Paxton Stout abhorred violence—he was incapable of hurting even flies. In fact, when he was a child, his mother handed him a fly swatter, he wept at the prospect of ever harming one. He implored his mother to rid herself of the thing after she placed it in his hands.
“They’re a darn nuisance,” his mother said. She grabbed the fly swatter from Paxton’s hand and mercilessly swatted at a particularly bothersome fly in the kitchen. Mrs. Stout had no such qualms and deftly whacked it out of the air. The lifeless, raisin-like form fell in front of Paxton. His mother moved to swipe the corpse from the table, but Paxton picked up the smashed carcass by a lacerated wing and went to the backyard with a tear in his eye. He conducted a proper funeral for the miniscule creature. This, however, did not stop Mrs. Stout from ruthlessly killing more flies, which in turn lead to Paxton erecting a mass grave—complete with a chiseled headstone—for all of the poor flies Mrs. Stout took from this world. Young Paxton thought his mother cruel, but as he did not believe in violence, he could not confront her about it.
As Paxton grew, his penchant for the peaceful did not subside. Throughout elementary and middle school, he looked with horror at classmates who got into physical altercations.
“Paxton, can we count on you at the big food fight on Friday?” Stephanie Blank inquired one afternoon. Unless dutifully planned, food fights tended to fizzle into nothingness, and thus, rumors had been flying about regarding a battle of the beans or some such nonsense. Paxton turned up his nose.
“No, Stephanie. You can consider me a conscientious objector.”
“A what?”
“A man who is opposed to serving in the armed forces due to moral or religious principles,” Paxton recited. He had found the definition in a library book and found it rather applicable. This was his first time conscientiously objecting to anything, but he felt it was the only thing to do.
“But your mama raised you agnostic!” Stephanie objected. “And besides, it’s not the armed forces anyway!” Stephanie, Paxton noticed, looked decidedly put out.
“All the same,” Paxton replied.
In the days leading up to Friday, Paxton took it upon himself to coordinate a committee for other conscientious objectors in the great Friday Food Fight. He only had one other person join up: Daisy Baker. Daisy Baker was a girl with whom Paxton Stout was smitten since the day they met. Admittedly, this was only three days ago, on Tuesday, when she joined the C.O.O. (Conscientious Objector Organization), however, Paxton found in her a much softer soul than his mother. Her petite frame was even smaller than the other petite girls at Highville Junior High, her golden hair fell in soft curls about her shoulders, her lips parted to produce a winsome smile, and her nose (as noses often do in love stories such as these) turned up a bit at the end, producing an overall charming effect. To Paxton, Daisy Baker was the essence of perfect femininity. In his experience, as women grew older, they grew hard and lost their compassion in favor of practicality. Take his mother and flies, for instance. Paxton concluded that Daisy Baker would never hurt a fly, both proverbially and literally.
“My dad said that if I got in a food fight, he’d spank me so hard I wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week,” Daisy informed Paxton as they took their lunch together in the great outdoors that Friday. Inside, students were brawling, and it looked as if a piece of broccoli had been whacked into the window. Paxton was forcibly reminded of the flies his mother had viciously murdered over the past several years.
“That is particularly harsh,” Paxton responded to Daisy. He was surprised that such a sweet girl had a father with such a violent streak.
“I sure don’t like being spanked much, that’s for sure,” Daisy said, munching on her hamburger. Paxton, like all good conscientious objectors—at least the conscientious objectors he’d known about—was vegetarian and did not like the idea of slaughtering animals for consumption. Clearly Daisy was not fully versed in the ways of objection as of yet.
