Fourmile (10 page)

“By myself?” I asked.

“You know the gears?”

“Like an H. First is toward me and down.”

“That’s right.”

“Seriously?”

Gary smiled. “Just start the damn thing. Then get out of here before she changes her mind.”

I worked the column shifter into first gear, straightened my leg out against the clutch, and turned the key. The truck rumbled to life and Joe woofed at me. “I’m all right,” I said down to him.

I gripped the steering wheel tight, let out the clutch, and bounced across the lawn with Joe in pursuit. I started to panic when the wheel was harder to turn than I’d imagined. I finally wrenched it around and headed for the pasture gate. Once I was going straight, I shifted into second and found the steering to be much easier. I swung to the left and headed for the north tree line, Joe racing along beside me.

When I arrived at the far trees I turned the truck and saw Gary coming across the pasture. I looked to either side of him but didn’t see Kabo. He waved at me and held his hand up as a signal to stop and wait for him. I shoved in the clutch, studied the gearshift, and eased it into neutral. I let it idle until he came closer and swiped his finger across his throat. I reached down and turned off the key and studied him.

“What?” I asked.

“Let’s take a walk.”

I slid off the seat and dropped to the ground. “I did pretty good, didn’t I?”

“You did
real
good,” he said.

He walked around the truck and started for the thin strip of cottonwoods that separated the north end of our pasture from the neighbors. As he passed I saw the pistol stuffed into the back of his pants. I hurried after him.

“What’d you bring the pistol for?”

“Target practice. Grab Joe and keep hold of him.”

“Where’s Kabo?”

“I put him up. He doesn’t like guns.”

“What does he do?”

“He barks a lot. Gets unpredictable.”

I grabbed Joe’s collar and walked him next to me.

“Your dad ever teach you to shoot his pistol?” Gary asked over his shoulder.

“No, but I went hunting with him. I’ve used a shotgun. You gonna let me shoot it?”

“You want to?”

“Heck yeah!” I said.

We arrived at the edge of the woods and stopped. Gary looked around until his eyes rested on a tree about a hundred feet in the distance. Then he scanned the ground until he saw a plastic Coke bottle lying in the grass.

“Wait here,” he said.

I waited with Joe while Gary took the Coke bottle to the tree. He jabbed a limb into the mouth of the bottle so that it hung in the air horizontally. On his way back he removed the pistol from his pants and snapped and clicked it with a few quick motions. He came to me and held it out. It looked big and heavy compared to Dad’s revolver. I hesitated to take it.

“It’s on safety,” he said. “Go ahead and take it. Keep it pointed at the ground. Always keep it pointed at the ground, no matter what. Pistol’s a lot more dangerous than a shotgun or a rifle.”

“I know,” I said.

He reached down and grabbed Joe’s collar. “Good,” he said.

I let go of Joe and took the pistol. It felt heavy and powerful and made me nervous.

Gary walked around behind me. “Grab it with both hands,” he said. “Straight out in front of you. Let’s see how you hold it.”

I held it out and gripped it like I’d seen on television.

“Close,” he said. He reached over my shoulder and adjusted my left hand and backed away. “Can you see down the sights?”

I lowered my face and peered at the Coke bottle through the metal sights. I nodded.

“Grip it tight, understand?”

I nodded again.

“Take it off safety,” he said.

I clicked off the safety and looked down the sights again.

“Hold your breath, steady the barrel, and squeeze the trigger.”

I took a deep breath, but I was too nervous to hold the barrel steady. I desperately wanted to get it over with. I closed my eyes and jerked the trigger. The pistol leaped in my hands and the concussion momentarily stunned me. I blinked my eyes and let out my breath, my ears ringing and the Coke bottle hanging motionless in the sunbeams. I felt a throbbing pain on my thumb.

“You jerked,” he said. “Try again.”

I took my hand away from the pistol and looked at my thumb. Blood was running down and dripping off my thumbnail. Gary noticed it and reached over my shoulder and took the firearm.

“The action hit you,” he said. “You had your hand too far up.”

I was getting queasy.

