The grizzly

Among all the heads on the wall, the grizzly was his favourite. He’d even named it. Tom. Tom the grizzly. He imagined what Tom’s life had been like, before getting shot down and taxidermised, his final expression frozen in an immortal snarl.

Tom must have roamed the mountain range outside Arizona, king terror of the woods. Till a professional hunter got him. Often costing hunters their lives, they were prized collectors’ items, appealing to a select group of wealthy men, usually fat, short and bald, with a penchant for cigars and brandy.

Harry Trumball was unashamed to admit that he was definitely one of these men. Yes, most of the other serious collectors he knew were exactly of this description, but heck, so what? They were all filthy rich. So rich that they didn’t need to risk their own lives to stake out, lure and out-think their prey. They just needed to fork out cash for it.

But lately, he had been getting these bouts of, well, boredom. It was so ridiculous he didn’t understand it at first. But that’s what it was, he figured. For Chrissakes, he was staring at a taxidermied grizzly head and making up its life story. How stupid.

Over dinner, which was usually a silent affair, as every family member would be glued to their mobile phones — that is, if they sat down to dinner together in the first place — over dinner, he cleared his throat. His wife of twenty years, Theresa, pretended not to hear, reaching for her wine glass and just turning away from him ever so slightly. His two teenage children were absent.

“Theresa?” He cleared his throat again.

With a deep intake of breath, Theresa slowly turned to face him, her grip on the wine glass so hard it was like a warrior’s grip on his weapon just before battle. “Yes, Harry?”

Harry thought he detected a note of impatience in her voice. He dismissed the thought immediately and ploughed on.

“Theresa. I need to do something. I mean really do something. With my own two hands.” He held them up for emphasis.

Theresa stared at the pair of soft, pudgy hands. Even his fingers have put on weight, she observed with clinical detachment. Those heavy rings he favoured, thick gold bands with jade-

“I want to be a hunter.” His voice cut in, snapping her back to the dinner table.

“What? Why? Don’t you always say it’s stupid to risk your life to get something when you can just pay for it?” She looked him straight in the eyes. Their gazes locked. Neither of them could remember the last time they really looked at each other.

“I.. I just feel so bored these days,” Harry responded. It was weird telling her this. He tensed, unsure about her reaction. Part of him thought she would try to make this about her. She used to do that a lot, take every sentence he said as an insult towards her, that she was not doing enough, was not good enough for him, for them. But that had been a long time ago. Harry eventually learned not to talk at all if possible. Less trouble. And they seemed to have come to a workable arrangement. Minimal conversation, minimal conflict. He didn’t mind it, actually. He liked to imagine the silence as contentment. It was just a matter of perspective, and he was nothing if not a creative man.

So he tensed, waiting for her reply. It was a long time coming. He started to regret having opened his mouth. Also, she was still staring at him with an inscrutable expression. It was rather unnerving. He was about to clear his throat again when Theresa, with her gaze firmly locked on him, finally parted her lips, and sighed softly.

“Me too, Harry. What’s happened to us?”