doing the screaming, but if anyone
else defamed me in such a fashion,
they’d be hearing from my lawyer.
The faux snooty tone of her voice
makes me smile. At least the drama
has become intentional. But now
I remember my original purpose,
and since the tear tap has emptied,
“So, where should I drop you off?”
I can almost hear her eyes filling
up again. Drop me off? Can’t I
just hang out with you for a while?
No! No! No!
That’s what I want to say.
That’s what I need to say.
But what I actually do say
is, “I don’t know if that’s
such a good idea, Lex.”
Why not? No strings. I know
you’re still attached to Hayden,
but right now she’s busy chanting
liturgy and sipping God’s blood.
She’s got me there. Still,
“I was planning on going out
to my uncle’s shooting range
for a little target practice.”
Really? Cool! Will you teach me?
I’ve always wanted to learn.
I can’t believe she wants to go
with me. Hayden thinks firing
at bull’s-eyes is paper abuse.
“I don’t know . . .”
Please? At my silence,
she amends, Pretty please?
Oh, Why Not?
Truth be told, I’m sick
of spending weekends
mostly alone.
Anyway, it will give me
the chance to make
my intentions—
or lack thereof—
perfectly clear.
“Okay. I guess
you can come. But if
Uncle Jessie is around,
don’t be shocked
by his missing eye.
And if he hits the deck
at the sound of gunfire,
it’s the PTSD talking.
Iraq is responsible for both.”
Why does he own
a shooting range
if the noise freaks him out?
“You don’t know
much about soldiers,
do you? They’re all
about choking down fear.
That doesn’t stop
just because shrapnel
forces them home.
Uncle Jessie loves guns,
believe me, and even with one
eye gone, he’s a better shot
than most. But his brain
has been traumatized,
and what’s A-OK
one minute might
set him off the next.”
She thinks that over
silently and finally asks,
Have you ever seen him go off?
I could tell her
about the time some
guy fired a .50 BMG,
BLAM! at the exact
same moment a helicopter
whoop-whooped overhead.
Jessie nose-dived
into the dirt and I thought
he just might dig himself
underground, shoveling
with his forehead.
Or I could mention
a certain incident
involving an asshole
who refused to quit picking
on his son. Every time
the kid missed his shot,
the jerk-off dad bear-hugged
the boy into submission,
kicked his feet into a stance,
clamped his big old hands
around the smaller pair
and fired for him.
When the kid collapsed
in tears, his loving father
slapped the boy’s face
his nose and mouth ran red.
Until Jessie stormed across
the field and beat that guy
into a gooey pulp.
Later, after a night in jail,
he told how he’d seen
an Iraqi kid left faceless
by a hailstorm
of American bullets.
Some things drill right through
your skull, he said, and into your brain.
I Could Share Those Things
But I’d rather hold them inside
and skip explicit explanations
that might make her afraid of him.
“I’ve seen some things, but for
whatever reason, I happen to be
a calming influence, at least that’s
what my therapist calls me.
We’ve had late night calls from Quin—
that’s his girlfriend—telling us
he’s wigging out. If he’ll take
the phone, I can usually talk him
down.” Why couldn’t I do the same
for Luke? The sudden shadow darkens
my mood. Perhaps a change of subject
is in order. “I think we need to talk
about what happened the other night.
It was great and everything. . . .”
Was it ever. “But I feel like
I took advantage of you and—”
The volume of her sigh halts
my words midsentence. “What?”
Don’t you think I have a mind
of my own? You did not take
advantage of me. I wanted to be
with you. Look. Like I said, I know
you’re still with Hayden, and
I never asked for any sort of
commitment. It’s enough to spend
time with you, at least it’s enough
for now. The sex was amazing.
If you decided to pull over for
a quickie, I’d happily comply, but
it isn’t necessary, or why I’m here.
I love you, Matt, I do. She pauses,
then laughs, staccato. Pretty sure
there’s a Bible verse that says, “Love
is patient.” Dude, I’m the patient
love poster child. I figure if I wait
long enough, eventually you’ll get smart.
Her Forthrightness
Is bone-chilling,
yet also refreshing.
Communication?
This girl is not afraid
of the word, which makes
me wonder out loud,
“What are you afraid of?”
What?
