Everything Goes Wrong by Catherine Austen

It’s not that you loved her or felt she saw the best in you. It’s not that you’re sad she’s gone. It’s that she’s gone to Scott McConnell, who plays guitar and is a crack shot and lent your brother $2K when he really needed it and didn’t charge interest. Scott felt bad about winning Theresa, like he felt bad about winning the outfitting license you both applied for, and he felt bad about winning track in high school. And all his feeling bad for you your whole life long just told you one important thing you tucked away till now: he doesn’t think you’re a dangerous man.

*

“Great bar. Lots of character,” the taller tourist says. They’ve followed Scott to the counter where he has them sign waivers. They’re the usual set: young and fit with Patagonia pants and barbered beards. The short one snaps pictures on his phone. The tall one smiles at Theresa behind the bar.

She sets mason jars of water before them. “Menus?”

“No time, unfortunately,” the tall one says.

“I think lunch is included?” the short one asks.

“Packed lunch, yeah,” Scott says. “Not for a couple hours. That okay?”

          Austin steps out from the kitchen. “Where you taking the lads today, Scott?” he asks, smiling like a madman. He’s got a tooth missing, a top incisor, and a deep scar along one cheek. Theresa’s mother must have been a beauty because she got nothing from Austin but her height. “You can’t go wrong with this one,” he assures the tourists as he pats Scott’s back.

“Just stay out of the park,” Theresa says over her shoulder.

            “You stay out of their business!” her father snaps.

“You never know when the feds will turn up,” Theresa tells the tourists. “Don’t let Scott lead you into trouble.” She winks. Such a firecracker. Not afraid to speak her mind.

         “I don’t think we’d be liable,” the short tourist says. “If we’re following a guide?”

“But you’re welcome to come with us to keep us safe,” the tall one adds.

         Theresa snorts. Austin glares. You couldn’t have planned it better.

Scott spreads a map on the counter and shows them their options.

“What are you up to today?” Theresa asks. She’s walked to your table without you even noticing.

You never wanted to hurt Theresa. Not once, not ever. You wanted to kill Scott every day of your life, but she knows that, so you’ve been waiting for the right hunters to blame. “They’re missing their Pilates class,” you say.

She rolls her eyes. “The tall one reminds me of you.”

And you think: perfect.

*

The idea came to you while you watched a movie, here in the bar this summer, just after Theresa took up with Scott. Snotnosed college boys murder a local girl and the town takes revenge. The men do the killing but everyone pitches in for the hunt. Brothers and sisters, friends and acquaintances, fighting for every girl ever harmed by rich men passing through, every neighbour bought out by suburban retirees, everyone ever swept aside in this town.

Austin cheered when the college boys cried. You did, too. But afterward, while your buddies debated the rights and wrongs—they sinned but they saved a dozen other girls—all you could think was, What if they didn’t do it? What if someone else murdered that girl and the tourists just happened to be there? The college boys denied their guilt. You knew they were lying because you’d seen them kill the girl. But the townsfolk, the avengers, they hadn’t seen anything. They had no evidence but hate and circumstance. I bet that happens all the time, you thought. And you waited for this day.

*

The tourists are staring at you because you’re glaring as they rise and shoulder their gear.  “That’s Raymond,” Scott says, and he introduces you. The tall one’s Damon; the short one’s Phoenix. You try not to laugh at their names but you can’t help it. Scott raises a palm like what can he do with a moron like you. “Ray’s a fishing guide, if you’re interested while you’re here.”

They’re not.

“Don’t be posting anything on Insta about Scott taking you to the park to hunt,” you shout.

“Because I’m not,” Scott claims.

“Where should I say we’re going?” Phoenix asks. He’s got his phone in hand and his hands are not as girly as you expect. The knuckles are scraped. The forearms are massive.

“We’ll start at the lake,” Scott says.

“Who knows where you’ll end up?” you shout.

*

You think you’ve set it up so well. It doesn’t matter how often life teaches, you still can’t learn the basic lesson: everything goes wrong.

*

The light is golden in the treetops but the shadows are cold. You’re lying in the long grass feeling damp despite your precautions. Scott is in the trees, leading the tourists to a clearing where you and Theresa once laid a picnic. You fought about the mayonnaise, the spilled beer, the unlikelihood of moving in together.

You’re on the other side of the clearing with your scope. You parked your four-wheeler half a click away. You left a movie playing loud in your room. There’s nothing to connect you to what’s about to happen.

Scott has been walking toward you, stalking quietly, for twenty minutes, and you’re taking aim.

You can’t see this part, but in the trees, Damon asks, “Is that a deer trail?”

“Good eye,” Scott encourages. He points to the ground. “See that slight depression?”

