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Maybe a Deer

by Michael Czyzniejewski

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The Amber Alert will be live soon, then someone’s going to spot my car in the lot, call it in, then every cop in the state will be on me. I want to walk the trail with Gavin one more time, stop at that bench overlooking the meadow, maybe see a deer. Last time we came, we saw a deer, or only I did, because Gavin slept on walks, why I started taking him. That was a year ago and now Gavin doesn’t take naps anymore. Today he will see the meadow. He might see deer. He’ll also see the cops in the parking lot—unless they storm up the trail and find us there. Either way, I’ll get to the meadow before they get to us. That’s what I want, to see that meadow, with Gavin. And maybe see a deer.

We stop to change Gavin at the trailhead bathroom, worth the three minutes. At the pavilion, a pretty jogger contorts into impossible positions, one leg up behind her ear, then the other, then the splits—she is boneless. I catch myself staring—I’m not going to make the meadow at this rate.

A guy, sixtyish and five feet in shoes, appears. He’s got a camera dangling from his neck and he’s in a vest, the kind with the pockets, with matching cargo shorts. He’s messing with lenses but stops when he sees the stretching jogger. She’s splayed on the bricks, her legs in a V, her forehead pressed to the ground. The photographer moves too close, stops between the jogger’s ankles, and says, in the sincerest voice: “Excuse me, would you be interested in some fitness photography?”

The woman doesn’t flinch. She can’t see him and she’s wearing ear buds.

The man says it again, louder, “Would you like some fitness photography?”

The woman lifts her head and is startled backwards, into a defensive position. “What the fuck?” she yells, the old guy right on top of her.

The guy takes a step back and points to his ear. The woman reaches into a pocket, turns off her music.

“I said, ‘Would you like some fitness photography?’”

The woman pushes herself to her feet, never taking her eyes off the guy. “What?”

“I said, ‘Would you be interested in some ….’”

“I know what you said,” the jogger says. “No, I don’t want any fitness photography. Whatever the fuck that is.”

I should really be heading down the trail if I’m going to make the meadow. I can’t move. Then a happy moment I’ll think of later, when happy moments are rare: The pretty jogger woman looks at me, cracks a grin, and rolls her eyes; I send her a nod.

The guy tries to give her his card, says if she changes her mind, just call. The woman refuses, says she doesn’t have pockets (which we know is a lie). The man says, “Okey-dokey” and heads to the parking lot.

The man does not ask me if I want any fitness photography.

The woman smiles at me once more, then at Gavin, then disappears down the trail. With Gavin, I am a confidante. If it’s just me, she probably thinks I’m there with the creep, the assistant fitness photographer. Gavin makes me harmless. If she only knew.

My phone buzzes unnaturally loudly and it’s the Amber Alert, the one announcing me and Gavin. I look up and see the photographer still in the parking lot, checking his phone. Then he looks around and spots my car. Then he looks down at his phone again. Then he looks back at me. He dials a number and puts his phone to his ear.

I double-time it down the trail toward the meadow. Gavin is laughing and gripping his little tray like he’s on a roller coaster, bobbing up and down, side to side. At this pace, I think I might overtake the jogger, but that’s ridiculous—she’s so fast, already so far ahead.

I’m almost to the meadow when I hear the sirens, faint. They’re so far away, but there are so many. I double-double-time, as fast as I can go.

I’m rounding the bend by the clearing when I see the doe, and alongside it, a baby, grazing in the meadow. The baby’s spotted and can barely walk and is so precious. I crouch next to Gavin, point them out, but just as he looks up, the sirens grow so loud, the deer hop into the brush.

“Did you see?” I say. I am panting, out of breath.

Gavin stares into the meadow. He says, “Big doggies!”

“Yeah, big doggies,” I pull Gavin out of the stroller. We sit on the bench and Gavin twists himself around me, settling against my chest awkwardly. I hold him tight, then snap some photos of us, maybe the last there’ll ever be.

 

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Michael Czyzniejewski is the author of four collections of stories, most recently The Amnesiac in the Maze (Braddock Avenue Books, 2023). He serves as Editor-in-Chief of Moon City Press and Moon City Review, as well as Interviews Editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. He has received a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and two Pushcart Prizes.