Gunmetal Blue Page 12

  The way Cal outfitted it, the gun fits nice in my hand. I push a small button and out comes the fully loaded seventeen-round magazine clip, quick and easy. I check the chamber to make sure there isn’t a round in it. Then I put the clip back in the gun and sight at a target. I like the sights considerably more. They really jump out now. I holster the gun. I stand there a moment looking at what I’m going to shoot. I take a breath. I draw the gun and sight at the target. I try to separate from my emotions, and then I start firing.

  You like it, big guy? Cal says.

  Perfect for an old man. Thank you, I reply.

  It’s about time you hit the target again.

  I unload another clip while Cal stands there goading.

  How does it feel? Cal says.

  Alive again. I haven’t felt this great in years. Thank you for the gun, Cal. It’s easy on the bones.

  Yeah, and your accuracy is great. Better than ever.

  It’s the tritium sight. It is really nice.

  He hands me the clip. I load, drop a round in the chamber, and start firing. It is still amazing how the gun shoots compared to my old Ruger. Also, the stippled grip that Cal outfitted it with helps it sit firmly in my hand despite the fast shooting action.

  Don’t you see? It’s a better gun for you than that Ruger.

  Yes, I say, banging away at the target.

  Look at you go, big guy! I ain’t never seen anything like it. Your accuracy is through the roof! I’m loving what I'm seeing here. You might be a sniper after all!

  I might be!

  I drop another magazine and then another magazine. I want right then and there to give the Glock the name of my first-born child—the child I had before I had the child that I had: I want to call the gun Luke.

  Just think about that fuck Adolph Meyer, Cal says. Think about that fuck, and what he did to you.

  And suddenly I saw my wife. And once I saw my wife, I couldn’t unsee her. All the wounds. And then Adolph Meyer. That puff of red.

  I’ve had enough.

  I put the Glock in its case and thank Cal.

  I'm done, I say. I'm done shooting this gun.

  I bend down, pick up a spent 9 mm casing, blow on it, then put it in my pocket as a souvenir.

  Thank you very much, Cal, I say, for the experience of shooting this gun. I’ve learned something, and now I’m done.

  Didn’t you like it?

  Yes.

  Don’t you want to keep it?

  No, you hold on to it.

  You sure? You did well with it. I’m super proud of what you showed me here.

  And what’s that?

  That you know how to shoot.

  OK. Now it’s your turn. Go ahead and shoot, Cal.

  He steps up to the lane with his Uzi and casts a glance at me like he’s trying to tell me something. Then he goes apeshit with the machine gun, tearing up the target sideways and backwards. It’s a marvel to watch the man shoot. I know what he’s shooting at, too. When he’s through, he swears.

  God! Jesus! Holy shit that was fun, he says, setting down the Uzi so it can cool off. I feel a helluva lot better! How about you, Art?

  I still want to buy a shovel.

  But Cal isn’t even listening: Outstanding, my friend! Outstanding. Nothing like shooting to fix what’s wrong with you. It liberates the soul. How about let’s do it again soon?

  How about it? Only next time in a cornfield.

  ¤

  Now I’m watching Albert Volares’ mom deal with the grief. It helps me forget my own grief. I thought I suffered. And here she is about to explode—a whole journey of suffering awaiting her. Another feast after the feast that followed the funeral. A bitter feast to be eaten alone in the dark of night while everyone else sleeps.

  A woman who looks like she could be Rita’s sister steps up to the mound of dirt and shovels a clod onto Albert’s casket. She sets the spade down and steps aside, sobbing. Who was this Albert Volares? Fifteen years old…and dead. He probably didn’t know what hit him. That’s the hope at least: that he lost consciousness mercifully quick. But in all likelihood, he probably didn’t. He probably suffered a great deal for what he was about to lose: the whole rest of his life. What was I doing when I was fifteen? What did I do to earn the whole rest of my life?

  •

  A kid standing next to me is wearing a football jersey.

  He was paralyzed from the neck down, the kid says.