“Oh yeah. I missed that.”

Phoenix looks at his watch and says, “How about that girl in the bar?”

“She’s my girl,” Scott says. And they nod. Of course she is.

“Nice life you got here,” Damon says. “Beautiful land, beautiful girl, outside all day.” He sighs as if he could stand it for more than a weekend.

Is Scott happy in the nowhere town? You never thought to ask. He got swallowed by the city in his college years, couldn’t find a compass that worked through the high-rises. He missed the minutia of country life—birdsong, boat motors, repetitious good mornings—with an ache he hadn’t felt since the age of four. When his grandfather sickened, he rushed back to see him out. But you’ve never tried to empathize with Scott so you wouldn’t know about that.

*

When the buck appears in the clearing, you’re distracted from your purpose and you lose sight of the trail where Scott will emerge. You shift your weight and the buck snaps its head in your direction. It tucks back into the trees.

Scott steps into the clearing with his eyes to the sky. The sun beats down on his handsome face. Theresa was probably in love with him the whole time she was with you.

You have him in your sights with your finger on the trigger and you know you’re a good shot. Even when the city boys thump over to his side, you never waver.

Your mind has a plan—1, 2, 3, done and out, Scott is dead, some tourist shot him—but your body won’t obey. Your arm steers left. Your shot goes wild. You wonder what other ways you’ve screwed this up. Did you wear gloves when you loaded the gun? Did you remove your red toque before you crouched in the brown grass?

Scott is staring straight at you before the echo of gunshot has faded. And the tourist beside him, Damon, the tall one, falls to the ground.

*

Time is all messed up. You’re on your knees looking for a shell casing when Damon’s back on his feet apologizing. He panicked. You didn’t hit him. You didn’t hit anyone. Phoenix is bleeding from one arm, but that’s an old wound scratched open by a branch. He runs an MMA gym in the city—you should have done some research because now he’s caught the bead of Scott’s gaze and deduced what’s happened here and he’s running straight for you. You’re not even hiding anymore.

*

You take two punches to the head and a knee to the groin before Scott hauls Phoenix off you. You’ve never been hit so hard in your life. “What the hell is this?” Phoenix shouts, Scott and Damon barely holding him back. “Are you guys in this together?”

“Don’t be stupid. This guy’s a lone psycho,” Damon says.

Scott looks at your gun and your beer bottle and your tarp on the ground and he knows. He’s always known. He says, “Jesus, Ray, thank god you missed.” Then he wraps an arm around you, like he’s been where you’re at. His breath is warm on the back of your neck. The hug is so tender, you think you might cry. It’s not about Theresa or jobs or even you and him. It’s about life always rubbing your nose in the fact that things are better somewhere else. “I know,” Scott whispers. “You just have to find a way to live with it, is all.”

            You think about the movie that spawned this mess. One of the college kids tried to stop the others from hurting the girl. He died just the same. “Serves him right,” Austin said at the time. Scott held his tongue. You never know what anyone’s thinking.

            “It was an accident,” he tells the tourists. “And no one’s hurt.”

“That asshole shot at us!” Phoenix shouts.

“He wasn’t shooting at you,” Scott says.

They want their money back. “And I want this psycho locked up,” Phoenix says.

Damon doesn’t say much. He looks from face to face.

“Technically, this is the edge of the park,” Scott says. He asks them, as a favour, not to report your attempted murder because they’re not supposed to hunt here. “It’ll fall on me, not Ray. I could lose my outfitting license.”

“We’d never do that to you, man,” Damon says. They love Scott and his country life.

They take back half their money and agree to keep hunting for the afternoon. “Just as soon as this asshole’s gone,” Phoenix says with a nod in your direction.

Scott holds out his hand and you give him your gun.

*

There’s a buck in the back of their truck when they drive off into the sunset. It’s a tangle of limbs, limp and heavy, as if it never had a will to live.

Scott slips behind the bar and puts his arms around Theresa. “I thought they were staying the night,” she says.

“Plans change,” he tells her.

“No trouble?”

“No trouble.”

“You got two more bookings,” she says as she pours, his arms still around her but not in her way. “So, here’s two beer for you.”

            He brings them to your table and slides one over. He buys you a drink, Scott does, and he doesn’t mention the money you cost him. You can’t think of any way to explain yourself so you sit and drink in silence. When you’re just about done, he leans in close and whispers, “We all saw the movie, Ray. You’d never get away with it.” He downs the last of his beer, and when he rises, he clasps your shoulder like Achilles leaving Patroclus. Then he goes back to the girl who used to be yours, and he never tells a soul.

            But he writes it all down, in case you’re dumb enough to try again.