♦◊♦
In my senior year in college, my brother went into surgery for the second time in the same month. There were complications with his back operation, which consisted of the surgeons going through his abdominal wall to reach the lower half of his spinal column. My parents didn’t know if he was going to make it. I took an incomplete for all of my classes and used my student loans to buy a ticket to Dallas.
Cadeo did survive the operation, but unfortunately, he was confined to a wheelchair indefinitely. The doctors had suggested a third attempt a year from then, but neither my parents nor Cadeo had the money to finance it. My parents had emptied their savings and sold most of their stock and land for the first two surgeries. My brother deemed the financial burden too costly for a slim chance of regaining his legs, and resigned himself to the wheelchair. My parents had made up their minds to sell the ranch.
It was the second week of May. I was taking him on a walk through what was left of the property. The American Sugargums were in bloom, spearing the sky at 20 to 30 meters. Their branches held clumps of fruit. Cadeo called them “space bugs,” and I remember him asking me to pick one for him. He stuffed it into his jacket pocket and something inside it rattled like coins. He lit a cigarette. Since the first surgery, none of us had the courage to deny him that pleasure. A pair of Double-crested Cormorants were diving into the pond my parents shared with the neighboring ranch; their orange faces a flash of ocher before slipping into the water.
“They’re like siblings,” he said. “You see them taking turns?”
“They could be a couple,” I said, squeezing his shoulder. I could feel the knot of his bone. He’d lost so much weight.
“No, I’m certain they’re siblings.” Cadeo looked up at me. “Could you do me a favor, Vy? A really big favor?”
“Of course.”
“Take me to the shooting range?” He showed me the Ruger tucked under his shirt. “I haven’t shot a gun in months.”
I smiled. “Sure, let me go get mine.” We used to spend our summer afternoons shooting at wooden targets Dad had erected a half mile south of the house.
“No.” He gripped my wrist, holding me close. “We’ll take turns.”
♦◊♦
Mickey had the gun pointed at us when I opened the door. I didn’t flinch. Justin shouted and reached around to pull me back into the hallway, his fingers biting into my arms. “Get in and close the goddamn door!” Mickey yelled, the Python still trained at us. Emily giggled beside him.
I pushed off Justin’s hand and closed the door behind us. Outside, Frat Guy was blasting a hip hop and Beatles mashup spliced with samples from Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns. I placed my drink on the floor. Emily giggled again as Mickey drawled at us. “Now reach for the sky, coppers!” Justin instinctively stood in front of me. I could see him trembling.
I stepped away from him and walked towards Mickey until the muzzle of the gun was pressed to my stomach, feeling its chill through my shirt. He grinned at me, his eyes bloodshot, sweat running off his face. I remembered another night not unlike this one, Mickey railing lines until five in the morning while I took snapshots of him with my camera phone. “This is you on drugs.” I’d shown him the next day. He’d laughed.
But tonight I slapped him.
Mickey grunted, knocking over the mirror of coke and keeled over on top of a shrieking Emily. Their limbs flailed. The gun fell and spun on the hardwood floor.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Emily screamed. Mickey’s cheek bore four red crescents. I looked at my hands and noticed two nails had been partially ripped. I wasn’t sure whose blood painted my fingers, his or mine. I didn’t care. I picked up the gun off the floor.
“This is not a toy,” I said, my voice cracking as if I’d been the one screaming. “It’s a weapon, understand? Never point a gun at someone if you’re not going to pull the trigger.” I barely noticed Alex to my right, his breath shallow.
“It’s not loaded,” Mickey spat. He was using his MasterCard to scoop the scattered coke back onto the mirror. “You knew that, you melodramatic bitch.”
I fished a space bug out of my pant leg. Last year, I’d asked my dad to hollow out the spiky fruit and attach a hinge and a clasp to it. I snapped it open and took out a single revolver cartridge, a .357 Magnum. I held it under the light, making sure they could see it before I slipped it into the cylinder. It fit perfectly.
I pointed the revolver at Mickey. “See what I did there?” I asked. He had stopped his frantic shoveling. “Do you see how easy it is for someone, for anyone, to load a bullet when you’re not paying attention?”