“Are you afraid of anything?”
Well, sure. Everyone’s afraid
of something, aren’t they?
“Okay, so, like, what? Spiders?
Snakes? Chain-saw killers?”
She laughs again. Dad killed
a chain saw once. Not pretty.
“Young woman, I do believe
you’re evading my question.”
She Sucks in a Serious Breath
Exhales slowly, as if expelling
the air compressed inside her secrets.
I’m not afraid of spiders or snakes.
I’m afraid of things I can’t see.
“You mean, like, gasses? Or all
the way down to the molecular level?”
Smart-ass. I mean like . . .
Have you ever felt something
brush by, but when you look
to see what, there’s nothing there?
“Uh, not really. Hey, are you going
all woo-woo on me or what?”
Never mind. Her voice is heavy
with “pout.” Sorry you asked.
“Oh, don’t be mad. I’ve never
experienced anything like that,
or if I did, my conscious self chose
to ignore it. I don’t like creepy shit.”
Me either, and that’s exactly
what I mean. I have experienced
&
nbsp; it, on more than one occasion, and
my conscious self couldn’t ignore
the way it made me break out
in goose bumps and lifted the hair
on my arms. And the weirdest thing
was, I know exactly who it was.
Who? Damn, man, woo-woo squared.
“Really?” This is either obnoxiously
interesting or something I want
to know nothing about. Really.
So, do I bite, or leave it there,
hoping it will go away? “Who?”
My father. He was killed when
I was a baby. I never knew him.
Killed?
That’s what I ask,
increduously, and, “Why
have I never heard this story?”
I’ve known Alexa
since fifth grade.
She shrugs. It’s not
something that comes up
in conversation. Like I said,
I never knew him at all.
My mom remarried
when I was two, so Paul
has always been “Dad” to me.
“Hope this doesn’t sound
morbid, but what
happened to your father?”
Nothing too glamorous.
Wrong place, wrong time
to be buying liquor.
The store got robbed,
and he was caught
in the crossfire when
the guy behind the counter
pulled his own gun.
I turn off the highway,
onto the gravel road to Uncle
Jessie’s. The tires crunch
beneath us, the noise obvious
above our silent reflection.
Finally I ask, “So why
do you think your father
would come back to terrify you?”
I doubt that’s his goal, but I
can’t help being weirded out.
How often do dead people come
around to visit? Why would
he drop by? Great question.
Maybe it’s lonely wherever
your spirit goes when you die.
Maybe he wants company.
Or maybe he just wants me
to know he’s looking out for me.
“Would it make you feel better
to believe a dead someone
is looking out for you?”
Better than thinking he’s inviting
me to join him in the Great Beyond.
The Sun Showers
Have encouraged a number
of people to the outdoor range.
Small-caliber weapons crack
the air, while larger ones
thud and boom. I assess
Lex’s expression—fascination
and outright delight. This
could be a whole lot of fun.
We find an open target and
I demonstrate all the basics.
Safety first, of course—what
not to do if you want to remain
unscathed. Then grip. Stance.
Aim. The kick surprises her at
first, the barrel’s awkward lift
making her miss the paper
completely the first shot or ten.
I show her how to compensate,
and we start again. Before long,
she’s hitting the target reliably,
if not square center. Finally,
I take control of the Glock.
“My turn.” I spend a few minutes
showing off and am reloading
when someone taps my shoulder.
I turn. “Hey, Uncle Jessie.”
His long salt-and-pepper hair
is tied back away from his face,
accentuating the sharp angles
that run in the Turner family.
He is younger than Dad, but could
easily pass for his older brother.
He gives me a giant bear hug,
steps back and grins, then notices
Alexa, who is likewise grinning.
This your girlfriend?
I glance at Lex. “Not exactly.”
His single eye does the work
of two, gives her a total once-over.
Hmm. Well, she should be.
“Uncle Jessie!” Lex doesn’t blush,
but I do. “Um, this is my friend,
Alexa. I’m showing her the ropes.”
I know. I’ve been observing.
You could do worse for a teacher,
miss. This boy is a world-class shot.
A Sudden Outburst
Of world-class cussing draws
all attention toward the far end
of the long row of targets,
where an immense, scruffy
guy seems to be wrestling
with a very large long gun.
