Ryan stands at the garage door and watches his father cut open the belly of a deer. The deer hangs from the rafters, its legs trussed. Ryan’s father has laid down an old blanket to catch the blood, which rushes out in a panic, steaming as it hits the cold fall air. Ryan’s father reaches in between the soft white flaps of stomach and pulls out a kidney, a liver, a heart.
They get into the Mercedes and drive to the next town. They speak guardedly about football. Ryan looks out the window of the car, at the bare trees and the wide expanse of dry grass. He looks at his father and admires the fast, sure way he drives, changing gears as he takes the curves.
Later Ryan lies in front of the fireplace, a skinny, freckled adolescent in worn blue jeans and a pink Izod shirt. His mother and little brother, Jason, flank Melanie on the couch as she unwraps her presents. She smooths out the paper and unties the bows, making the presents last a long time, the same way she always takes care to finish a cupcake or an ice cream sundae after Jason and Ryan finish theirs.
His father says, “Hey, Ryan. Wake up. Don’t you want to watch your sister open her presents?”
“It’s nice. I said it’s nice,” Ryan says loudly.
A year goes by. Ryan’s love for junk food catches up with him, and he gains 20 pounds. From the family room, Ryan hears his father rumbling in disgust over the bags of potato chips and Fritos his mother is unloading from a grocery bag, the bag rustling softly, the cellophane making a clearer, snappier sound.
