Off the Rack

hearth. The two of them tucking a sleeping Maisie into a snug guest room, pulling the door shut and retreating to their own bed, white sheets, thick duvet.

  “No, just a short visit to an old friend,” Brian said.

  “Late for a visit.”

  Maisie interrupted to ask if she could go outside with Kathleen—she pronounced it Kat-leen, as Tommy did—to see the goat. Brian, relieved to find an escape from this unexpectedly precarious conversation, swallowed the last of his port, excused himself to Tommy and followed.

  The sun was skimming the treetops now. The goat was penned in the next field over behind a stacked stone wall. Brian thought that it could easily have jumped over, but it seemed content standing on top of an old rusted metal box that appeared to be intended as its shelter. Maisie was trying to climb the stone wall for a closer look. After a few minutes of goat watching, Maisie started picking wildflowers, an occupation that took her to the edge of the field and then through the metal gate.

  “Don’t worry, she can’t get into any trouble there. See, Coco’s looking after her.”

  Maisie started down the gravel road toward the setting sun, stopping every few steps to pick a flower or examine a pebble. Coco bounded ahead, chasing birds. Brian and Kathleen strolled behind.

  “My husband’s family owned all this land,” she said, sweeping her arm from the sunset back toward the main road. Maisie ran after Coco, and they walked faster. Kathleen pointed at a low white house just coming into view. “My Paddy, rest in peace, was born in that house. His father too.” Maisie had stopped up ahead and was silhouetted between two stands of tall grass, the setting sun directly behind her. “He sold the house years ago, during hard times. He always hoped to buy it back again someday.”

  Beyond Maisie a narrow path wove through the dense grasses to a sandy beach. Coco was frolicking in knee-deep water. Brian nodded his permission and Maisie raced across the sand to crouch at the water’s edge. Kathleen leaned against the low wall that marked the property line of the old house. Its windows overlooked the sandy strand, deep green water, low hills rising out of the sea at the horizon.

  “Maybe you’ll get it back someday.”

  “No, never,” Kathleen said. “You would have to be mad to give this up.” She patted the ancient stone wall and started back up the path.

 

  It was nearly 8:00 when they walked up the road to their car. Kathleen and Tommy had once again advised against attempting the Conor Pass in the dark, and had given Brian detailed instructions for getting the car ferry across the mouth of the Shannon to avoid driving through Limerick, which they called Stab City. Against Brian’s protestations, they had insisted on feeding both of them an impromptu dinner of sausages, eggs, and chips before allowing them to leave.

  A patchy fog had risen up and drifted like gentle ocean waves just above the ground.

  “Feel okay to get back on the road?”

  “Yep.” Brian buckled Maisie into the car seat, still stinking of vomit despite his cleanup efforts. No doubt the cleaning bill would show up on his Visa statement. Maisie leaned against the headrest and smiled at Brian.

  He had called Nora once more, a few days after that last afternoon together. She had said she was on the other line, promised to call right back. He had never heard her voice again.

  “Mais?”

  “Hmm?”

  “If you had a friend who you cared about a lot, and they said they didn’t want to be your friend anymore, would you say okay and just not talk to them anymore, or would you keep trying?”

  “If they said they didn’t want to be my friend, then I wouldn’t be their friend anymore.”

  “What if it was your very best friend and you had a silly misunderstanding and the friend wouldn’t talk to you? And the friend is stubborn but you know that you’re really best friends forever? Then would you give up or keep trying?”

  “Then . . . I guess keep trying.”

  “Do you really believe that, Mais?”

  She shrugged. “If she’s really my friend, then she would talk to me.”

 

  The motorcycle’s taillight faded to a red pinprick in the darkness. Maisie shifted position, snorted loudly, and woke up.

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re in Tarbert, at the River Shannon.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “Well, it’s dark. But it’s right here.” He pointed to the water gently advancing and retreating on the concrete ramp in front of them.

  “Daddy?”

  “What, Mais?”

  “What are Wexford strawberries like?”

  “I don’t know, baby. I’ve never tasted them. I’m sorry, Mais. I should have bought them for you when we saw them earlier.”