Ah, hell, exhales Jessie. Gus.
Better go help him out. He starts
away, turns back long enough
to invite, Quin’s whipping up
enchiladas. Why don’t you two
come to the house for dinner?
Alexa’s all for it, I can tell,
and I’m having frozen whatever
otherwise. “Sure thing,” I call after
Uncle Jessie, who, in a half-dozen
superstrides, has reached Gus.
I can’t hear what he’s saying,
but I can see him coax the rifle
away from the hulk. He checks for
a chambered round, examines
the barrel, points out something
to Gus, who remains agitated. People
start packing it in, but whether it’s due
to the commotion or simply because
the day is tipping toward evening,
who knows? Alexa shifts uneasily
from foot to foot. “Don’t worry.
Whatever the problem is, Jessie can
handle it. You up for another round?”
Lex pulls her attention back toward
the Glock and me, but when she takes
the pistol, I notice the tension traveling
from her shoulders all the way down
through her arms, into her hands.
“You’ll have to relax or forget it.”
I’m trying, she says. But that man
looks just this side of going bad. Reminds
me of Paul after an all-night bender.
“If he’s been drinking, my uncle
will escort him out of here. Guns
and liquor are a toxic combination.”
As If to Prove My Point
Jessie and Gus come ambling
toward us, Jessie carrying the rifle
belonging to the bigger man,
who has one arm slung around
Jessie’s shoulder. After they pass
by, headed in the direction
of the main building, Lex finally
expels enough stress to hit the target
again. Her last shot is a dead-on
bull’s-eye. “Way to go!” I offer
a high high-five, one she has to
jump a little for. Anything worth
having is worth working for,
as my Grandpa Turner says.
I take one last turn, annihilating
the target’s center with eight
straight perfect shots. Awesome!
exclaims Lex. I want to shoot like that.
“You can, with practice. You’ve
got a good eye.” I drop the clip,
pull the trigger one last time,
making sure no chambered
surprises await me, then wipe
the Glock free of residue.
I pack the pistol in its case and
as Lex and I swing toward the truck,
Uncle Jessie and Gus emerge
from the office. This time,
 
; Jessie does walk Gus to his car,
the offending rifle nowhere in sight.
I tuck the Glock in its usual
under-the-seat hiding place, wait
for Uncle Jessie’s return trip. As
he nears, I call out, “Hey, soldier.
Want a ride? Good time, guaranteed.”
Jessie laughs; Alexa does, too,
especially when Jessie responds,
How could I not have a good time
with you? But enchiladas first.
Any and all good times after dinner.
The house isn’t really so far, just
a couple hundred yards up the hill.
Walking distance, but I kind of
enjoy the chauffeur role. I open
the backseat door. “Oh, brother
of my father, your four-wheel-drive,
supercharged V-8 limo awaits.
Allow me to help you in, suh.”
He Slaps Away
My outstretched hand, but he does
accept the ride, climbs up inside,
with a heartfelt, Jerkwad. I’ll give
you “suh” right upside your head.
We all watch Gus back his beater
out of the parking space, head off.
“What’s up with him, anyway?
And what happened to his rifle?”
Uncle Jessie clucks his tongue. I
talked him into letting me work on
that old piece of crap. The barrel
is corroded, and I’m worried it’ll
blow his ugly-ass face off.
But he loves that goddamn thing.
I thought he might fight you for it,
says Alexa. He looked belligerent.
B-b . . . Jessie detonates laughter.
Yep, belligerent is the perfect word
for Gus, and I figure he was born
that way. But he wouldn’t fight me.
We’re compadres. He’s a tad tweaked,
but four back-to-back tours to
the Middle East will do that to a guy.
I let him come out here for free.
He needs to blow off steam every now
and again, and I’d rather it be shooting
targets than most other things I can
think of. Anyway, you’re safe with me.
We pull up in front of the two-story
frame farmhouse. The front porch sags
a little, but seeing as how the place
was built almost a century ago, all in all,
it’s in decent shape. A trio of pit bull
mix mutts come around the side of the house
to investigate, wagging their stumps
at the sight of Jessie and his company.
The Dogs Grin, Exposing Fangs
Alexa hesitates beside the truck.
“I thought nothing scared you
except things you can’t see,”