  Oh…

  I visited him in the hospital.

  You did?

  He was my best friend.

  I’m sorry.

  He wanted to be an FBI agent.

  Yes, I see.

  He fell into a coma soon after he was carried off of the football field. He played running back.

  I’m sorry, I tell the kid.

  He never woke up.

  How long did he survive after he died?

  Three weeks. He had tubes in and out of his nose and mouth. It was terrible.

  The priest signals for a moment of silence.

  The shoveling pauses, and then it continues. The thudding of dirt on the casket.

  •

  After Albert Volares’ funeral, the father hands out cards and directions to the restaurant. He hands one out to all of the relatives. I watch him hand cards to some of the kids who came over on the bus. The kid in the football jersey waves his hand at it, declining to accept.

  You sure? The dad seems perplexed. You’re welcome to come.

  No. Sorry, sir. I have to take the school bus back. I have weight training.

  Weren’t you friends with Albert?

  The boy shakes his head yes. Yes, sir. Yes I was, as a matter of fact.

  I would love for you to come to dinner with us. Why don’t you come? We can talk about Albert. I’ll see that you get home afterwards.

  The boy looks at his friends. They shrug their shoulders. Unable to stand up to the man’s grief and curiosity, the boy assents. Fine, I’ll come.

  You can drive along in the limo with us. There’s plenty of room.

  He walks over to the three youths.

  And how about you guys. Would you like to join us?

  No thank you, sir, says the boy with the pink housecoat. His face is aflame with pimples, his hair blows wild in the wind, as does his pink housecoat.

  Please. Join us. I insist. There will be pasta, pizza…all sorts of things to eat.

  No thanks, sir. The boy looks at the father unblinkingly, looks him straight in the eyes, and the man stares back at the boy. They stand there looking into each other’s eyes. Thinking and seeing who knows what.

  Please, I insist. The father puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  I didn’t know him.

  The father looks slightly surprised, but nonplussed. Please, why don’t you and your friends join us anyway? You were here for our grief; the least you can do is let me feed you. A skinny guy like you, you must be hungry.

  OK, the boy says. Alright sir, but we would need a ride.

  Please, we have plenty of room in the limos.

  The father walks over to me.

  Hi, he says, handing me a card to the restaurant. Thank you for coming. Were you one of Albert’s teachers?

  For a moment I don’t know what to say. I feel caught in an act of voyeurism. I have been standing at the periphery of the funeral observing their grief—for what, I cannot begin to say—and now he’s cornered me before I had the opportunity to get safely away. I smile sympathetically and shake my head no.

  I’m sorry, I say. I never knew him.

  Are you with them? He nods towards the kids.

  No. I’m by myself.

  What brings you here then?

  The grave. His grave is located next to my wife’s. It was to be my grave, but I hadn’t gotten around to purchasing it yet from the cemetery. I came out today to visit her. It’s the fifth anniversary of her burial. You’ll have to forgive me; I didn’t mean to intrude.

  He looks taken ab
ack again. He might be my contemporary, my exact age. By the looks of him, we may have even gone to high school together. Like these schoolmates here, we too may very well have been schoolmates once. Young once, just like these kids, our whole lives spread out ahead of us. Once…

  I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry about the grave. It’s the one they assigned us. I didn’t even think to ask.

  It’s alright. First come, first served. Unfortunately for your son and for you, he came first.

  Yes, it is unfortunate.

  It’s terrible. I’m sorry.

  He looks at me, then places a hand on my shoulder. I wish you could have known my son, he says. He was something else.

  I believe it.

  No. I mean that. He was something else. Every parent will tell you that their kid was something else if you give them half a chance—no surprise there. But my son, Albert, he was something else. I’m not stretching the truth on this.

  Just then a small smile breaks out on his face. Oh, shucks. He was a good kid. He says it again: Oh, shucks. Such a waste…He had his whole life in front of him. Now he’s gone. But he will be missed.

  My very sincerest condolences, sir. Believe me. I know whereof you speak.

