Life Penalty (36 page)

Jack laughed, refusing to take him seriously. “Now that’s what I call a trap,” he joked.

“I’m not kidding,” Larry said. “This is swampland out here. You don’t know what’s in those bushes. And people have seen water moccasins and small crocodiles in some of these water traps. You’re advised strenuously not to go after your ball if it goes in the water.”

Gail looked down at her feet. She saw nothing crawling. Her eyes traveled to the water’s edge, quickly scanning the surface for the potentially deadly water moccasin. She saw nothing disturbing the calm surface of the water, no crocodile heads she might mistake for rocks. When the others were busy with their shots, she inched closer to the edge of the trap until she was right beside it, her eyes darting in every direction.

She could see the golf ball clearly. All she had to do was reach out her hand. She knelt down and slowly reached her hand forward until her fingers were directly over the ball. She heard the squish of the mud under her shoes as her weight shifted, and she quickly turned her head to see if she was being observed.

Gail could hear the others laughing and they seemed unaware of her absence. She lowered her hand deliberately into the water and waited. When nothing happened, she lowered it further still until her right arm was submerged to just under her elbow. Then she began to snake it back and forth.

She felt something behind her and turned sharply, quickly drawing her hand up out of the water. Jack stood only a few feet away. He stared at her wordlessly until she pushed herself up to her feet, and then he turned around and walked back to the others.

The next day she declined their invitation of another day on the links, and stayed out by the pool while Jack accompanied Sandra and Larry to the club. She would see them later at the dinner she had volunteered to make.

She sat by the pool in her father’s chair and watched Ronnie and his friends go through their morning ritual of applying suntan lotion to their already well-oiled bodies. She wondered how it was possible that some men seemed to be born with no hips at all and if that was one of the prerequisites for becoming homosexual. They were discussing the decline of Tennessee Williams in the years before his death, and dismissing Edward Albee. One man pondered aloud on where the American theater would be without homosexuals, and Gail thought that was potentially a most interesting topic of discussion, but the question was not seriously examined and the talk quickly turned to where they would go for dinner.

Gail felt a tightness in her cheeks and decided she should apply some suntan lotion herself. She reached inside her beach bag and pulled out the sunscreen. Then she stopped and returned the bottle to its place. One day without it couldn’t do too much harm. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.

When she woke up two hours later, the tightness in her cheeks had spread to the rest of her body, and when she opened her eyes and looked down at her legs, she could see they were orange and swollen. She closed her sore eyelids again and lay still.

“You’re getting awfully red,” a voice said.

She covered her eyes with her hand and looked up at the voice. It was one of the three men whose conversations she had been following. “You think so?” she asked, not sure what else to say.

“Well, of course, I don’t know your skin type, but you look awful sore to me. What kind of cream are you using?”

“I didn’t use any,” she told him.

“Oh God,” he gasped. “You always have to use cream. You could get sunstroke. That’s very dangerous. I wouldn’t stay out much longer,” he said as a parting gesture. She watched as he and his friends gathered up their towels and headed for the ocean.

The clock by the side of the pool said it was almost lunchtime, and she felt suddenly hungry, knowing she had a dinner to prepare. She decided that she would skip lunch, and that four o’clock would be more than enough time to start getting dinner ready. She flipped over onto her stomach.

At four o’clock she tried to stand up. Her front and her back hurt in equal measures and her head was spinning. She tried to slip her foot inside her sandal but it wouldn’t fit. Now she’d never get to marry the prince, she decided, and scooped up the sandals by their thin straps, pulling her towel free from the chair and heading for the apartment.

When Jack saw her, he called the Sniders and canceled dinner. His wife had fallen asleep in the sun, she heard him explain. She looked like a lobster. Obviously, she was
in no condition to eat, and in even less a condition to cook. He was sorry, he told them. He’d speak to them soon.

“I’m sorry,” Gail apologized from her bed. “I didn’t realize I was getting so much sun.”

Jack said nothing. He roughly opened the closet door and pulled out his suitcase.

“What are you doing?” she asked, startled.

