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shouted this question.
    “Oh, there's no question of my moving. No question. There's more I have to tell you; you know so little, yet. What I do here is tied to the land, to where I am. I couldn't move, not now. But I can't explain that to her.”
    I could see that she was unhappy, that whatever problems she had with her granddaughter were bothering her. All the same, I was feeling jealous and irritable. I didn't want her to have a family, or a cottage. I wanted her to walk with me, and teach me things.
    “So, I'll be a little busy,” she said, wearily.
    “Okay,” I said. I looked over at her. I wasn't sure, but I thought she might be crying. It was cold, and my eyes were watering a little.
    “Emma?” I asked.
    “The world is so vast, Thomas,” she said abruptly. I was certain she was crying. She began to walk, and I scrambled up after her. She walked along, slowly, painfully it seemed. “You can't pick and choose what you want in it: the world comes all in a bunch. You should love what you can and,” she drew in a long breath, “oh me, and try not to hate anything. Please believe me. Sometimes it gets away from me. I wish you could have met Mr. Nash. I don't set a very good example.”
    “Well, but, sure you do,” I protested, “I don't understand!”
    “Oh, don't mind me. I'm just getting old, Thomas.”
    “But you said Mr. Nash was a hundred and two!” I protested.
    “Well, Mr. Nash didn't have a husband, and a store to run, and three children to raise.” She shook her head. She was almost smiling now.
    “No, he was a wonderful man. I've been Emma for so long ...”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Hmm? What do I mean? Oh, very little, I assure you. I'm just tired. Weary, is the word. I'm just an old country woman, Thomas, old and worn out.”
    There was almost a lilt in her voice now.
    “No,” I said, and punched at her arm.
    “Hmmph,” she took another deep breath and smiled a rare, full smile. “Listen to me! What a sour old goat. Shouldn't all the world feel sorry for me!” She laughed now, a sound I loved to hear.
    “You know,” she said, “I must give you your birthday present a little early.”
    “Really?” I said, excited. I certainly hadn't expected a present from her.
    “Yes. There's someone I'd like you to meet, before hunting season begins. A few someones. Can you meet me here early tomorrow? We have a long walk.”
    “Oh sure! Right after breakfast.”
    “Good,” she said. “Good. Bring a little something to eat. And don't mind all my talk.”
    That evening I stood in the doorway of my parents' bedroom. My father had called across the house forme. He was sitting at the end of the bed untying his heavy black work shoes, to change into his slippers.
    “Dad?” I said.
    “Hey, sport,” he said.
    He looked at me, and for a moment nothing was said. He looked like he'd done something wrong, but he couldn't remember what. He looked at me like he couldn't quite place me. When he spoke he spoke slowly.
    “Tom, about your birthday, you know.” He took a breath, almost a sigh. “I mean, hey, we could always make some other plans.”
    “Mom told you.”
    “Ah, well, you know, she was worried about you. And maybe I haven't been paying enough attention lately, with work and all. But Tom, I thought you wanted to go with us.”
    He looked at me, searching my face. I didn't say anything. He shrugged.
    “It doesn't matter,” he said. “If you don't want to go hunting, then of course that's fine.”
    It was the strangest moment for me. For perhaps the first time I could see my father from a little distance, somehow. He was nervous. He wasn't sure what to say. I was amazed, and I hurt, with guilt and with what might have been a kind of fear.
    “No, Dad,” I said, my own voice sounding odd to me. “I was only thinking . . . I'm just not sure I could kill something, you know, a deer, a buck. I'm not sure.”
    “Oh, well, half the time you don't even get a decent shot at anything,” he