  Do you?

  Oh hell, I don’t know. I just mean to say, if you’re suffering: Believe me, I know suffering. Perhaps nothing like what you’re going through. But if it’s anything like what I’ve been going through—anyway, I do offer my sincerest condolences.

  He looks me in the eye. I have the missus to look after. That helps. I’m too busy worrying about her at the moment to worry about myself. She’s so hurt she wants to die.

  I’m sorry.

  Listen, why don’t you join us anyway? It’ll be nice to have you. No need hanging out in a graveyard. A little Italian place just down the road not far from here. You can practically walk there. Here’s the address. You’re welcome to join us. Maybe you’ll learn something of my boy.

  Thank you, I say, taking the card. But I’m not much for these affairs.

  Whatever you decide.

  •

  The kid in the pink housecoat walks over to me.

  I saw him talking to you.

  Yes.

  If you go, we’ll go.

  I don’t have a car.

  That’s OK. The man said we could walk to the restaurant, didn’t he?

  I know the place, actually, I say. I’ve been there before. It’s not far. Just outside the cemetery gate and past the intersection. I’ll walk out with you.

  Good, says the kid in the housecoat. I always wanted to ride in a limo, but I’ll wait to do that. I don’t want to ride one out of a graveyard. It seems like bad luck.

  The other kids walk over.

  What’s the deal?

  We’re walking over, the kid in the pink housecoat says.

  Walking? Shit!

  It’s not far, I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact, not cool.

  Cool, the third kid says. If it’s not far, then sure. Why not?

  Did you know Albert? The girl asks as we walk down the winding road of the cemetery.

  No.

  You’re not like, his teacher or something, are you?

  No.

  Or a coach or something? I heard he broke his neck in a football accident.

  The autumn leaves shake loose in the cool wind.

  Hey look, the girl says. That pond looks nice.

  She strides off ahead and we follow. The four limos are filing out of the cemetery. A train of cars follows closely behind. At the end of the line is the school bus. When the last car turns right onto the road, the school bus turns left and heads in the opposite direction.

  We stand near the pond looking at the calm surface of the water.

  Serenity Pond. I love the name, don’t you?

  It’s a funeral home name.

  It’s still a nice name. Serenity.

  We stand at the edge of the water. Staring at it.

  Why were you here today? the boy in the housecoat asks.

  The girl turns to look at me, as does the other boy.

  I came because of my wife. I’m here to pay respects to my wife. I came to visit her.

  How did she die? You don’t seem old enough to have a dead wife.

  Shut up, the girl says. You can die young of breast cancer. Don’t you know anything?

  The boy in the housecoat suddenly looks as if he felt stupid.

  I’m sorry, he says. I forgot about cancer.

  How long ago did she die?

  Five years ago. This is the fifth anniversary of her death.

  And you’re still coming to visit her grave?

  Yes.

  You must miss her.

  More than words can say…

  I’m sorry, the boy in the pink housecoat says.

  No need for you to be sorry.

  I am too, says the girl. You must have loved her very much.

  I did. Yes.

  I suppose you still love her, the other boy says.

  The boy in the pink housecoat says: How can he love her? She’s dead. The proper tense here is the past tense.

  The girl says: Don’t be so callous, Bert. Can’t you see he must still love her? Love doesn’t ever go in the past tense if it’s true love.

  The second boy laughs.

  I suppose you’re right, I tell her. That’s a good observation.

  But you’re not loving the person, Bert says. Don’t you see? You’re loving the memory of the person.

  The second boy says, Serenity Pond. Doesn’t that say it all? There’s all this chaos in our house…my father always screaming at my mother. We need a pond like this.

  Yeah, Kim says. I like that idea. Serenity Pond. Smack dab in the center of Kevin’s house.

  All the kids laugh. Bert looks especially funny in his pink housecoat.

  We start walking again up the drive that leads out of the cemetery.

  When we come to the intersection outside of the cemetery, I point the restaurant out to the kids. See it over there?

