Free Sightings by B.J. Hollars Page B

she wanted, too.
    The first ten minutes or so went smoothly enough, but then Dad cleared his throat, walked to center stage and began ad-libbing a few lines.
    â€œDear God,” he called, arms outstretched before him. “Heavenly Protector! We need food to feed our families. We got lit’uns starving out here,” – dramatic pause – “dying!”
    The crowd gasped, then chuckled.
    He paced to the other side of the platform. “We’re sick and we’re weak,” he said, falling to one knee. He picked up his gun, eying it as if it might be the bringer of food. “Who will be the one to save us?”
    I had a pretty good idea, but I wasn’t going to watch him do it. I, too, was sick and tired, and my spirits were hardly raised by my father’s efforts to upstage everyone else. As I watched him struggle through his routine it occurred to me that Dad wasn’t acting at all; this was just him.
    I walked off the front of the stage, and as Dad continued his speech about the “lack of sustenance,” I mumbled, “You know, Floyd, there’s always cannibalism.”
    My father froze, watched me take a seat in the bleachers alongside old men in American flag shirts. After a pause, he continued his carefully rehearsed lines. As he spoke, he leaned against his gun like a cane, chattering on as if nothing fazed him except, of course, the impending fear of starvation. I made fists, I counted to ten – both failed attempts at calming the pioneer blood within.

    It all became clear much later. How when Dad gave the signal – waving his gun in the air and shouting, “But the Lord will provide!” – Ron released one of his hand-fed deer from the back of a trailer and into the brush just behind the stage. Then Dad really put his theatrical skills to work, and much to the surprise of his fellow reenactors, pointed to the newly arrived deer and raised the gun.
    â€œGlory to God! Sustenance!”
    And then he blew her head off.
    It was that quick. There was a head and then there was not one – just four legs buckling like an unhinged table, a torso corkscrewing into the ground. The horrifically hoofed tap dance elicited an array of reactions, most of them tinged with some form of gagging. Almost immediately, the man to my left began vomiting; nobody told him his reaction was historically inaccurate.
    The deer stuttered one final step before wobbling to the dirt. Her chest fell first, followed by her hind, and then, the great thundering of a body at rest.
    There was no trophy left worth mounting. Just venison.
    â€œAnd the Lord hath provideth!” Dad shouted.
    If there had been a curtain, this would have been an opportune time to close it. But there was none; just a crowd of horrified spectators trapped in the bleachers, screaming.
    In yet another breach of authenticity, someone must’ve reached for a phone because within minutes – as Dad tried calming everyone down (“Don’t worry, plenty for all!”) – a DNR officer leapt from his jeep, gun drawn.
    â€œSir, I need you to drop that rifle right now.”
    There was so much noise, so much commotion, that almost everyone forgot about the deer carcass fifty yards away.
    Dad dropped the gun, put his hands up.
    â€œWhile I have done as requested,” Dad began, “I’ll have you know that I do not recognize the authority of the DNR. My name is Floyd Fowler, and the year is 1846 . . .”
    â€œSir! Get on your knees now.”
    â€œHey, listen,” Dad whispered, starting toward the ground. “I was just trying to make it authentic, all right, officer? Like how our ancestors did it. To keep from starving. This wasn’t sport, okay? This wasn’t a sport kill.”
    The crowd began to dissipate, mothers ushering their kids into the backs of Conestoga wagons while the men fumbled with their beards and suspenders, some making their way over to examine our