The Messenger

Eleven months out of the year the Deacon was a sane man. In fact, more than sane-he was absolutely stalwart. The nickname "Deacon" was well deserved, as he was an elected deacon in the First Presbyterian Church and rarely missed a Sunday service. He was also a devoted husband and family man and could be seen at every ballgame, play and recital his children participated in. In business his reputation was stellar. He handled his clients' money with the utmost probity and was trusted to arrange their estates so that, in the event of some tragedy, the orphaned descendants would be fed, clothed and educated in the bosom of some giant insurance company. He was a man you could depend on, the kind you could turn to. Yes, for 11 months out of the year Mr. M. Porter Maxwell, the Deacon, was a pillar, a rock, a brick. It was during that twelfth month that he went off the skids.

It was a Friday afternoon. I stood staring out my office window at the latest installment of snow. It was coming down intermittently in big clumps as if someone were plucking a goose on the roof of our building. The temperature had been stuck below freezing for a week. This was weather that made waterfowl leave the confines of the refuge and go in search of food and open water-in other words, made them active. If I left now I could be at the duck camp by 2. Then the receptionist buzzed me.

"Yes?"

"It's Mrs. Maxwell," she informed me.

"Yes, of course. I'll take it... Hello, Marie? How are you?"

"I'm fine, Bob," came the sweet voice on the other end. "And you?"

"I'm fine." I waited for her to get down to business. Marie was not in the habit of calling me to chat.

"I was just wondering if you might be going to the duck camp?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am."

"Good. Could I trouble you to give my husband a message?"

"It's no trouble."

"Please tell him that several of his clients have been calling his office. Some of them are getting a little... impatient."

"Yes, of course."

"And tell him that his son's coach has been calling. It's something about a basketball scholarship, and he insists on talking to both parents."

"OK," I said. "I'll give him the message."

"And also the pipes in his Aunt Ruthy's house are frozen. She's quite old and doesn't know who else to... "

"OK." By now I'd made use of my note-pad. "Anything else?"

"Well, only that my car won't start. I guess the battery's frozen or something."

All this was related without the slightest hint of anger or frustration. This was a woman of strength and self-reliance, a woman raised and hardened in a water-fowling family. She had learned as a child to accept certain behavior among men during duck season as normal. In that way the Deacon was a lucky man.

The drive to the duck camp took an extra hour. A new layer of snow had slowed traffic on the interstate to a cautious 35. When I turned onto Cuba Landing Road, I noticed that there were no new tire tracks. No one had been in or out since the last dusting. As I pulled up to the lodge, I saw the Deacon's green Jeep parked in its usual place. Actually, the lodge was an ancient farmhouse leaning noticeably to starboard, but calling it a lodge gave the place a certain dignity. Judging from the snow halfway up the wheels, the Jeep hadn't been moved in days. I suddenly felt uneasy. Perhaps the Deacon had run into trouble, or worse. Perhaps I was about to come upon the scene of some tragedy. Then I saw a thin column of smoke rising from the bunkroom chimney. Behind the house was a well-trod trail from the back door to the creek.

When I entered the front hallway, I was unprepared for what I saw. There were dead ducks hanging from every nail, peg and doorknob. Mallards, wigeon, gadwalls and teal; they hung strapped together like clusters of ripe grapes, the fruit of some Old Testament harvest. I opened the bunkroom door.

"Deacon!" I called out. "Deacon! You here?"

Then I saw him. He was huddled next to the wood stove with a blanket around him. Only the top of his head was visible. I'd almost overlooked him in the confusion of clothing and gear strewn around the room.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

He lowered the blanket and peered at me. I couldn't help noticing a four- or five-day growth of beard. There was soot smeared on his face, evidence of tending that day's fire. All this gave his eyeballs a startling whiteness.

"Of course I'm all right," he answered. "Why wouldn't I be? Come in! Come in!"

The Deacon's old Lab, Bo, lay at his master's feet. In an effort to get as much of his body under the warm stove as possible, he had flattened himself out to such an extent that, for a moment, I had mistaken him for a rug.

"Ranger Bob, I'm glad you're here!" the Deacon shouted.

Most of the club members called me Ranger Bob. I got the name because I once insisted on pouring a bucket of water on a campfire, even though everyone else contended it was already out. At a duck camp, a little thing like that can stick to a man for life.

"Listen, Ranger. Did you bring any ammo?"

"Yes, plenty."

"Good! Let me tell you about the... "

"Excuse me, Deacon. But how long have you been here?"

"Oh, about a week, I think."

"Maybe you should've called home or something."