“You okay, Foster?”

My vision was blurring. I nodded. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder. “Sit down against this tree,” he said.

I sat and leaned against a cottonwood tree, cradling my hand in my lap. Joe stepped up to me and licked my face.

“I should have noticed that,” Gary said, kneeling beside me. “Suck on it. It’s not deep.”

I sucked on the knuckle and spit the blood into the leaves.

“It’ll probably bruise a little,” he said.

The knuckle throbbed and burned, but my dizziness was gone and the queasiness was ebbing.

“
You
shoot it,” I said.

Gary chuckled. “I guess you’ve had enough for today.”

I nodded.

“Well, don’t be scared of it. I did that same thing the first time I shot an automatic.”

“I’m not scared of it,” I lied.

“You sure you don’t want to try again?”

“Maybe tomorrow.”

Gary stood and eyed the Coke bottle. “Watch what I do,” he said. “Stand behind me.”

He lifted the pistol in a smooth, mechanical motion and brought it to a dead stop straight out in front of him.

“Take a breath,” he said, “… and squeeze.”

Even though I was expecting the explosion, I jumped. The Coke bottle shivered on the branch just as the glint of a copper cartridge flashed and tapped into the leaves. Gary and the pistol remained still as a statue.

“You hit it,” I said.

He didn’t answer me.

“Shoot it again,” I said. “Shoot it fast.”

But he didn’t seem to hear me.

“Gar—”

Suddenly the pistol was booming. The Coke bottle was straining like something tattered by a strong wind, bits and flecks of it spitting through the air. I slammed my hands to my ears.

He lowered the pistol and stared after the bottle, breathing heavy.

I was impressed and frightened and confused. “I think you got it every time,” I said.

He ran his hand over the pistol in a quick motion, snapping the action shut, already swinging it behind him and cramming it into the back of his pants. He kept his eyes on the shredded bottle like it might move, like he’d be ready for it if it did.

“That was fast,” I said softly.

He turned to me and studied me and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

He was looking through me. “Nothing,” he said.

I grew uncomfortable and didn’t know what to say to him. My knuckle wasn’t hurting anymore.

“I just wanted to show you how to shoot a pistol,” he finally said, like he was making an excuse for something.

“Okay,” I said.

He walked past me. “We’ll try again another day,” he said. “When your hand’s better.”

“What do I tell Mother about my thumb?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t you tell her the truth?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe—”

“Tell her the truth.”

25

Before dinner Mother helped me clean the cut on my thumb. I told her about the shooting lesson and I was surprised when she seemed pleased about it.

“But I’m not that good yet,” I said. “Gary’s gonna let me try again when my thumb’s better.”

“That was nice of him to do that.”

“He’s the best shot I’ve ever seen,” I said. “He can hit the target every time.”

“He’s probably had a lot of practice,” she said.

“Can I have Dad’s pistol?”

“Someday you can. Not any time soon.”

I frowned. She pressed and smoothed the ends of the Band-Aid with finality. Then she put her hand on my head and looked at me. “But I’m glad you’re interested in something again, Foster. It’s nice to see that.”

*   *   *

Before the week was out I drove the truck a few times during lunch while Gary sat on the fence and watched. We repaired a few rotten places on the roof and covered it with new felt and shingles.

Thursday evening I visited with him for a little while.

“Will you wait until next week before you go to the landfill?” I asked him.

“Never known somebody to like a landfill so much,” he said.

“Will you wait for me?”

He smiled. “Sure.”

“What about Joe?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll feed him.”

“I’ll shoot the pistol again when I get back.”

“Okay.”

“I know how to shoot a shotgun too, you know?”

Gary smiled again. “You told me.”

“There’s lots of things I know how to do,” I said. “I just haven’t done them yet.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he said. “You better get inside and pack.”