“Packing,” he said simply.

“I can see that,” she said, watching as he emptied the drawers and began piling his belongings inside the worn leather bag. “Why?”

“Because I’m leaving,” he told her.

“You’re going back to Livingston?” she asked, disbelieving. “Because I let myself get too much sun? Because I couldn’t make dinner for the Sniders?”

Jack stopped what he was doing. “I’m leaving,” he began, “going back to Livingston, because I can’t sit around anymore and watch what you’re doing to yourself. I can’t watch you step on another man-of-war, or swim out into an ocean full of sharks. I can’t watch you stick your hand into a potential nest full of deadly snakes—”

“There weren’t any snakes in that water trap,” she protested.

“You didn’t know that,” he said, resuming his packing. “You hoped there were. You were hoping one would bite you, just as you deliberately made yourself sick with the sun. You’re trying to destroy yourself, Gail. The same as you were doing back home. I was wrong to think I could do anything to stop you.”

“You think I’m crazy?” she asked.

Again he stopped his packing. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing. I think you’ve made a conscious choice to die, and I don’t think that there’s a damn thing that I, or anyone else for that matter, can do to change your mind. I think that
I
,
not you, am the crazy one. Or at least that I will be crazy if I stay around any longer to watch it happen. I can’t do it. I’d be aiding and abetting a suicide if I did.” He finished throwing the balance of his things into the suitcase and zipped it up. “I’ll see if there’s a plane out of here tonight. If not, I’ll sleep at a hotel and leave in the morning.”

“What about the Sniders?” she asked.

He stared at her in disbelief. “The Sniders?” he repeated incredulously. “I guess I’ll call them from the airport and say goodbye.” He stood still, looking at her. “That’s all you have to say to me?” he asked.

“Tell Jennifer I love her,” Gail whispered and then lay back against her pillow and watched him leave.

T
he next day Gail arranged for another rental car and drove to Mother’s. She parked the car around the back in the designated parking lot and walked in through the rear entrance.

At first glance, it didn’t look any different than some of the larger hardware stores at home. It was just bigger. Everything was on a grander scale. The choices seemed limitless. Gail made her way down through the rows of various types of equipment, past the folding pup tents and flashlights, past the fishing tackles and tool-boxes, to the front of the store. Here everything changed. The friendly camping gear gave way to the not so friendly world of the hunter. Rifles and guns of every shape and size lined the walls and the front counters and cabinets. Gail stared wide-eyed at the display.

“Can I help you?” a deep and knowing voice drawled from across the counter. “My God, would you just look at you,” the man continued when she lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Somebody got themselves good and charcoal-broiled,” he whistled.

“I fell asleep,” she told him.

“That does look sore,” he said, every word in invisible italics.

“It doesn’t feel too bad,” Gail lied. She had been up half the night throwing up, and every inch of her skin felt as if
it had been stretched between two distant poles and scraped with a cheese grater.

The man, whose tag on his floral print Hawaiian shirt announced his name as Irv, winced at the imagined pain. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I want to buy a gun,” Gail told him, straining to keep her voice steady.

“Any particular kind?” he asked easily, unaware of her discomfort.

“Well, I don’t know anything about guns,” Gail began, “but I do know what I read in the papers, and I think I need something for protection. My husband is away a lot and I worry …”

“With good reason,” he agreed. “There’s lot to worry about these days. So you want something for yourself then?”

Gail nodded. “I don’t know anything about guns,” she repeated, as he reached into the locked cabinet and pulled out a small black weapon that looked like a toy. “It looks like a toy,” she said out loud.

“It isn’t,” he told her. “Here, feel the weight of this one.”

He put the gun into her outstretched palm. Gail was startled by its weight. “It’s heavy,” she announced, looking from the gun in her hand to his eyes.

“It’s no toy,” he repeated.

“What kind is it?”

“It’s an H & R nine-shot .22,” he told her. “I think that’s the best for someone like yourself, for what you want.”

“Will it kill?” Gail asked quietly.

