Exercise 2, Wendy Uzzell Robert came to consciousness with heart pounding abruptness. The boom and hiss of blood pounding through his veins deafened him to other noise, and he sucked in air desperately. Sharp pain traveled up his thighs as his knees hit the floor. Putting his hands down he steadied himself and waited for the panic to fade away. He often woke up this way and didn’t want it. He just couldn’t touch it as it dodged around his thoughts, defying him to catch it. Slowly, he began to hear noises outside of his body, the snore of his cell mate, echoing coughs from three cells down and the hum of fluorescent lighting ballasts in the walkway. Aching knees reminded him of the coldness of the cement floor and he shifted back up onto the bunk. Settling back onto the thin mattress he tried to close his mind and go back to sleep. Anxiety would keep him awake and morning would come too soon. He needed to be ready for the next day, and the next, to survive. Instead he found himself traveling to his life nine years ago when freedom was his. Instead of gratefully fleeing back to that time, he tried his damndest to stop the memories. It always started innocently enough, those memories. First it was remembering how the waves on the beaches would splash on the volcanic rocks, and the coldness of water seeping into his boots that would take his breath as he stepped into the shallows to pull the boat up onto the beach. The cries of gulls unleashed the auditory assault of the wind screaming down the long treeless slope of ancient lava flows. The final slide into remembering was seeing the roiling of clouds pushed into tumbling cascades by the never ending storm force winds of the Aleutians. Pulling up the collar of his woolen jacket Robert watched Lyman motor out of the bay on Tanaga Island. Raising his hand he waved casually as his older brother disappeared around the point. Walking up the grassy bank he stepped carefully between the tussocks. Fifty yards further inland he saw the cabin that would be his home for the next six weeks. Shoving hard with his shoulder he opened the plank door to his base of operations. The room was simple, no doors except the one and a bunk built into the short end wall. A small coal stove filled a corner at the other end along with a table and four chairs. Raising his eyebrows Robert wondered why there were so many chairs in this tiny cabin. Grunting, he dropped another box of canned goods on the kitchen table. Irritably he muttered, “Why the hell I needed to bring all this food is beyond me. It’s enough to feed three men.” Shoving the other boxes on the floor back to the corner he returned to the beach for more. Rain began to spatter his head and he hurried to get the traps inside. He would need to oil them before leaving them out in the weather. That evening he built a small coal fire in the stove and lit the kerosene lantern. He opened one of his six Harper’s magazine newly bought before leaving Seattle and read the 1933 short story fiction piece “Cocktail Parties” by Janet Owen. Finishing the story, he looked forward to when he would be the one going to these kinds of parties, not stuck in some lonely cabin in the middle of nowhere. He carefully closed the magazine, savoring the expectation of reading another article the next evening. Rain pattering on the tin roof woke Robert the next morning. He rolled from the bunk and crossed to the coal stove to stoke it. Wearing only his long johns he opened the front door and peed without stepping away from the cabin. “Don’t have to worry about upsetting Florence, do I.” Robert declared to no one. The fire heated up his tea water and cooked the oatmeal. Pulling on his dungarees and woolen shirt he rubbed his whiskers and decided he wouldn’t need a shave either. After eating he picked up the binoculars and compass and went out to reconnoiter the island. First he took a reading on the highest of the three peaks and noted it in his carefully sheltered tablet. This island was big enough to get lost on, and while it wouldn’t be permanent, it could be uncomfortable. Next he noted the location of the small bay that the cabin was located by. It would be enough to get him home. Striding out he began to walk the winding trails of the local wildlife. Small paths wound through the low lichen and shrubs and led to the beaches and rookeries overlooking them. His job was to kill all the red fox on this island. After this day he would have a good idea of the challenge. He headed east and walked for a half hour until he approached the shore. Stepping down the short bank he stood on the rocky beach looking for trail. Small paw prints dented the damp sand and led him towards a sandy area surrounded by larger boulders. As he arrived, a myriad of trails were evident and it was obvious that a major food source was available. As the ever shifting wind came around the stench of dead seal hit him full in the face. The carcass had been on the beach for a long time and was being reduced to its basic elements fairly quickly. The maggots on the meatier portions squirmed slowly and sinuously. The lower edges were well gnawed and sinking into the sand. Looking back from the site he noted the entry points of the various paths from the tundra above and decided that he would start here. One trap per trail, and he might get lucky on several counts. He eagerly calculated how many traps to bring to this site, and how many fox there might be to catch. Noon sun peeked through breaking clouds and warmed the air a bit. Robert decided he would stop and eat lunch. Coming up off the beach he found a pile of boulders to sit on, with some protection against the wind. Chewing on the heel of bread he gulped water from the canteen to wash it down. ₪ The wind blew rain down his neck and made him shiver within minutes of leaving the cabin. An hour later he stood on the bluff overlooking the trap line and scanned the shallow paths to see if he had trapped any more foxes. He noted two small bodies matted and flattened in the deluge of rain. But, upright ears and snarling teeth came into focus on a third trap. “Damn, it’s still alive.” With marked reluctance he hiked across the tundra to reset the traps. Opening the jaws of the first two traps he pulled the dead fox loose of the trap teeth. He baited the trap with a chunk of dead salmon collected from the beach. The half rotted fish aroma was strong enough to mask his own ripe human smell. Swinging hard he tossed the fox carcass into the sea. There was no value in the red pelt, only in the absence of competition for food. Lyman would be bringing silver fox to be farmed out here. For six weeks Robert had been killing fox and was finding that it became harder, not easier. Once he had listened most of a night to the pitiful yapping and wailing of a young vixen he had found and left. Warily reaching her head near the trap to grab the bait her quick reflexes allowed her to spring and whirl almost quickly enough to escape. The trap caught her hindquarters at mid-thigh, not killing her outright, or giving her the option of chewing off a foot to escape. After sleeplessly listening to her anguish he had gone back the next morning determined to end it and found her dead with lips permanently bloodied and snarled as she had repeatedly bit at herself to end the agony. Voice thickened and tears running down his face, he had promised her, “I’m so sorry, next time I’ll make it hurt less.” And he had thought of how to make it hurt less. He had discussed it with himself for several days before agreeing on the best way to go about it. He finally approached the trap that held the live fox with grim resolution. As he walked up he tightened his leg and chest muscles, bunched his biceps and made fists of his hands. It was almost as if by making himself tight, it would harden his heart. Resolutely he took his heavy leather boot and pressed it onto the fox’s chest and leaned his weight on it. There were soft slaps as the fox struggled in the dirt to get some breath, a scrabbling as its hind feet scraped up against the leather of his boot. Robert turned a stone face to the wind and waited. He waited longer than needed, desperately wishing it would be over.