133 lines
4.2 KiB
Plaintext
133 lines
4.2 KiB
Plaintext
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THE DEER
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Copyright 1992, Andrew P. Varga.
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Before I start this story, I gotta tell ya a few
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things. People remember the strangest things.
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When I first read this over, it hit me pretty hard
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that it doesn't really show Dad in the best light so I
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feel I ought to explain. Dad's gone now, which is the
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only reason I'm telling this at all. Dad was a proud man,
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and a veteran of World War II. This was before I was
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born. I think it was a loud war. What I'm getting at is
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that Dad came back nearly deaf and refused to have it
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checked, much less get a hearing aid. The result being
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that my brothers and I grew up in a house where there was
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a lot of love, and a fair amount of yelling. So ...
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It was just starting to get dark one Autumn evening.
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I was eleven, maybe twelve. Dad had this blue Oldsmobile,
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a big one. Something like three tons of steel that could
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do a hundred and thirty miles an hour.
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Or so my older brother, Bud, told me. In secret of
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course. Bud woulda known, he'd had his driver's license
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for a whole month.
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We were going north on Highway 127 from Addison to Hi
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Point. That's the truck stop where Bud used to work
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nights after school.
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Well, I see down the road a ways this shape and I can
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just make out that its a deer. As we get closer, I'm sure
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of it. It's just standing there in the middle of the
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highway.
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We're racing toward it and yet it doesn't move. And
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we're getting closer every second.
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I can see its eyes glow, reflections from the
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headlights. Dad's not slowing down at all and the deer's
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not moving and I'm getting scared.
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So I real quick undo my seatbelt and hunker down in
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the seat to where I can't even see over the dash. But I
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know we're getting closer and closer every moment - and
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Dad's still not slowing down!
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Just as I peek up to see what's gonna happen, I hear a
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KA-THUNK! and see a blur off toward Dad's side of the car.
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I straighten way up and look behind to see where it
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went but I can't tell. So I turn back around, refasten my
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seatbelt, and just sort of think for a minute or two.
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Finally I turn to Dad.
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"Dad, we just hit a deer," I tell him.
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"What, son?" Dad's always been kinda hard of hearing.
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"We just hit a deer!"
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"WHAT! We hit a deer?!! OHMYGOD!!!!"
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All four 16-inch whitewalls screamed in protest as Dad
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slammed on the brakes. The car slid to a tire-smoking
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stop, facing the way we came.
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"We hit a deer?!!" Dad repeated, looking around.
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"Where is it?"
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"Its gone now. Three miles back, maybe four."
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"Are you sure?"
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I could tell he was trying to decide if he should
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believe me.
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"Yeah, I'm sure."
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"Are you okay?"
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"Yeah, I'm okay."
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Until now, some twenty-odd years later, neither of us
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has ever said a word about it. As a matter of fact, the
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only time it was even remotely mentioned was the next
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morning.
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We were sitting at the kitchen table, Dad and I, and
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Mom had just come in from her daily walk to the mailbox
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out by the road.
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"What happened to your car?" she asked.
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Dad and I looked up from our breakfasts with surprised
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innocence on our faces.
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"The side mirror is missing." Mom announced.
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"I didn't see anything, Honey," Dad told her. He
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turned and winked at me.
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I looked at Mom and just sort of shrugged my
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shoulders.
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