16
Shells from a Thirty-Ought-Six
The gun
was loud, as if the whole world were holding its breath and
wishing on a birthday cake dream. The crickets crept under
the grass, and the birds sidled up on the trunk, the branches
too in the open for hiding. An old dog stuck its nose out
between a hedge and ducked back again, its tail hung low between
its legs. Even the leaves hung expectant on the trees as the
wind died to a whisper.
He wanted
to shout into the stillness, jumpstart the sounds like an
old car with a seized crank, but something made him hold in
his yell, had him listening for the dripping of sap from a
wounded tree, or the caterpillar stir in the folded leaves
of its canopy home. He jacked out the bolt and set the gun
on the ground, leaning over to one side like he was acting
for an invisible camera.
The silence
was crushing, the animal caution demanding that everyone wait
for another to break the stillness, but not a single insect
or bird dared to move. He felt as though he had strayed into
a stolid Dutch painting, its uprearing clouds caught by the
rays of sunlight, as concrete as a pallet knife could make
them, less about vapour than trapped egg white on a stillborn
day.
Finally
his foot caught a twig, and as its dry bark burst, the day
broke into noise, the animals outdoing themselves with relief,
the rough teenage caw of the crow barely competing with the
cicadas which seemed more numerous than ever in the suddenly
breezy afternoon. He was panting heavily, as though he'd held
his breath for the long minutes it took the starter turning
on the world to catch a spark, and now his lungs had stalled.
The car
was parked at an angle to the road, a telling sign for anyone
who troubled past that he had tore it into the shoulder instead
of solidly picking a spot. So he wouldn't be too long on the
side of the highway, he hurried through the preparation. He
positioned the gun by leaning it onto a tree, spilled out
some shells on the ground near it, a casual ordinance drop
to anyone who thought to link tire tracks, torn turf, and
abandoned firearms.
He shook
a few fibres from an envelope-he'd at least learned that much
from late evening television-and then stepped carefully into
his tracks as he walked to the car. It was lighter on the
bumps and for the first time in a week he considered keeping
it instead of shoving it into the quarry where the tannin-dark
water roiled from too many sunken stories. He would give it
a paint job, try some chrome from the year before, dress it
up like he was fixing an antique and couldn't locate the right
parts, not at all like he was hiding a 65 as a 64.
On the
ride back into town he tried to shake out his shoulders as
soon as he noticed he was ramrodding it too straight for honesty,
and before long he was hunched like every other driver. He
began to notice, sensitized now, the places where people had
pulled over, either sudden stops because the kid needed to
pee after they had left the gas station behind, or a slow,
seeking the side of the road in defiant obedience of the flashing
lights behind them. They might be cleaning ashtrays, tossing
a half-eaten sandwich gone off from too many hours in the
car, or emptying bottles that would be difficult to explain
at the county line checkstop.
He learned
he wasn't alone, and that was enough to have him edge up the
speed until he was attracting less attention from the men
passing him in trucks who waved their fists and honked their
horns that he was slowing them from getting to work, or driving
to the store. He leaned over to fiddle with the radio, to
bring its normality into the day like tipping a snake out
of a suitcase and finding it was a sock, but he stopped partway
through the motion. The cop car on the side of the road was
almost hidden by the sign, a billboard asking either for forgiveness
or hatred for a baby and the hands that held it. He wouldn't
have seen the car except that one of the cops was looking
at the radar camera as though he'd found it in the ditch and
couldn't figure out how to use it.
His foot
went off the gas instinctively, but then, as he worried that
he would attract notice, he pushed the pedal again, this time
too hard. Now his car was almost stuttering down the road,
speeding and slowing as he passed them. The cop in the car
was leaning over to yell instructions to the camera-ignorant
one, but both of them glanced up as he passed.
He imagined
their eyes on the chrome, on the fine layer of silt that dusted
the rear window and prevented from seeing too much inside,
and by the time they finally saw him, he'd be over a mile
up the road. Relieved at the thought, he kept his head forward
and his eyes on the rear-view. If they were coming they would
round the curve before him. He knew that sometimes they liked
to play with their food, trapping a mouse with a paw and then
releasing it to trap it again until it had given up dreaming
of escape, but he also knew their interest was one second
on and one second off, and that if he rode by when the switch
was off, he was as good as home and in his bed.
Only later,
when he was covered in sheets like a shroud and thinking about
the ride into town, did he remember the shell in his shirt
pocket that had fallen when he'd taken the rifle from the
trunk. It drifted into his mind and then back out again, but
it would return to haunt his dreams.