  “That’s okay.” She was quiet for a long time then, and Brian thought she must have dozed off again. “I bet they’re sweet.”

  Brian put the car back into gear and reversed up the slipway.

  The fog had cleared some, but the going was still slow. He could see about twenty yards of road ahead, rising and falling like gentle ocean swells. The white needle of the gas gauge grazed the empty mark. In a few more miles there was a T-junction and a typically cryptic road sign with an unpronounceable Gaelic name and a small arrow. He turned.

  Invincible

  Helen K. Bailey

  A man stood upon a bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man’s hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck and weights hung from his ankles.

  “Okay Charlene,” he said. “You know what to do?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “If your neck doesn’t snap, I cut the rope. If you don’t drown, I shoot you.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Ned?”

  “Yes, for Chrissakes.”

  “You know I’m not actually going to shoot you.”

  “Dammit, Charlene, I know what I’m doing. Follow the plan.”

  “Okay. If you insist.”

  He glanced up at the rusty autumn sunset for a moment, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped. He felt himself falling briefly, then he felt the rope catch. Panic suddenly washed over him as pain seared through his throat. He started gagging and knew his neck hadn’t snapped. “Cut the rope, Charlene,” he thought. “Do it now!”

  He was falling again. With a slight splash, he hit the water and sank straight to the bottom. He tried to breathe but couldn’t. His lungs simply refused to expand. He waited, fear growing steadily in his heart. What would it feel like to die? Was he really prepared?

  He waited for what seemed like an eternity, watching the seaweed wave back and forth in the current. A turtle swam by very slowly, pausing to nibble at something. Ned still couldn’t force himself to breathe.

  Finally, he heard gunshots. Two. He saw two bullets shoot past him in slow motion and bury themselves in the sandy riverbed. “Keep shooting, Charlene,” he thought. Four more shots came, the sound somewhat muffled by the water. All four bullets lodged themselves deep in the sand. “What the hell’s the matter with her?” he thought.

  “She’s the best shot this side of the Mississippi and she can’t even shoot a still target from thirty feet away!”

  Standing on the bridge, Charlene eyed the gun she was holding. It looked perfectly normal, but something was not right. She had shot Ned. She knew she had shot him. Charlene had been in the NRA for years; her daddy had taught her to shoot when she was seven. She even knew how to adjust her aim to the refraction of the water, so the bullet would hit its submerged mark dead on. There was no way that she had missed him with six shots. It was impossible.

  At the bottom of the river, Ned stood wondering just how long it would take before his lungs burst. Suddenly a surge of the current dragged his weights across the sand, downriver and toward the east bank. He reluctantly tried to kick the weights toward the river’
s center, but only succeeded in pushing himself closer to land. His head popped out of the water and his lungs instantly expanded. Gasping for breath, he saw Charlene walking toward him, her face white as cotton.

  “What the hell happened, Charlene?” he yelled. She just looked at him.

  “You forget how to shoot or somethin’?”

  “I shot you, Ned,” she said slowly, her eyes wide with disbelief. “I shot you six times. In the back.”

  Ned froze. His spine began to tingle like there were hundreds of tiny spiders having a New Year’s Eve party on his skin. Then joy surged through his body and he nearly leaped into the air.

  “Can you believe this?” he cried. “It’s true! I really am invincible!”

  “You’re not invincible, Ned. In the first place, you’re going to get hypothermia if you don’t get dried off pretty quick. In the second place, no one is invincible. That’s like saying you’re the next Jesus or somethin’.”

  “Maybe I am.” His reply was calm, as though he had already thought this through.

  “Oh shit,” said Charlene. “I know this is weird, but you can’t start acting crazy on me. I must have just missed my shots. Maybe I was subconsciously afraid to shoot you, so my hands fucked up. Don’t turn this into some big mess. And don’t keep tryin' to get yourself killed. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, great.”

  “I think you’re missing the point, Charlene. Two days ago I was run over by a bus. How often do people get run over and manage to be right exactly between the wheels? I didn’t even get a scratch. And now it seems I can’t be hung, shot, or