Iron River (13 page)

We’re in production for one thousand units of the Love 32. Today is Friday, August tenth—one year almost to the day since Pace Arms made its last gun. I watch from the third-floor security window as the machinists and assemblers and finish men punch in. They were rounded up by Marcos. Some have come from as far as Mexico City to take this work. I know most of them from before. They’re skilled and honest and hardworking men, and mostly undocumented, too, so I don’t have to pay them much. As I watch them file into the manufacturing bay, I realize how much I’ve missed them. I don’t think a single one of them genuinely likes me, but that’s not the point.

I’ve decided to start with just the night shift—four to midnight—which will allow our activity to blend in with the other assembly plants in this manufacturing zone. We’ll increase to two shifts once the bugs are out. I say “bugs” somewhat guardedly because these production lines have a proven track record for speed and efficiency. During my finest year as production manager, we turned out 139,554 weapons. Recalls were slight. And Marcos has fielded the cream of the crop, just as I asked him to.

“I have work,” says Marcos, turning for the stairs. Marcos was happy to commence work again, but since learning that our thousand-unit lot is to be produced without serial numbers or an identifying gunmaker’s symbol of any kind, he has been somewhat subdued. He knows it’s illegal. He knows there are bad people waiting for these lovingly crafted products. He knows that they are paying his salary.

I sit in my third-floor office to enjoy a few minutes of nostalgia. I can hear the muffled sounds of sidearm manufacture two floors down, and the loopy Mexican music the crew always plays. As always, the building smells of cut steel and bluing agents and gun lubricants and ignited gunpowder. I think of coming here as a little boy, seeing Mom and Dad in their professional worlds—Mom in marketing and Dad in contracts. I think of Uncle Chester, too, immense in his cream linen suits, pink-cheeked and small-fingered, his head a bald immensity. I remember the respect he demanded and got, and I wish that of all the Pace family traits, I could have gotten his confidence and gravity instead of the general squirrelishness with which I try to make do. Yes, it was pure Ron Pace to faint when Herredia slaughtered the five men down in Mexico. No, it was not the first time I’ve fainted at the sight of gore: viewing a car wreck when I was ten, seeing a neighbor saw off two fingers at his garage workbench when I was twelve, watching a lung surgery video as part of a smoking prevention program when I was fourteen. Etc. I faint but I do not look away. This is my smidgen of bravery. The incident in Mexico was by far the worst.

I enjoy the view through our freshly washed windows—one of the first things I did after getting the start-up capital from Bradley and Herredia was to recontract with the janitorial service. So right now, just after four o’clock on a hazy warm Orange County afternoon, I can see South Coast Plaza rising profitably out of what was once a lowly bean field, and I can see the graceful maze of the freeways and boulevards and interchanges, and of course to the west I see the sacred holy ground of the evangelical Trinity Broadcasting Network, rocked recently by a scandal of homosexuality. I feel bad for the scandalized minister because I know what it’s like to be hated by the media and a large portion of the public. And I thought his broadcasts were sometimes moving though often corny, too.

And of course I think of Sharon Rose Novak, to be married tomorrow at noon in Newport Beach. It’s fitting that Pace Arms is born again and Sharon Novak dies a symbolic—to me—death within the same twenty-four-hour period.

So I walk out to the lobby and sit where she has worked for the last five years and where she will continue to do so—I truly hope—after her Maui honeymoon, for many, many years to come.

Here is where she sits.

Here is where she works.

Sharon and I are almost exactly the same age. We were born on the same day of the same year. I’m actually two and one-half hours older. Soon after we discovered this coincidence, we began making lists of differences and similarities between us. It was a way to test astrological theory. Well, the list of differences got real long real fast, and there were not many things we had in common besides basic human nature. She is generous and I am selfish. She is outgoing and I’m reserved. She is open with her words and feelings and I am closed. She is ignorant of the past while I like knowing what has happened before. She hates making plans and I love making plans. She resists commitment and I’ll commit to practically anything. She thinks astrology is total bullshit but I believe it has certain truthful aspects. So far as unusual things in common, we both love bagpipe music and loathe walnuts and we both constantly dream of having siblings though we are only children. And that’s about it. A few weeks after she started working here, I told her I loved her. We were seventeen. I presented her with a brand-new, never-fired Pace Hawk autoloader chambered for the .22 Long rifle cartridge, arguably our finest gun. I had it engraved for her:
For Sharon, safe forever in the arms of Pace,
smug that the arms would be my own. It was in a presentation box. She heatedly scoffed at this and didn’t really speak to me for almost half a year. I nearly cracked. Gradually, we became friends again and I was always very careful not to exhibit affection or desire of any kind though I’m sure these things showed through. I compensated with a tireless work ethic and what I thought was a haughty cool. I became aware of certain nicknames and gossip being circulated here at Pace Arms, mostly on the second and third floors, but I had to admit I deserved them. She kept the gun but never referred to it again. Sharon will be married in less than twenty-four hours and I still think she’s the most delightful and desirable woman in the world as I know it.

It’s nice to sit in her chair for a few minutes. Like walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, though more comfortable. Here in her work area, I look at the pictures of her cat and a pop singer whose name I don’t even know, and of course the snapshot of her fiancé. And when I finally stand up, I remind myself that it is time to let her go. It really is. This is not a new idea for me. As always I am wholly, utterly, spectacularly unenthused about it.

Down on the assembly line, I walk along with my hands folded behind my back, just watching the men work. Assembling weapons is difficult because the tolerances are unforgiving and most of the parts are small and rigid. It’s hard on the eyes and on the back and neck. There’s not much chatter. Pace Guns aren’t really made on an assembly line at all, because eighty percent of the work on each firearm is done by one person, by hand. There are no moving lines. Each gun is built individually. It’s more a craft than a job. Through the PA speakers plays a loud and oddly syncopated Mexican unrequited-love song that of course reminds me of Sharon.

