Scott Knolls
The two amped-up coonhounds paced back and forth in the bed of the pickup truck—they were wound up and ready for a hunt, something they were born to do. Their black nails clicked on the metal floor of the pickup, and their tails snapped feverishly in pure excitement. The younger of the two lifted her head and let out a low howl, while the older hound poked her snout up into the air and watched the passing countryside with her chocolate brown eyes. The truck scared up a few grouse hiding in the brush, and their wings snapped rapid-fire as they darted across the road. Both coonhounds tracked the birds’ flight, whining and quivering at the sight of them.
The pickup slowed and pulled off to the side of Brewer Hollow Road. As soon as the engine cut off, both dogs leaped out of the back of the truck and ran to the cab, wagging and waiting for their master.
Scott stepped out first and patted both dogs fondly. They were his dogs. Loved them like children. Skeeter and his wife had three healthy children, two boys and a girl. Scott and Paula had one. Tammy. Poor little Tammy.
Scott and Paula had had a whole lot of trouble conceiving. After getting married they tried for five or six years, and it proved to be an agonizing process. Scott wasn’t sure if the problem was with him or Paula. They didn’t discuss that or go to a doctor to see which one of their bodies didn’t want to cooperate. They kept trying, kept failing. They never discussed adoption either. Folks around Wyalusing just didn’t do that kind of thing. Adoption seemed like something that weak people resorted to. It got to the point of being embarrassing that Scott didn’t have any young’uns running around—like he wasn’t man enough to have children. All his friends had three or four kids, and Scott didn’t even have one. He didn’t like visiting friends because he didn’t like watching what he didn’t have.
Just when they were ready to give up, lo and behold, Paula finally got pregnant. They were thrilled beyond words. Relieved that at last they had been blessed by God and were able to start a family. Paula had a pretty easy pregnancy, and Tammy was born near to the day that she was expected. But when she was born, there was something different about her, something a little off. She had all her toes and fingers and weighed over eight pounds, but her face was unusually round. Her brown eyes were almond-shaped, and her tiny tongue was perpetually sticking out of her tiny mouth. Scott and Paula both knew what her condition was when the doctor sat them down and explained the situation—they had seen babies like Tammy before when they took a trip to Wilkes-Barre to do some Christmas shopping or to look at a new truck in all the dealerships they had down that way. Tammy had Down’s syndrome. And to make matters worse, she had a bad heart. The doctor said it was a common condition in children with Down’s syndrome. Tammy had a congenital heart defect. The doctor advised them of the life expectancy of children afflicted with the disorder. Many children could grow up to be adults and live a healthy and productive life. Many lived well into their forties. But the doctor also warned them that raising a child with Down’s syndrome would take a lot of care and a lot of patience and a whole lot of love due to her special needs.
Scott and Paula took Tammy home to where her room had been carefully painted yellow and outfitted with a slew of stuffed animals and baby gear. They had the changing table, a stroller, crib, baby clothes, and a ton of diapers at the ready. They had planned carefully for their daughter’s arrival, but the addition to the family fell far short of their expectations.
Tammy cried and fussed a lot. It didn’t matter if she was held or swaddled up nice and tight. Paula tried breast-feeding a few times but gave up quickly and instead switched to bottle-feeding. A few days went by, and Scott watched how Paula handled the baby. She changed Tammy when she needed a new diaper, fed her, burped her, gave her all the necessary care that babies need, but his wife never looked at Tammy. Never looked her in the eyes. Scott had imagined that the two of them would always be fighting over who gets to hold the baby, who gets to put her down for a nap, but that never happened. Scott never admitted it to his wife, but he didn’t like holding his own child. She was different from what she was supposed to be. When he looked at his daughter, he didn’t feel pride or joy. He could never put words to it, but he didn’t feel connected to the child. It didn’t feel like she was his own blood.
