Frank

It was close to 90 degrees out when Frank and I finished our chores.  Cripes, it was only noon.  We’d fed the chickens and checked the water pump.  It hadn’t rained in more than a week.  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply through my nose. I could smell the humidity in the air.  It was going to rain any day.  I lived with my family on a small farm in central Alberta.  We didn’t get much rain and August was the hottest month of the year.



“Johnny, let’s go shooting before Ma finds us and gives us more to do.” Frank said.  He was lazy. He grabbed the two rifles which hung on the wall of the pole shed and haphazardly tossed one of them in my direction. 



“Jeez, Frank.  Careful with that.”  I was barely able to catch the gun and keep my footing at the same time.  Frank was clumsy and careless most of the time.  Ma always said she was surprised he lived past his tenth birthday.  Our dad was killed a year earlier in a mine explosion and I made it my job to look out for Frank and my other two younger brothers.  At 18, I was the oldest.  Frank was 15.  Charlie and Joe were still just kids.



We stomped off into the bush searching for something to point our rifles at.  The ground was dry from the lack of rain.  The brush under our feet cracked and snapped as we made our way toward the tree line at the back of the farm.  We carried on under the hot sun, snacking on perfectly ripened Saskatoon berries as we walked.



Frank stopped walking and looked up.  A small nest sat in a birch tree while a hawk circled.  If the hawk landed, it would be a clear shot for Frank.  His aim isn’t that great.  Quietly, we watched and waited.



The hawk eventually perched itself near the top of a spruce.  Frank looked back at me.  He seemed uncertain so I nodded.  He raised the gun to his shoulder, stared down the barrel and fired a single shot.  My ears ringing from the crack of the gun, I laughed at my little brother as he jumped up and down, throwing his arms in the air and yelping.  A few yards away, the hawk lay in a heap, feathers drifting to the ground around it.



“Nice shot.” I said, as Frank and I slowly stepped over a fallen tree log toward the bird.  The wing of the hawk twitched, startling me.  I stopped walking but Frank slowly made his way forward. 



“Hey!” I shouted after him.  He stood over the twitching hawk, the butt of his gun quickly coming down on the bird.  “Frank! Wait! Flip that gun arou --”  It was too late.  The explosion from Frank’s rifle settled into the fields around us before I could react.  As my gaze settled on the motionless body of my little brother, the horror of what had just happened set in.