When I go back upstairs to do some paperwork in my office, Sharon Rose Novak is sitting at her desk.

I actually do a double take. My jaw in fact drops.

“Don’t say anything,” she says.

She doesn’t look at me. She’s slumped down in the chair. She’s looking down at the desk, and her arms are crossed and her pretty blond hair is hanging down and partially hiding one of the world’s great faces.

“I said don’t say anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“Act like I’m not here.”

“But you are here.”

“Don’t get literal with me. I don’t need anyone or anything. I’m here and that’s all. If you say one more word, I’m leaving.”

I walk past her and go into my office. Half an hour later, I’m still sitting there at my desk and she walks in and sits where Bradley Smith had sat just a few fateful weeks ago. She’s dressed in sweats and running shoes and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a peace sign on it. Her hair is a mess and her nose is as red as an apple, and her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are rimmed in pink. There’s a smear of eye-liner between one eye and the cheekbone.

“What’s going on down there?” she asks.

“We’re in business again.”

“We haven’t made anything in over a year.”

“The first twenty units will come off by the end of shift.”

“Units of what?”

“Nothing you’ve seen. Nothing you know about.”

“Where’s all the paperwork, the bids and counters and best and finals?”

“That was all done with a handshake.”

She looks at me with suspicion, then her eyes erupt with tears. “He left me a note. He said he couldn’t do it. He said he loved me. He’s driving to Colorado. My family is here from all over the country. His, too. We’ve got wedding gifts piled up in the extra bedroom. He said he couldn’t do it. I am totally humiliated and I miss him so much.”

I sit, stunned by the enormous turn of events. It takes me a moment to speak.

“Sharon. I’m . . . very sorry for you.”

“Please don’t say anything right now. All you can say is the wrong thing. Do you know what I feel like doing? This is terrible. But I feel like shooting him. I’m not sure if I want to shoot him all the way to death or not, but I want to put at least one bullet in him. I think I should wait until I’ve settled down to answer the death question. When I can think clearly.”

“I know I’m not supposed to say anything, but don’t shoot him. He’s not worth ruining your life over.”

“He’s already ruined it.”

“That’s absolutely not true.”

“I know it’s not. But you weren’t supposed to say anything.”

“I’m going to say just one more thing, Sharon Rose.”

“I hate my middle name and don’t call me that ever again.”

“Okay. Now, I won’t say anything else, but
you
have to. You have to keep on talking. If you keep talking, your feelings will become clear. If your feelings are clear you can proceed to . . . um, well . . .”

“To where?”

“Checkout?”

She looks at me. I didn’t know a human nose could become so red and shiny. It looks waxed. Above it and on either side, her eyes are blue lagoons.

“Marriage was my idea,” says Sharon. “I couldn’t ever make a commitment or keep a promise until I met Daryl. Then I met him and I fell in love with him. I did
everything
in my power to make him ask me to marry him. I loved him and worked hard at loving him and I gave him all the rewards and punishments I could think of. But after six full months, nothing. Then I simply told him that we were getting married. He agreed. It was easy. Maybe not as romantic as being asked, but the result is the same. And I was aware of who I am and what I could expect on the open market. He was much more desirable than I am. He was handsome. He was talented—he wrote me the most beautiful love poems a girl could want. He writes technical manuals on the installation and operation of marine waste systems—you know, yacht toilets—and he wants to be a real writer someday. But the closer we got to tomorrow, the further away he went. In his mind and in his heart. Even with his body. He was drinking a lot and no sex. Almost none. I mean, really lousy sex. I didn’t know there was such a thing. When I asked him what was wrong, he’d say nothing. Nothing was wrong. Nothing, nothing, nothing. And I believed him because I wanted to believe him. And, well, yes—I might have a stronger will than his and a clearer idea of what I want and less reservations about getting what I want. But what I wanted was
him.
And last night I threw all my houseguests out of my apartment because I wanted to be with only Daryl and make all his problems go away so I could see his smile on our wedding day, and I tried so hard to do that, but nothing worked, so I just said Daryl you fucking dweeb you fucking wimp you fucking fag just tell me what the fucking fuck is wrong with you or get the fuck out of here. Out he went. I threw myself around and drank some vodka and called a girlfriend and she came over and I conked out before midnight. I just shut down. And in the morning, this was taped to my front door. He could have just texted but not Daryl. Mr. Written Word, practicing to be Tolstoyevsky.”

Sharon leans over and pulls a folded sheet of paper from a rear pocket of her sweatpants and flies it to me. My heart flutters because the paper is warm and contoured by her butt.

I unfold the cooling letter and read aloud the handwritten words:

“That’s sad,” I say. I fold the letter and set it toward her on the desk.

“I don’t want it.”

“Keep it. He’s right about your future.”

“You apes are all the same.”

“You’ll come to see that he was right.”

“When I hear his words, I hear his voice and don’t want to shoot him.” She pockets the letter.

“I’ll make coffee,” I say.

“I don’t want coffee.” She stares at the carpet for a long while. She chews both thumbnails. I can feel that something in her is giving up, trying to give up, but it’s going to be a long time before it gives up all the way.

“Let’s go down to the test range,” I say. “We’ll get some fresh silhouettes up, name them Daryl, and you can blast them to smithereens. We can tape that letter over the heart if you want. Pretend his words are his guts. Sound good?”

She looks at me. “Do we have any of the big guns around, the forty-calibers?”