"Couldn't. Cell phone's dead," he said cheerfully.

"But there's a phone at the store up on the... "

"Jeep's frozen up," he replied with a grin. He waved his hand to dismiss my badgering. "Now let me tell you about the hunting."

"Yes, sure. Just let me put my gear away."

I tossed my sleeping bag onto my favorite bunk and walked into the kitchen. The room was so cold my breath was visible. Obviously, the power was out.

"Don't use the bathroom!" the Deacon shouted. "The pipes are frozen."

When I opened the refrigerator door to put away the groceries I'd brought, all I found inside was an ancient box of baking soda and half a can of Mountain Dew. The pantry was just as empty.

"What did you have for dinner last night?" I called out.

"Grilled duck," the Deacon answered.

"What about lunch?"

"Leftover duck."

"Breakfast?"

"Duck and eggs."

"That sounds good," I said, trying to put a positive spin on things.

"But I was out of eggs."

I returned to the bunkroom, closing the door tightly behind me to preserve the heat.

"Sit down," the Deacon said. "Wait until you hear about the duck hunting."

I took a seat by the fire. As the Deacon began to talk excitedly, I noticed that the sleeves of his long underwear, which extended an inch or so past the cuffs of his mackinaw shirt, were ringed with soot.

"When Bo and I got here," he began, "I figured things were about to break open. It was last, uh... well, whatever day it was. Anyway, this cold front had just moved in, and I knew it was time for the big flocks to come off the refuge and move into the bottoms looking for food. And I was right. When we topped the levy that first morning, I could hear them. All those fat mallards out there chomping on those ears of corn, all those plump little wigeon munching up those grass seeds, all those gadwalls eating... well... eating whatever it is gadwalls eat.

"When we slipped into old No. 7, they started taking to the air around us by the hundreds. But we were as quiet as a couple of potted plants. We sat there and didn't fire a shot, because I knew, as sure as John Wayne was a Republican, that in about 30 minutes they'd start coming back in groups of six to a dozen. So I held back, Ranger. I held back."

"That's good, Deacon."

"In a half-hour the first bunch reappeared. All mallards. A new snow had started up, and they came out of it with their wings already cupped. Then I saw there were more birds higher up! Then I looked above those and saw another group above that!"

His voice was rising now with excitement.

"They were in layers, Ranger, layers! And all of them determined to light right in our dekes! So there we were, just Bo and me, in the midst of the most glorious morning of duck hunting since Nash Buckingham! Just the two of us, while our entire sissy club membership... uh, present company excluded of course... while our entire sissy club membership was back in the city watching some silly ballgame on TV. And they've been flying every morning since, just like that."

"That's great, Deacon. Listen, Marie asked me to tell you... Well, maybe it would be best if you called her. And you might check in with your office too."
I handed him my cell phone. He took it from me and looked at it curiously, turning it over in his hand as if it were some strange gadget from another world.

"Oh, yes. Check in. Yes, of course."

He sat for a minute longer as if coming to himself. Then he took the phone, slipped on his coat and walked out the front door. I watched him pass the bunkroom window. He was on his way to a spot behind the lodge that had proven to be best for cell-phone reception. After a half-hour or so, he came back inside and slumped into his chair by the wood stove.

"You check in?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," he answered. "It seems a couple of clients have been calling my office every hour for the last couple of days. Every hour! For some people the sky is always falling. I'll have to hold their hands till things right themselves."

He stared into the fire a long time without speaking.

"And Aunt Ruthy's pipes are frozen, poor thing," he said finally. "I'll need to take care of that."

He took the poker and pushed an errant piece of wood to the back of the stove. "My son's basketball coach wants a conference. He's been trying to get in touch. And Marie's car won't start. She can't get to the grocery."

The sparkle in his eyes was gone now. The gleeful man who'd sat there a half-hour before had been transformed into a spiritless lump. He was now a middle-aged businessman, a father and husband faced with duty, responsibility.

Then he turned and looked at me. At first I thought he was peering past me at some object on the wall. But, no, he was staring directly at me. He simply wasn't seeing me. His eyes had become opaque, impenetrable, as if they were seeing not what was in front of them but something else that only the Deacon could see. Then a smile began, ever so meagerly at the corners of his mouth. It spread in small increments until it covered his whole face.

"But you know what, Ranger Bob?"

"What, Deacon?"

"All that stuff can wait," he said, grinning. "Because I think they're going to fly again in the morning."

Bob McDill is a retired songwriter who lives in Nashville. After 27 years, he and the Deacon still hunt ducks together. The Deacon's ardor for the sport is as strong as ever.