecloths. She found his touch mystical, as if all the words she never thought to say were suddenly right there, in the tips of his fingers. But lately, Jenni has become aware of a lack, and when she tries to compensate for this in bed, moving his hand or changing positions, she can feel the shy hesitation in his arms, the way his mouth suddenly stiffens. Whatever they try squats between them like something new and distant and unattainable, and Jenni feels lonely those nights, lying beside her husband, her body damp with the struggle of restrained passion. She feels stuck, caught. She feels as if she is wearing a leash.

**

Every Wednesday night, Jennie's husband takes his rifle down from the closet shelf and cleans it with an oil that smells smeary and black, like hot asphalt. He sits with his legs slightly apart, his shoulders leaning forward, his lips humming a tune Jenni can't quite hear. In the dim light, his face takes on that blank, intense look he often has during sex and Jenni feels embarrassed for him, and for herself also, for the way she watches his hands glide over that dark metal, wishing he would touch her in the same way: with reverence and slight fear, as if she held mysteries too binding to be told.

Jenni consoles herself with thoughts of her own treasures hidden in her bottom dresser drawer beneath her surplus box of Tampax: a black G-string, a pair of fur-lined handcuffs and the whip she used to carry when she danced, cheap black plastic but up on the stage, with the blurry lights, it had looked real. The men had liked this, her whip. They liked it when she pretended to hit them during her table dances, hurling the tip toward them and then sliding the edge down her body until it was between her legs, slowly, teasingly, as if she had all the time in the world.

Sometimes, if they paid her extra, she would let them pretend to hit her, never hard, just enough that she could feel it. She would bend over in front of them while they brought the thin plastic down towards her almost-bare ass. She pretended this hurt, begged them to stop, promised she would be good if they would only just stop. All of this excited her so much she had to go in the bathroom afterwards and wipe toilet paper between her legs, so her G-string wouldn't become soggy; she hated to get it dirty, since it had to be handwashed. The rest of the night she would feel dizzy and lightheaded, the way she used to feel as a child when she put on her grandmother's glasses, the magnified lenses giving her a strange, distorted sense of balance.

**

On the weekends, Jenni's husband spends hours on the phone with his hunting buddies discussing rifles and secret trails, his voice rising louder and louder as the morning wears on. Sometimes they come over, three or four muscular men filling her kitchen with the musky smell of sweat and damp wool. They act humble and clumsy when they first walk in, like dogs that aren't usually allowed in the house. After a few beers, though, they loosen up and unroll their maps over the table. To Jenni, these maps are like another language, indecipherable to anyone who doesn't own camouflage. She wonders how anyone could follow those lines of streams that suddenly end, those mountains running off the edge, only to reappear a few pages later, as if all the space in between were nothing but an afterthought. Jenni wonders how any of them ever survives to make it back home, the way they argue and pound the table, their blunt fingers running up and down as if seeking not only the perfect trail but a way to decipher the hazy, wooded terrain of their daily lives.

Jenni likes having these men in her house, she likes the sounds of their voices and the way the air suddenly feels warmer and more expansive. She sits in the living room reading or working on one of her quilts, and when they finally leave, heading out to the rifle range or to scout one of the trails, Jenni feels strangely let down, as if she has been promised a good meal and has been sent from the table hungry. She wanders around, putting away ashtrays and wiping up spilled beer, and when she finds herself in the bedroom, she tells herself she is just going to take a nap. She tells herself this even as she pulls off her shirt and folds her pants neatly over the chair, as if this semblance of order might excuse what's coming next. Then she slips into bed, her face surrounded by her husband's smell as she imagines herself dancing for these men, up on the kitchen table, her feet elegant and tanned in a pair of slim sandals. She imagines sliding off her skirt and stepping out of her underpants, those wholesome cotton underpants she bleaches to a moonlit white each week, as her husband's friends watch her, their mouths hanging opened as she tosses her hair and bends down to touch her ankles, her fingers sliding slowly, lightly, up the inside of her legs.

When Jenni finally gets up, she feels startled and slightly ashamed, and on these afternoons she prepares a large dinner, as if for penance. She cooks food she thinks of as stoic and dignified, meatloaf and scalloped potatoes, the kinds of food she imagines the puritans must have favored for their bland, simple properties.