  Traffic passes by while we wait for the crosswalk light to turn. All these people, alone in their cars…

  Hey, cool, thanks, says the kid in the pink housecoat. He confers with his friends a moment. The girl turns to me and says: Actually, sir. We have somewhere else to go instead.

  See you, I say, and watch them go.

  •

  I stand a moment and wait.

  That’s when I decide to call my daughter. I miss her. I want her back in my life. I want a daughter again. I pull out my phone and ring her up. She picks up immediately.

  Hello Meg.

  Hi Dad.

  She sounds drunk.

  Are you drinking?

  Why are you calling me?

  I’m calling to say that this is her anniversary.

  I know.

  This is the fifth anniversary of mom’s death.

  I know, Dad! I have a fucking calendar.

  I called to say hi.

  Hello, Dad.

  Hello, Meg.

  Why don’t you ever call me when it's not about Mom? Why do you only call this day? This fucking anniversary!

  I can call any day you like.

  Why haven’t you, Dad?

  I don’t know.

  I do.

  Why’s that, Meg?

  Because you’re a fucking coward!

  I’m a coward?

  You don’t know how to move on, Dad! You don’t know how to live life! You’re stuck. You’re tongue-tied. You were tongue-tied with Mom.

  Mom and I had a perfect relationship.

  Yeah. OK. If that’s what you say, I suppose I’ll believe it.

  Meg…

  Yes.

  I’m sorry.

  That’s not enough.

  I never meant to let you down and I let you down. I’m sorry for letting you down.

  That’s not enough either, Dad.

  OK, fine. How about we start with a simple question…where
are you?

  I’m in Japan. Where the fuck do you think I am, Dad?

  I have no idea. That’s why I asked.

  I’m in Tokyo eating sushi. And next stop I'm going to the moon. Where are you, Dad?

  I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been wandering in the wilderness and I want to stop wandering. I want to go home.

  So do I. I want to go home to the place before any of this ever happened.

  I want to be your father again.

  I’m tired of all your bullshit lies.

  I can tell you the truth. I can tell you that I’m an asshole. I can tell you that I’m lost. I’ve lost the roadmap and I’m wandering. I’m with a woman named Rita, and I’ve been with her almost as long as your mother has been dead. And she and I are not meant to be, and we were never meant to be. I can tell you that I would give anything to be your father again. I always liked how you dressed. Your mother and I were always so proud of you. I still am. Here’s another true thing: I’m looking for serenity. I can’t find it without you.

  Well, here’s what I can say, Dad: I’m drunk. I’m still living in New Orleans. I never finished Tulane. I’ve had two abortions and I drink too much. I suppose I love you. You have my number. Maybe next time you can figure out how to reach me on a different day of the year. My birthday, for fuck’s sake! Maybe call me then. Dad, you really let me down. You would have disappointed Mom as well, in time. I’m not surprised her family doesn’t talk to you. Everybody knows it was all your fault. And you were a freak at her funeral, and you never apologized for that, either.

  I'm sorry. I apologize.

  For what?

  For everything.

  You’ve got a long way to go before I accept. If I accept.

  Please accept my apology.

  I’ll talk to you later. I gotta go. I can’t talk any more right now. I need to vomit.

  Goodbye, darling.

  My daughter hangs up.

  The traffic rushes by on the road. Everyone is going somewhere except for me. I’m just wandering. What the hell else am I to do? Tremble and vomit. What else is there to do?

  •

  From the ashes grows a flower, or so I thought.

  Now you’re rhyming again.

  No, that’s not true.

  Yes it is!

  I’m dying again.

  Blurt. Blurt.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  •

  There’s winter in the air. It’s far colder than it should be this time of year, and all of a sudden I’m frozen to the bone. When the light turns red, I look left and I look right. I pray there aren’t any cars coming to knock me over. When I see all is clear I cross the street over to the restaurant where the limousines are parked and the folks inside are gathered around the feast for Albert. Then, hoping no one will see me, I pass by the restaurant and I just keep walking…