He came home from work one night after Tammy had been home for a few weeks, and the house was filled with the constant hoarse cry of the baby. He found Tammy in her crib, wet with pee and smelling of poop, red-faced and bawling, left all alone in her room. Paula was on the back porch, swinging side to side on the hammock, smoking a cigarette. She had a vacant look about her. Scott sat beside her until she finally gazed at him like he was a stranger. Then she started to cry. Scott cried along with her. The three of them cried together but separate.
The next day Scott called the county and went about starting the process of giving up Tammy for adoption. They were interviewed by a half dozen different county workers who asked them a lot of questions and made them feel guilty for what they were planning to do. Paula lost twenty pounds over the next month and was put on an antidepressant, but it didn’t help matters much. Scott was angry at how the county was treating them. Angry with Paula for letting this happen to his baby. Angry with God for ruining his life. Angry with himself that he couldn’t even bear to look at his own flesh and blood. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t raise a child like that. It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.
The day that they bundled up Tammy for the last time and drove her down to Wilkes-Barre, Scott and Paula didn’t talk. Tammy cried the whole way there in the baby seat that had been barely used. For over an hour, the baby bawled and neither her mother nor father tried to soothe her. They didn’t talk when they walked her into the county hospital and handed over their baby. They didn’t talk when they got back home and Scott broke down the crib and packed away all the baby stuff. He and Paula didn’t talk other than saying the token “Good morning” and “Good night” for over a month. The house felt dead and empty even after every remnant of Tammy was thrown away. They couldn’t box up and throw away their memories. They had coexisted in the house over the last few years, but little joy was shared between them.
Scott was a supportive and doting uncle to Skeeter’s kids, but watching them grow up made his grief even worse. The two hounds, Queenie and Charlotte, didn’t sleep in coops like most hunting dogs. They slept at the foot of Scott’s bed, which was in Tammy’s old room now, and they followed him near everywhere in the house. They were the closest things to kids he would ever have.
“Okay, girls. You ready?” Charlotte let out an antsy yelp, her tail whipping a mile a minute. Scott reached inside the cab and removed Danny’s pillowcase. He held it out for the two hounds. They shoved their noses into the fabric and took a good long sniff. Low growls worked up from their bellies, and their hindquarters quivered with anticipation.
“All right. Go on!” Both dogs lowered their heads toward the snow and bounded into the forest, yelping and barking as they began the search for their prey.
Skeeter handed Scott his rifle, and the two brothers followed after the hounds. They stepped over a barbed-wire fence that ran alongside the ditch and moved into the woods. They heard Charlotte and Queenie ahead of them and marched along in silence for a while.
Scott looked at his younger brother and was the first to speak. “Let me do it.”
Skeeter regarded him, not exactly sure what he was getting at.
“Let me take him down. No sense in both of us going to jail.”
Skeeter blew some snot out of his nose before saying anything. “I don’t know. I thought we were in this together. One for all and all for one, kind of thing.”
Scott tried to smile but wasn’t really able to. He didn’t think he was gonna be able to smile for a good long time. “You got Betty and the kids.”
Skeeter thought about this. “Maybe we should just take him in. Ma’s already lost one kid today.”
Now it was Scott’s turn to mull over the idea. “Maybe. But I just don’t think I’m gonna be able to let him walk away from this. If we find him first, I don’t think I’ll be able to do that. Not after what he did.”
Skeeter knew that his brother was right. They walked in silence again, arms and legs moving at the same exact tempo, listening to the hounds’ calls ahead of them. Scott put a pinch of chew in his mouth and handed the pouch to his brother. They both walked along, spitting brown juice into the snow as they went.
“You replace the alternator in Murphy’s Chevy yet?” Scott asked.
Skeeter shook his head. “Part’s supposed to come in tomorrow.”
Scott nodded and spit again. “Yesterday was Mindy’s birthday, you know?”
Skeeter looked ahead of him and nodded. “Yup. It was.”