**

Jenni was ready to quit dancing before she met her husband. She was tired of it, the way everyone looked at her body as if it were separate from her head. It didn't matter what she said, those times she leaned down to ask for a table dance, as long as her ass and breasts looked inviting. And even though no one was supposed to touch the dancers, the bouncers would look away for a couple of twenties. Once Jenni had to fight off a man who held her against the wall, his hand jammed down the front of her G-string, probing and pinching until Jenni finally bit him, hard, on the shoulder, the taste of his shirt lingering in her mouth like stale soap.

She told herself that she would quit at the end of the week, find another job, waitressing or secretarial, something she could do in the daytime like a normal person. But the minute she walked out on the stage, she felt transformed, carried away by the lights and the noise and the anticipation of so many men waiting for her to move, either towards them or away from them, it was all up to her. She felt powerful, at such times, and beautiful, as if she had suddenly become brighter. Often she worried that nothing else would ever compare to the rush and the thrill of standing before so many people and doing something so simple and ordinary as taking off her clothes.

**

Thursday evening, Jenni sits in the kitchen and watches out the window as her husband and his hunting buddies stumble around the yard, dressed in camouflage and shooting at a target of a deer. They are practicing for their moose hunt, though, because of the zoning laws, are using a squirt gun filled with red ink. Still, they are confident and cocky, yelling and chuckling and slamming their hands into fists when they hit a particularly desirable shot.

Jenni finds their behavior strangely innocent, as if she is watching some type of primitive rite, outdated yet nevertheless vital. Her husband, dressed in the new jacket he bought last week and asked her to wash so it wouldn't feel creased, looks particularly in need of protection, with his pink cheeks and shaven face. He looks young, almost school-boyish amid the other bearded faces and longer hair. Yet when he raises the gun and takes aim, his posture changes and he becomes someone else, rough and more confident, the kind of man who would stalk a bear through tall underbrush, who wouldn't think twice about wading through an icy stream in his bare feet. Jenni, who has never seen her husband like this before, is fascinated and excited; she can't take her eyes off of him.

Suddenly it occurs to her how little she really knows this man, who she has slept beside for the past three years. She wonders if he's ever cheated on her, off in those small villages, those remote tundra sites. He doesn't seem the type, he's so mild mannered; but you never can tell. Maybe he is also pretending to be someone else, playing a part not solely to compliment her own but to protect himself from his own hidden desires, which he brings out only at night, in the dark, when he thinks she is asleep.

**

Later that night, Jenni stands in the bathroom, sipping Scotch and waiting for courage. She's wearing her black satin costume with the plunging neckline and the thonged back, and over it she's draped her husband's camouflage jacket, which smells of beer and tobacco and wet grass. When the room begins to spin and her head feels pleasantly loose, she wobbles to the door in her opened-toed heels, tripping slightly on the carpet. Luckily, she doesn't have far to go, just up the hallway and inside the bedroom, where her husband lies sprawled in bed watching the late show. She can hear the laughter as she hesitates by the door, and after the next commercial, she plunges right in, moving as fast as her heels will allow. She clicks off the television and pops a CD into the stereo, turning the volume up loud.

"Hey!" her husband protests, raising his hand as if to warm off a blow, but Jennie ignores him, concentrating on the music, her leg twitching impatiently. She bends down and touches her toes, shaking out her arms the way she does before she dives into the pool. Then the song comes on, the song she used to dance to, and it's as if her body still remembers, after all this time. Her feet begin to move, her hips sway back and forth. She glances over at her husband, who is watching her with a confused, perplexed expression, and then she sucks in her breath and slips off the jacket, the air cool against her bare shoulders. For a moment she can't move, she feels paralyzed, like a small animal caught in a car's headlights, but then she tosses her hair and slides her hand up her arm, pushing that satin strap down her shoulder. She closes her eyes and remembers the crowd, the smoke-filled room, the way the music beat off the walls, so loud she could feel it in her chest, a deep thumping that made her blood move forward.

When her husband finally touches her, sliding his hand over her arms and down across the smooth swell of her breast, her skin feels hot and pressed, the way the grass feels in the summer when she turns over rocks and touches the strangled, frail shoots hidden from the sun.