"Why not?"
"I said no, Leroy."
The boy just looked at his father, waiting. There was a play of emotions over the man's face that the boy didn't quite understand. Then his father answered. "You're too young. You're only ten."
"Eleven." The correction came quickly, somewhat of an accusation.
His father's voice remained as even as it had been over the entire conversation. "Still too young."
"Lots of boys my age-"
Only now did the father exhibit frustration with his son. His voice was a little more forceful. "I'm not raising lots of boys! I'm raising you. You are not allowed."
The boy's eyes blazed, but he clamped his lips together, keeping in all of the thoughts that jumped up in his mind.
"Go on home, Son." His father's voice was gentle again. "Chores and homework aren't going to do themselves."
Now the boy shifted his eyes from his father's face to the book bag he'd dropped on the floor. He leaned over and grabbed the strap, then turned without a word, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he left the store. Only after the door had closed and the boy had turned down the street did the man turn around and look at the rifle hanging on the wall behind him.
The boy walked home, planning to isolate himself in his room for as long as the homework excuse would allow. He trudged up the front steps and paused a moment when he reached the top. He slowly opened the door and with soft steps entered the house. His mom was sitting at the end of the couch, with a blanket over her legs. She put her magazine on the end table and smiled as he came into the room. "There you are. Come sit by me and tell me what you've been up to," she said.
"Mom, homework," he answered, but he said it halfheartedly.
"Homework can wait a bit," she said.
He dropped his bag and approached the couch. His mom looked good, only a bit tired, he thought. He slid onto the cushion next to her, careful not to jostle her.
"What's on your mind? I can almost see the wheels spinning." His mom wasted no time easing into an interrogation.
The boy hesitated, not sure he wanted to voice the indignation he felt, not sure how she'd respond. He found he could not deny her the confidence that had always existed between mother and son, though, so after a moment he told her, "Dad said no. About the hunting trip. About the rifle."
"Mm," was all the response he got. His mother didn't seem surprised.
"He doesn't trust me! He thinks I'm a little kid! He doesn't want me to ever do anything!" He leaned forward, his body lifting away from the couch cushion, as he voiced the injustice he felt.
"Jethro." His mom liked to call him by his middle name. "Your father loves you." The boy slumped back down and opened his mouth, but his mother overrode him, "He does. There's a story it's time you heard."
Jethro looked at his mother, curious about what she was going to say.
"In the bedroom on the dresser there's a picture. Bring it out here."
Dutifully, Jethro went into his parents' room and found the framed photograph. It was a black and white image of four young boys in suits, somber. This was an object whose presence had gone barely noticed by Jethro and unmentioned by his parents, even though its continued display meant it must be of some importance. He handed it to his mom as he retook the seat next to her, waiting for the explanation.
"Do you know who these boys are?" his mom asked. When he shook his head no, she told him, "This one," pointing to the second from left, "is your father. He was ten or eleven then."
Having been told, now Jethro could see the resemblance.
"The others are Harvey Linkirk, his brother Robert, and Eugene Tuttle." His mother pointed as she named each one.
The names were ones Jethro had heard before from stories his father had told of growing up on the farm.
His mother continued her explanation, "They were pallbearers at the funeral of a schoolmate, an eight year old boy who died in a farm accident."
Jethro absorbed this information. "Oh," was the only response he had.
"So maybe you'll understand if your father wants you to enjoy your childhood and not feel the need to grow up any more quickly than you have to." She set the photograph on the table.
"I guess," he reluctantly agreed, "but lots of boys hunt and have rifles, not just grown-ups."
"You're right, Jethro, but have you thought this through? Beyond the excitement of firing a rifle, I mean?"
Jethro wasn't sure how to respond, so he looked at his mom and waited, knowing she would continue.
"When you pull the trigger on that rifle, it's for the purpose of taking a life. Hunting provides food for many of the families around here. That's a fact. But killing another living creature is not something to be taken lightly," she said.
"Mom, I know."
"You might think you do and maybe you do. We just don't want you to take that step yet. Can you try to understand our point of view?" His mom looked at him seriously.
"Does it matter?" he asked, discouraged.
"It does. It affects the man you will become someday." She smiled at him after she said this.
"Someday a long time from now," he replied in a frustrated tone.
"Not as long as it seems to you now," his mom answered. She picked up the photograph again and studied it.
The boy looked at her, seeing her paleness and lines in her face that he hadn't noticed before. "How come Dad never talks about it?" he asked, gesturing at the photograph.
"It's not a pleasant story to tell," his mom answered. She put her arm around her son's shoulder and after a moment she continued, "It is an important one, though. You could ask him about it."
"Maybe," the boy said, reaching over to take the photograph. He studied it silently for a minute, then kissed his mom on the cheek before standing up. "I guess I don't have to go on that hunting trip," he said and went into the bedroom to return the photograph to its post of honor on the dresser.