Tommy gripped his Remington 742 and lined the scope dead center on his father’s back. They had just stepped into a boggy slew at the edge of the woods. Hank told Tommy to stay put while he walked to the other side, about a hundred yards to the north. Now Tommy had what he’d been waiting for—a clear shot. He had one shell in the chamber and four in the clip, and more than enough hate burning inside him to get the job done.

He positioned his hand underneath the barrel and the other around the stock. With precise movements he pushed the safety in and then eased his index finger around the cold metal of the trigger. He took a deep breath and held it, just like Hank had taught him.

Hank wouldn’t know it was coming until the bullet sliced through the thick morning air and struck him square in the back. More important, no one would suspect a thing. It would look like one of those tragic accidents that happen every November during hunting season. Tommy envisioned the headline. Fifteen-year-old Knife River Boy Accidentally Kills Father.

Daylight had emerged in less than grand fashion under a blanket of wet, gray skies. A narrow opening in the woods revealed a glimpse of Lake Superior in the distance. The cold dark waters mirrored the hopelessness in Tommy’s thoughts. Ever since the family moved to Knife River things had spiraled downward in a blur of dead-end jobs and crummy houses.

His father first took a job as a cook on the iron ore boats with an old army buddy. The 1960s had brought a boom to the local mining industry a decade earlier and the ships paid good money to the gritty men willing to work on them. But Hank’s stint as a cook lasted less than a year. He was burnt in a galley fire somewhere between Marquette and Sault Ste. Marie. Tommy was just a kid when it happened. Back then his dad was gone for days or weeks at a time. His mother would never admit it, but he could see the peace fill her emerald eyes each time his father shipped out. Now his father worked odd jobs along the rugged north shore, but his fulltime gig was drinking.

A raw wind off the big lake rustled the pines nearby, alerting Tommy to the coldness of the rifle…and the life-and-death decision he held in his hands. Hank’s back was still in the crosshairs. All Tommy had to do was squeeze the trigger and it would all be over. His father’s words from earlier that morning resonated in his mind, igniting the anger again.

No. Wait. He didn’t want to shoot him in the back. His teenage pride wanted Hank to see it coming, to know his own son was pulling the trigger. His father should have to pay for what he’d told him that morning, about sleeping with that bartender over in Two Harbors.

Hank had gone into great detail, describing all the things he’d done with this other woman. Rage had consumed Tommy in the darkness of the pickup as they drove to their hunting spot. He wanted to fling the door open and jump out. But he couldn’t—he was a captive audience, listening to his father brag about his sexual escapades.

He’s got no right! No right to treat Mom that way. Squeeze the trigger, Tommy! Squeeze the trigger—now! Nervous sweat trickled into his eye. He blinked and focused again.

He watched his father turn sideways, on alert for whitetail. He must’ve caught sight of movement in the brush. Hank raised up his rifle and in one swift motion took aim at a patch of grayish-brown hide nearly camouflaged against the wooded backdrop.

Bang! The report echoed eerily for several seconds.

“Tommy!” Hank yelled. “Get over here. I got me a big one! Ten or twelve points!”

Tommy’s breath caught and he lowered his rifle.

“Tommy!” Hank waved him over with great urgency. “Hurry up before I lose him in the brush!”

Tommy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breaths coming in deep heaves. He spit at the ground, his heart pounding in void, hopeless beats. He pushed the safety on and caught up to his dad.

Hank was in a good mood now. A late night romp with his girlfriend and images of a ten-point buck in the back of his F150 would do it for a man like Hank Swanson. Father and son hurried into the woods following the drops of fresh blood. After twenty minutes of rustling through the brush, all signs of the injured animal had disappeared.

“I got him, I know I did.” Hank’s shoulders slumped and he leaned over, out of breath.

“Must’a just grazed him,” Tommy said, biting his lip.

As expected Hank’s eyebrows pulled together and he shook his head in defiance. “No, I got him,” he argued. “ He’s gotta be a big buck to keep going like that. I counted ten points for sure, maybe twelve. Let’s try through here.” Hank pointed to a wide marshy area up ahead.

Tommy dutifully followed along side his father, helping him look for signs. The natural path narrowed into the bog and Tommy fell back, forced now to track behind his father’s long steps. The mere act made him want to throw up. He would never follow in his father’s footsteps. He purposely moved off the drier ground to the wet spongy marsh in order to avoid his father’s footprints.

Tommy remembered as a kid how Hank would blow up for the littlest thing. All four kids cowered together while he laid out the rules of punishment. Sometimes he’d pull the belt right off his jeans or grab an extension cord, whatever he could get his hands on. Other times he’d make them kneel on popcorn seeds for extended periods. If any of them leaned back to give their knees a rest, they’d all get the belt. Bare skin lost every time against the wide strap of leather. Those instances grew less frequent as Tommy got older. He stood eye to eye with Hank now.

It was Tommy, Alice, Jake and Andy, in that order. A few years back they’d been forced out of their decent rambler in Two Harbors into an old shack on the outskirts of Knife River, a poor excuse of a town about eight miles south of the bigger community. The kids’ bedrooms were in the attic above the kitchen. The boys shared the larger room but had to go through Alice ’s in order to get to theirs. An outhouse in the backyard gave away the fact they didn’t have running water. Alice was too embarrassed to ever invite any friends over. But all the kids on the school bus knew where they lived.

Tommy trudged alongside his father the rest of the day, following Hank’s sporadic orders. Look here. Check that. Walk over there.

“Damn it,” Hank spewed for the hundredth time. “We’re losing our light. We’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

They retreated to the truck as darkness crept over the shaggy outline of the woods. Chilled to the bone, Tommy slid his rifle onto the rack in the back window. Winter lurked just beyond the big lake, threatening to shed a thick blanket of snow before dawn.

“I bet he followed that natural path toward that little meadow tucked back there,” Hank said.

“If it snows tonight, it’ll be easier to find him tomorrow,” Tommy said.

Hank put the truck in Drive and followed the gravel trail out of the woods. “Listen Tommy,” he said, lighting up a Winston. “I wanna go at it with my new lady friend again tomorrow. She’s up for anything I want to try, if you get my drift.” He gave a deep, raunchy laugh and exhaled a blue ring between him and the steering wheel. “But if we have to come back and get that buck, I can’t take your ma to Cloquet.”

“Dad,” Tommy moaned with disgust. “You promised her.”

Unmoved, Hank muttered, “Think of an excuse for me. ” “Maybe I’ll tell her the truth.”

“Over my dead body!” The thought struck a chilling cord, and Tommy swallowed hard.

Hank’s profile radiated in the sultry glow and his dark eyes danced. “I can tell you right now I ain’t givin’ up on that buck. You be ready by six-thirty sharp tomorrow, got it?” he ordered. “I only got one more chance to find him.”

Tommy stared out the window, the sky overhead now a lacquered blackness as they neared the house. He remembered the distinct coldness of the metal trigger against his finger, the sight of his father in his crosshairs.

"One More Chance" was originally published in Talking Stick #17 in 2008.