Annie

The wood creaks as I step into the barn. The fall breeze is colder than usual this year. August in Texas is usually hot, humid… unbearable. But today, the wind blows in such a soothing manner. The air flows into my lungs, filling them with cold bliss. A few tree branches strike against the fading red paint of the old barn tapping rhythmically, peacefully. I take a sip of that chamomile tea, sweetened with that good natural honey from the white rundown boxes in the garden. The striking contrast of the cold wind and the hot tea feels so right. The smell of winter peaking it’s head through the somewhat still green trees. The few leaves that have started to fall now dance around in front of the door.

Playful, inviting… terrifyingly beautiful.

Yes, the weather is not like it was last year.

This barn is not like it was last year.

I am not like I was last year…

I scoot towards the edge of my seat as I lean forward to reach my rifle, my companion during the war and the one I used to hunt until last year. I hear footsteps and panting through the tall grass around the gate that leads to the street.

I whistle and say, “Charles, come here boy.”

Charles comes, wagging his tail and slobbering all over the wooden floor of the barn, like always.

“Hey Charles, how’s my good boy today?”

Charles looks up, almost discerning the words I just spoke to him. It’s almost like he knows what I’m asking. Not what I’m saying, but what I’m asking; what my soul is feeling. He doesn’t know the story. He never even saw Annie, but I’ll never forget her.

Her eyes, her voice, her smile invade my memories day by day. I know that when people tell me, “It’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault,” they are telling the truth. Even Earl tells me it isn’t my fault, but I can’t shake the feeling it might. The guilt lingers. The hurt stays. The pain stings.

Earl was my best friend. The greatest soldier I ever shared the battlefield with was Earl, a man who never failed me. I wish he could say the same of me. I wish I would’ve never taken a sip.

I should have never taken that trip.

“This here is my granddaughter ‘Little Annie’” Said Earl, in his deep southern accent.

“Oh, like the movie?” I asked Annie.

“What movie?” she replied. I was a bit shaken up, but I was ready to move on with the conversation, until Annie said, “I’m named after a famous waterfall.”

She looked up to her grandfather, with a slight smile on her face. The kind of smile one has when she knows a secret, an inside joke.

“Ok, this I’ve got to hear.” I tell Earl, knowing him well enough to recognize something was up and it was probably his doing.

“You see,” said Earl, “her real name is Negira,” [emphasis on the ‘I’], “like the Negira Falls, but everyone kept telling me I was mispronouncing it.”

“Oh, Niagara Falls!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, Negira Falls, exactly.” said Earl… still mispronouncing it.

“So, I started calling her Nikki, after I was told Neg was even worse than Negira. Her mom found out and said she didn’t want her daughter having a stripper name.”

“What’s a stripper?” asked Annie.

“Not important,” said Earl, continuing his tale of names unknown to man.

“I started calling her ‘Little ‘N’’ to please her mother, but everyone else thought I was saying ‘Anne’ and it stuck. Even her mom and everyone from that side of the family calls her Annie now.”

“So, long story short, it’s all because of your accent, then?”

“Yup, pretty much.” Said Earl.

Earl put his fingers to his lips and sent out a loud whistle, followed by a slightly louder, “Charles!” I saw the bushes rustle as a large coonhound leapt out from it.

“Charles?” I asked.

“It was either that or Chicken, a’right, so, just keep your smart mouth shut. Deal?”

I could tell he was getting irritated, and, after that convoluted story of Annie’s real name quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear how a female coonhound got a name like “Charles.”

“You got it, Earl. So, is Charles ready for the hunt?” I asked Earl.

“Slick, this here is the finest Treeing Walker you’ll find in Texas.” He replied. “No dog can tree a coon quicker than Charles, here.”

“Alright, let’s go.” I said.

I grabbed my rifle and ammo box from the red barn and we headed out, ready to hunt racoons. Earl was right. Charles treed a coon almost instantly. It got away, but that didn’t deter us. We kept on moving and after about an hour or two of hunting, we came back to the barn with five coons in a bag. Not bad for my first time hunting in Texas. That first hunt would be the first of many hunts that year and many the following three years.

Then came Annie’s 8th birthday. Her birthday party was to be on Saturday afternoon. I had a spat with Earl the week before and assumed I was no longer invited. Earl called me Friday evening, however, and invited me to the pub. We drank a bit more than planned, declared ourselves kings of the pub, and I told Earl (slurred actually) “I love you, brother,” about 20 times and he slurred it back another 20. You know, what usually happens when army friends apologize.

The next morning, I woke up with an elephant squeezing my skull. Well, it felt like that at least. Earl called me, still slurring, saying Annie wanted to go hunting before her party. I agreed, changed into my hunting clothes, and was ready to head out… but I turned back. I had one beer, to help with the headache. It was just one beer.

I met Earl and Annie halfway to the barn. Annie was walking with her right arm around Earl’s waist. I imagine she was holding him up, but I didn’t ask. I took her hand, Earl walked back to his house and Annie, Charles and I kept on walking to that old barn.

We got to the barn, I gathered my rifle and ammo box, and we started to hunt. Charles started running, a bit slower than usual. After all, she had just given birth to her second batch of puppies three weeks prior. Sadly, her first batch did not survive the winter. She treed a coon near the edge of the cliff we usually avoid. I didn’t notice when Annie walked in front of me.

I knew that cliff wasn’t safe, but it took me a while to get any words out of my mouth. I heard creaking, rustling, and a sound I’ve never heard before; a sound I will never forget.

“Annie, get out of there!”

Annie turned around. She took one step.

Her last step.

I dropped my rifle and ran toward her. I saw the tree falling, following the flow of the ledge that was collapsing. I grabbed her small hand just in time, but she was too heavy. Perhaps I could have saved her, if she wasn’t holding on to Charles. Maybe that extra 47 pounds was too much for me. Perhaps…

I’ll never forget the look in her eye as her fingers slipped through mine. Time never stops, but it sure slowed down for that eternal second. I’ve never known what it feels like to have a daughter, but Annie was as close to a daughter as I fear I will ever get. Could I have saved her? It was just one beer. I promised her gravestone I would never drink again, but she'll never hear my words. And I will never hear her's. I'll never see that smile again. That mischievous smile. That smile one has, when you know a secret. An inside joke that she'll never tell me. Was it my fault? It was just one. Did I let it impair my faculties? It was only ONE beer! Did I fail her? Did I let her fall?

It was just… one… beer…

That’s all it took.

Was it my fault?

Perhaps…

Will I see her again?

Perhaps…

I take a last sip of my chamomile tea with honey. I feel the breeze of this rare cold August day. I put my rifle back to its place, and enjoy the creaking of the wooden floors one last time. I look up to that old red barn one last time. I try to hold back my tears as I remember those blue eyes, blue as cool water on a winter lake. I hear the rustling of the leaves. It gives me comfort. I breathe, turn around, and take a step.

“Come on, Charles.” Let’s go home.