Throughout his high school and college years, Paxton’s love for Daisy Baker—and his conscientious objection to violence—did not subside. As he grew more fond of Daisy, he visited her home, a lone farmhouse far out from civilization. Paxton reveled in the peacefulness of the farm, listening to the cluck of chickens, and the low moo of the cows. No one in the Baker family cruelly swatted flies out of the air only to have them land, lifeless, at Paxton’s feet. Even though Mr. Baker had threatened to spank Daisy all those years ago, Paxton believed the man had mellowed with age and was no longer a threat to any living creature. Paxton was quite reassured of this, due to the fact that he was able to observe Mr. Baker at almost all hours of the day when he came for visits. The Bakers had a quaint spare bedroom in which Paxton reposed—thus, Paxton was able to monitor Mr. Baker’s behavior from when he, Paxton, woke up in the morning until he retired at night. He was convinced Mr. Baker would not hurt proverbial or literal flies, let alone perform the horrible deed of spanking his daughter.
One morning during a particularly peaceful visit, Paxton descended from the spare bedroom to see the Bakers sitting around the breakfast table, discussing an event that had transpired during the night.
“’Morning, Pax,” Mr. Baker said. “There was a raccoon in the henhouse last night. Did the chickens wake you with their squawking?”
“No,” Paxton said, appalled by the prospect of a raccoon violently depriving the precious hens of their lives. Fortunately, Paxton was a deep sleeper and had heard none of the din caused by the troublesome creature.
“Daisy saved all the chickens but one,” Mr. Baker informed Paxton proudly. Daisy smiled brightly as Mr. Baker informed Paxton that Daisy had been the one to hear the raccoon and had rushed out in the middle of the night to take care of the meddlesome creature. Paxton, however, was focused on another detail of Mr. Baker’s first statement.
“All but one?” Paxton inquired. Daisy’s face fell a bit. Paxton knew this was the face of tragedy and sorrow—it was his face every time a fly landed at his feet. “Oh, dear.” With Daisy’s help, Paxton spent the morning planning a proper funeral for the chicken, just as he had for the flies all those years before. Daisy, saddened by the loss of a beloved pet, stood mournfully next to Paxton as he threw layers of dirt on the grave—complete with a carved headstone.
Time heals all wounds, Paxton found, and Daisy was soon as chipper as could possibly be. One day, in a fit of passion rare for Paxton, he asked Daisy to marry him. Daisy, filled with glee, gave him her signature cheerful smile and embraced him. Paxton felt a sense of satisfaction, thinking that he would establish a peaceful household at long last. His fondest wishes were fulfilled when Mr. and Mrs. Baker bequeathed the farm to their daughter and to Paxton so they could retire to a life away from chickens and cows. Paxton felt as if the universe were giving him encouragement to settle into a peaceful lifestyle, free from violence and strife of any kind.
About a year later, Paxton was awakened by his pregnant wife. He rolled over to see Daisy’s eyes filled with anxiety. “Pax, there’s a fox in the henhouse!” she whispered urgently. She shifted to look out the bedroom window, indicating the slight form of a brash fox slinking about. “He’s going to kill them if we don’t do something!”
Paxton was frozen. Every bone in his conscientious body objected to harming the fox in any way, but his expectant wife was expecting action on his part. Daisy sat up and rolled her eight-and-a-half-month-pregnant frame off the bed. “Never mind, Pax.” She slipped on her house shoes. “I’ll do it.”
She walked to the corner of the room and opened a chest that had once been her father’s. She took out a large gun.
Paxton’s eyes widened. “How long has that been there?” he asked incredulously.
“Oh, Paxton,” Daisy said, cocking the gun, “I’ve always had it.” She smiled brightly, just as she had years ago when Mr. Baker told Paxton of the raccoon in the henhouse.
Paxton sat in his bed, partly in awe, partly in shock, and watched as his wife waddled out to the chicken coop. As she rounded the corner of the house, Paxton opened the window. “Perhaps, dear, it would be best if we just made some noise to frighten him off?” he called, though Paxton noticed that the fox had not moved from the henhouse despite his shouts.
Daisy ignored him. She gripped the gun with both hands and took aim. The fox, hearing a small click, looked up and locked eyes with Daisy for a brief instant.
“Smile!” Daisy said, and a shot rang out into the night.
