“I have to check the law of the land,” says Clay, “but I think I have some say in the matter.”
“Oh, come on, Dad. It’s my own shotgun!”
They’re in the kitchen of Clay’s shoebox. That’s what he and Braedon call the modern rectangular house perched on three acres a few miles out of town. It was designed by a professor of architecture who taught at Carleton College up in Northfield. It’s been featured in several magazines, although it always looks better in the magazines than it does in person. The shoebox is sided in copper and limestone cut from local bluffs. It has an open floor plan with big windows that flood the place with light. It’s not a gigantic home, square-footage-wise. Three bedrooms and two and a half baths. A walkout basement that’s half finishedand half unfinished. The unfinished side is where Clay ties flies, not unlike the space where Judd reloads shotgun shells. Having a place like that where they can make things they could otherwise buy is one of Clay and Judd’s similarities.
Clay hasn’t touched the place since moving in except for having an alarm system installed and every dead bolt replaced with a Medeco 4. Is that too much security for Riverwood? Probably. Butprobablyisn’tdefinitely. And Clay doesn’t take unnecessary chances.
“We’ll see how you’ve matured when you’re fifteen,” says Clay. “No sense getting worked up about a shotgun now.”
Clay butterflies a whole chicken, using kitchen shears to cut down the bird’s spine.
“What does that mean?” says Braedon. “How I’ve matured?”
“It means we’ll see how you’re doing in school. We’ll see if you’re keeping yourself out of trouble. And we’ll see how you do shooting clay pigeons.” He flattens the bird on a cutting board and takes a pinch of kosher salt from the salt pig.
“Why do they make pigeons out of clay and why do people want to shoot them?”
“They’re not really pigeons,” says Clay. “That’s the name for clay disks that get launched in the air like Frisbees. It’s how you practice shooting a flying target. Grandpa didn’t tell you about shooting clay pigeons?”
“No,” says Braedon. “He said something about skeet and trap shooting. But I’m not sure what that is.”
“Skeet and trap mean shooting clay pigeons.”
“Then why don’t they just call it shooting clay disks?”
“I don’t know, Brae. Someone named it that long before Iwas born. And long before Grandpa Judd was born. Could you please grind some pepper onto the chicken so I don’t have to wash my hands before I flip the bird?”
“Ha,” says Braedon with exaggerated flatness. “Never heard that one before.”
“It’s a classic.”
“According to you.” Braedon grabs the pepper mill and grinds away.
“What else did you and Grandpa talk about today?” says Clay.
“Well,” says Braedon, “Grandpa Judd asked if I was going to play soccer at Dorset-Cornwall like you did.”
“And what’d you say?”
“I told him I didn’t know. I’m not as good at soccer as you are. I told him I might play American football instead. He said that would be great and I should also try hockey.”
Clay flips the butterflied chicken and indicates that Braedon should hit it with the pepper grinder again. “Do you want to try hockey?”
Braedon shakes his head. “Everyone who grew up here learned to skate when they were two. I could never catch up.”
“Did you say that to Grandpa?”
“Yeah,” says Braedon, grinding a new layer of pepper. “But he said I could learn if I went to a hockey camp. And he said it would be good for me because hockey players never complain about injuries. Sometimes they have broken bones and don’t even tell their coaches so they can keep playing. And…” Braedon makes eye contact with Clay, then hesitates.
“And what?” says Clay.
“Nothing…”
“It’s okay. You can tell me.”
“Well,” says Braedon, “Grandpa said soccer players are the opposite. They’re total babies. That they fake getting hurt all the time so the referee will call a foul. They scream and roll around on the ground and they’re not even hurt. He said it’s embarrassing. And he’d never want me to do anything like that.”
“Grandpa Judd is right.”
