The Center of the World by Thomas van Essen Page A

observe, take away yours. My appetite depends on how active I have been and how good the food. Today I had nothing but a piece of cheese and a hunk of bread at midday. I have been active about the place since then and, for my taste at least, the venison is excellent.”
    “But there is something a trifle gruesome, don’t you think, about seeing on the wall the creatures as they looked before they became the meat upon your plate?”
    “Nonsense and humbug. It seems a deal more honest to acknowledge what you are about than not to do so.” Rhinebeck cut his meat and stabbed a piece of it with his fork. He held it up to the ladies. “The last time I saw this fellow was a week ago. Kircum and I had gone out in the early morning while it was still dark. For about an hour we waited by a meadow not too far from here. He came into the clearing, a fine six-pointer, unaware of his fate. He heard me raise my gun. His eyes met mine for half a moment as he tried to make up his mind to run away. But it was too late. I fired, and my aim was true. He staggered for about twenty feet before he fell to the ground.”
    Rhinebeck put the piece of meat in his mouth and chewed it. “He was a beautiful fellow in his life and a tasty morsel in his death. If I think back I can see the spasm that wracked his body as his knees buckled.”
    “Cornelius,” his wife interrupted. “There is no reason to be so horrid.”
    “But that is my point. I keep the animals on my walls, Mrs. Overstreet, to remind me of the truth of the wilderness. We are not in Manhattan. If given half a chance that mountain lionthat you see up there would have pounced upon you and enjoyed your delicate flesh as much as you are enjoying that of this deer.”
    Mrs. Overstreet smiled archly and placed a large piece of meat in her mouth. She chewed with obvious pleasure.
    “But surely the canyons of Wall Street are filled with more dangerous creatures than your forest?”
    “There you have me, Mrs. Overstreet. But it is a different kind of danger—your stockjobber will smile as he hands you the pen, while your panther will roar and snarl as he fastens his teeth on your throat. And although I have made my fortune in the company of the first, I prefer the second. It is the honesty I admire. As I grow older I find the truth of things more and more important to me.”
    When they finished dessert Rhinebeck said, “Come now. We will take our coffee upstairs. And although you are women, I will treat you to a glass of port and show you the final mystery of Birch Lodge.”
    He showed them the small door and led the way. “Be careful. These steps are steep. Watch your head as you go through the door. This is my Snuggery.”
    The response of the two ladies was everything that Rhinebeck could have wished for. They gasped with pleasure and wonder. The room was illuminated by a fire in the large fireplace and by two candelabra of deer antlers that hung from the ceiling. The silver reflection of the full moon shimmered on the water; the trees on the opposite shore showed blue-green and almost black.
    Rhinebeck saw the sorrow that was mixed with the wonder in his wife’s face. He hoped that the tears which he could see forming in the corner of her eyes were not the preface to an outburst. But she made an effort, and before she spoke again she brought herself under control. Lottie, he reminded himself, had her virtues.
    Rhinebeck settled them down in front of the cabinet that he had built for his Turner. He handed his wife and Mrs. Overstreet each a glass of port.
    “You men,” Mrs. Overstreet said, “are such beasts. It is rare that we ladies are ever offered port, but I have never tasted a beverage as delicious as this. This is what the gods drank when they were still among us.”
    “Yes. It is fine stuff.” Rhinebeck went on to explain the various features of the room. Mrs. Overstreet was most enthusiastic.
    “This room is both cunning and cozy. Your architect is a very brilliant