The men at Evan’s job recommended the steakhouse on Patty Drive because it was brand new. It had a sign that lit up like old Hollywood, wrapped in aluminum gloss like a cherry Coke can. “The Alpine” had been open for a few weeks, yet the buzz stuck. Shoved inside every booth, the couples were dewy-eyed and touching, all legs and smoke. The place was dim and Darlene leaned forward as she spoke, drawing the shadows of her face to a point. She had pearls in her ears and around her neck— first tight, then looped looser, hanging limp in her lap. Evan thought she was a pretty girl: tall, lean, with a long head like a deer. He liked her eyes more than anything; they were deep and hard like chestnuts.
“So,” she says over her glass. “Tell me what you do again.”
Evan chews on the meat of his cigar. “Invasive species technician. At Bigbee Park— out near Elder’s creek.”
“What, you shoot ‘em?”
His first time holding a pistol was in 1966. His dad’s single-shot revolver had a leather handle engraved “M” and stitched to the hilt with horse hair. It was the size of his palm and his dad’s index finger and fit into his boot like butter. The Mississippi sun was coming down against the trees, the breeze flicking his shirt and the thick wheat of his hair. His dad was saying something against his neck, guiding Evan’s aim up the branch of an oak. Evan remembers giggling at the sight, his whole body vibrating from somewhere deep he didn’t know. The barrel eclipsed the sun and through wet eyes, Evan got a good look at the view, and his chest rang out like a well. As he was made to pull the trigger, his mind was distant, beyond feeling. The birds swirled above him, and he imagined them in love.
“S’pose to,” he replies. “Don’t like shooting much.”34
“A ranger who don’t shoot,” she drawls to herself. “I’ll be damned.”
The week earlier, the boss, John, had pulled him aside. On his desk was a map of Bigbee, big red dots scattered across it. The rabbits had been mating too quickly this year, John had said, overwhelming local vegetation turnout and encouraging invasive plants to take over. John gave Evan the code to the gun locker and told him to take care of it. The last time John gave Evan that code was three years ago. The October rain was brutal then— it split trees down their centers and beat the ground to bones. The repellent on the plants kept washing away, and the white-tailed deer kept eating and multiplying. So, John told Evan what to do. He worked late during those months, leaving well-on after everyone. The guys didn’t see Evan for weeks during that time, and they began to get spooked. When they bothered John about it, he told them to leave it well alone, and that Evan can only be found when the job is done. There was an air to his tone that made them curious.
******
Darlene’s sucking his bottom lip as Evan shoulders the front door open. The house is dark, moonlight pouring in from big front windows, and neither reach for a light. They grapple in a frenzy of matted hair and hands, pushing against one another as if immovable. It’s the first night Evan has brought Darlene to his place after two months of dating, and Darlene’s making a big show of it, kissing behind his ears and down his neck. The place is quaint, with wooden floors old and creaking, and a tall ceiling that reveals a lofted second floor. Evan’s inching her toward the stairs, presumably to the master suite, and she’s taking her time, making him more on edge.
The closer she moves to the heart of the house, she is hit with something. The scent is faint at first, masked with some artificial sweetness, but there’s also something dingy. He’s gripping her now, moving quickly, deftly in the dark. Too fast, her heel slips on the carpet and she stumbles back, shoulder hitting solid wood and the metal of a handle. He gasps and pulls her forward, but the door clicks open and the smell is filling the room.
Darlene holds herself up against the doorframe, trying to ground herself in reality. The room is average size, floor to ceiling woodwork, and entirely devoid of furniture. The wood is covered with newspapers, hastily thrown over top of one another. The closet is open and overflowing with different sized plastic bags, marked with dates and labels. And, in the center of the room is, what Darlene would assume to be, the fifty to sixty-five pairs of wet, blinking eyes of cottontail rabbits.
She’s turning slowly on her heels now, inching to face Evan, who is difficult to see in the dark. The shadow of his hands are frozen, hanging limp in the air between them. He doesn’t move an inch, not even to breathe. She’s looking into his face now, which is open like the moon.
“You’re gonna need a bigger house,” she whispers.