*   *   *

Early on Friday, Mother and I left the pastures and pine forests of Baldwin County behind. The country road turned to four lanes and the traffic gradually increased and we went with the flow of it onto I-65 north. In almost three hours we were in Montgomery, winding our way into the suburbs. Granddaddy’s house was a small brick home in an older section of town. He’d lived there with my grandmother as long as I could remember and it seemed to fit them: modest and neat, nothing flashy, always there, always the same. As much as I couldn’t imagine finding any entertainment there, it comforted me to know that there was one place I could go where nothing changed.

When we pulled into their driveway they came down the front steps to greet us. Grandmother was feeling better again, but I saw that she was moving slower and Granddaddy stayed at her side. I hugged her and shook Granddaddy’s hand, something that still seemed a little awkward and funny to me. Then we all went inside and I waited patiently to find out what my surprise was.

Mother finally left for her appointment with the real estate agent and Granddaddy turned to me and gave me a teasing look. “Well?” he said.

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders like I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Want to see it?”

“See what?”

He turned and started for the back door. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got it out back.”

It was a bicycle. A BMX bike like I’d seen some of the boys with at school. For some reason owning one had never occurred to me. It seemed so inferior to trucks and tractors and farm tools—so tied to sidewalks and city life. I’d learned to ride one when I was six, just before we left the city, and had been on them at friends’ houses since. But I’d never thought of having one for myself.

I had mixed emotions about it. I saw the look in Granddaddy’s eyes, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. But it seemed like taking it was agreeing to something I wasn’t ready for. Not yet.

“I like it,” I said.

“Take it for a spin.”

I hesitated, then approached it and put one hand on the seat. “Where do I go?”

“Wherever you want. A boy needs his own set of wheels. Needs his freedom.”

I got on. “I’ll ride it on the sidewalk.”

“Go up to the park. It’s two blocks. Just make sure you look both ways when you cross the street.”

“What about Mother? We were going to see the school.”

“She might be a while. I’ll tell her where to find you if she needs you.”

26

The bicycle was light and smooth and the new tires hummed on the sidewalk. It was hard not to feel proud as I passed the houses, but I wasn’t ready to admit liking any of it.

I heard the sound of children shouting before I saw the park. It consisted of a playground bustling with younger kids and their parents. Beyond it was a baseball field. A group of boys my age was assembled around the pitcher’s mound in a loose arrangement that seemed either the beginning or the end of a game. I kept pedaling until I came to the fence behind the plate and stopped.

“Hey!” a short, blond-headed kid yelled. “You wanna play?”

At first I wasn’t sure he was talking to me. It never crossed my mind that these strangers would be so casual with an invitation. I didn’t answer right away. Then I realized the kid hadn’t taken his eyes off me. His hair was so blond it was almost white.

I automatically shook my head.

“We need one more,” he said. “We got a glove and bats.”

“I don’t know how long I can stay,” I said.

“Come on,” he insisted. “We got to have one more.”

I was still trying to find an excuse while I got off the bicycle. I knew they were going to embarrass me. But they were all looking at me now, and as impossible as it seemed, I wanted to play.

The boy detected my indecision and started toward me. I leaned the bicycle against the fence and walked around to meet him.

“I’m Cory,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Foster.”

“Come on,” he said. “We aren’t that good or anything.”

Something about him put me at ease. He turned and I followed him toward the group.

“I like your bike,” he said over his shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“Where you go to school?”

“I’m not from here,” I said. “I mean, I’m moving here soon. My grandparents live nearby.”

“You going to Carlisle?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“That’s where most of us go.”

We reached the other boys and Cory, apparently the organizer, got things under way.

“This is Foster,” he said. “He’s on our team. Blake, you take your guys to bat and we’ll start off out here.”

The taller, dark-haired kid named Blake headed toward home plate with his crew. Cory grabbed a glove off the ground and gave it to me. I slipped it on as he began sending people to their positions. Finally I was the only one left, and right field and pitcher were the last positions open. I assumed he was the pitcher.

He turned to me. “Can you pitch?” he asked.

I nodded.

He tossed me the ball and started for the outfield. I immediately regretted my decision. Suddenly I had a whole team of strangers watching me and counting on me. It had been a year since I’d pitched a baseball. I didn’t think I’d ever do it again.