Emily’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper when she finally spoke. “Vy, please. Just put it down. We’re sorry. Mickey thought …”
“Shut up.” I felt nauseous. “Just shut up, Emily, and listen to me. This gun is your responsibility. It’s not a tool for impressing boys you want to fuck. How would your granddad feel if he knew you were using it like this?”
“My granddad’s dead,” she said. Emily wasn’t even looking at me anymore. She was staring into her lap, her breath hitching. “That was the only thing he left me.” I watched my friend cry, and wondered if she could feel my disgust.
Justin’s hand found my shoulder. “You made your point, Vy. Put it down.”
I didn’t want to.
♦◊♦
Dad had fashioned wooden targets for us when he bought us our first firearms. They were a relatively far distance from the rest of the ranch so we didn’t scare the farm animals. His original intention for buying us guns had been coyote sightings not too far from where we lived. But for whatever reason, the coyotes never made an appearance. Cadeo suspected that Dad got us each a revolver because he was sick of lending his.
My friends often asked if I ever shot anything other than stationary targets. Neither Cadeo nor I ever went hunting. I was never been able to reconcile the idea of killing for sport. When I was 15, my uncle from Vietnam came to visit and invited us to go hunting in the morning. After an hour of fruitless persuasion, he took Cadeo and disappeared for five hours. They came back later that afternoon with nothing. My uncle cursed their luck despite the abundance of game, white-tailed deer and wild boar, scorning Cadeo’s aim. “I should have brought you, Vy,” he grumbled, unaware that my brother was the better shot.
The afternoon I pushed Cadeo to our makeshift shooting range, he insisted that I go first. I struck the bullseye for the two closest targets and clipped the third, launching splinters into the grass. I loved the sound of a bullet stabbing into the wood, like a baseball bat smacking a fastball out of the park or a log splitting in the fireplace.
“You’re not breathing right,” Cadeo said behind me.
“I’m out of practice.” I handed him the Ruger. “Let’s see if you do any better.” There were three bullets left. A golden luster settled over the land as the sun slowly sank. My dad would describe a moment like this as a “time stopper,” when everything present was perfect. It didn’t matter what the circumstances were. He had a habit of closing his eyes, lightly smacking his lips as if relishing the taste of the moment, and intoning, “We’re making a memory.”
Cadeo used all of the remaining bullets on the last target I had missed. I supported the butt of the handle with my left hand, but he shot like a cowboy, his arm extended, eyes squinted. The snub-nosed revolver in his hand looked like an angry fist. I watched him plant three holes dead center.
“Show off,” I said.
He spun the Ruger. “You would’ve gotten it if you had your gun. It’s an extension of you, like a limb.”
I looked at his legs. “No Cadeo, you’re still the best damn shot in North Texas.”
“Why don’t you go get yours?” he asked. “We can go another round.”
“I’m down.” This session had been far too brief. I gripped the handles of his wheelchair and started wheeling him back.
He stopped me. “No, leave me here.”
“You sure? You don’t need to go to the bathroom or anything?”
Cadeo smiled. Even before his surgery, it was a rarity to ever see him smile. Mom used to joke how he’d been born frowning, patting her womb and insisting he didn’t want to leave.
“I’m good. I’ll see you out here.” he said.
I bent over and kissed him on the cheek. “I missed you, big bro.”
“You’ll see me again,” he said, squeezing my arm.
♦◊♦
“Get out of here, Vy.” Mickey had an arm wrapped around Emily. “Leave the gun and get out.” His last word petered out into a whisper like air escaping a punctured balloon. The muzzle kissed my temple like an old friend.
Justin’s hand tensed. “Vy, what are you doing?”
I wondered how long we could stay like this, our noxious fear permeating the room, Justin’s breath whistling past the nape of my neck as I waited to see my brother again.
Beautiful story, very gripping.
I could see it all happening. excellent writer.
Great piece of writing, really nicely done.
beautiful work!
Beautiful story. I love the ending, does she or doesn’t she? Very well written, great imagery. Thank you.