“Oh shit yes,” the man said. “Pardon the language. Oh hell yes,” he substituted. “This thing’ll kill. You aim it at someone’s head or heart and you fire, and you got yourself one dead prowler. I got something bigger, if you want. I can give you a .357 magnum that’s more powerful and
everything, but it’s not as easy to handle as this is. Why don’t you try this one,” he offered.

Gail positioned the gun properly in her hand, still astounded by its weight. Irv came around from his side of the counter.

“That’s right,” he told her. “You been watching television, I see.” He laughed. “The bullets go in here,” he indicated, pointing. “Nine of them.”

“Nine? I always thought six.”

“Depends on the weapon. This is a nine-shot. You get nine chances,” he smiled. “Put your finger on the trigger. That’s right. You don’t have to cock it. You just have to pull it.”

Gail tried, but the trigger didn’t move. “It won’t move,” she said, trying again.

“You gotta pull harder than that, honey,” Irv instructed. “They’re not built to go off with just a slight flick of the finger. You gotta give a good pull.”

Gail pulled on the trigger as hard as she could. It clicked. “Oh,” she gasped.

“Bull’s-eye,” Irv said proudly.

“How much?” Gail asked, as he returned to his side of the counter.

“Well, they’re usually a hundred and twenty-nine dollars, but they’re on sale for the next few weeks for just ninety-nine. The bullets are extra.”

“I’ll take it,” Gail said quickly.

He pushed a yellow piece of paper in her direction. “You gotta fill this out,” he told her.

“What is it?” Gail asked, perusing the yellow sheet.

“Firearms Transaction Record,” he said, the words sounding strange and formal in his mouth. “You have any children?” he asked, catching Gail by surprise. “Yes,” she answered, “two.”

“How old?”

“Seventeen,” Gail said, then hesitated. “My little one,” she continued softly, “will be seven in three days.”

Irv smiled. “Still a little young,” he said. “I’d wait another year, till he’s eight, and then I’d teach him how to use it.”

“Teach a child to use a gun?” Gail asked, astonished.

“This is a great gun for kids,” the man said earnestly. “Sure, listen, you don’t know what’s liable to happen. Someone could break in when you’re out and the babysitter won’t know what to do, and if your kid knows how to operate this thing properly, it just might prevent a tragedy.”

“It could also create one,” Gail argued, though her heart wasn’t in it.

“Not if you’ve taught the little bugger well. But seven’s still too young. They’re not strong enough yet. Give him another year.”

“It’s a her,” Gail said, and immediately wondered why.

“Give her another year,” Irv said without missing a beat. “In the meantime, you can get a piece of string and secure the trigger like this.” He demonstrated. “That way there won’t be any accidents.”

Gail fished in her purse for a pen but couldn’t find one. Irv pushed one in her direction and began wrap ping up the gun. Gail read through the yellow piece of paper. “Firearms Transaction Record,” it said at the top, and just underneath, “Part I—Intra-State Over-the-Counter.” She was asked for her name and address. Gail Walton, she filled in, and gave her parents’ address. They wanted to know her height, her weight, her race, and date and place of birth. She obliged them with the details. The rest of the questions, to which she was to respond with a simple yes or no, were much more interesting: Was she under indictment for an imprisonable offense? Had she ever been convicted of a crime punishable by a prison term of more
than one year? Was she a fugitive from justice? Was she an unlawful user of drugs or a drug addict? Had she ever been judged mentally defective or spent time in a mental institution? Had she ever been discharged from the Armed Forces under dishonorable conditions? Was she an illegal alien? Was she a U.S. citizen who had renounced that citizenship?

She was warned in print that an untruthful answer might subject her to criminal prosecution. Gail felt duly chastised and wrote no beside all the questions. Did anyone, she wondered with some amusement, ever write yes? All that was required of her now was her signature and the date. The rest of the form was to be filled out by the seller. Gail pushed the paper back in Irv’s direction. She was about to put the pen in her purse, when she realized that it wasn’t hers, and guiltily rolled it over to his waiting fingers.

He read through her list of answers. “You’re forty?” he asked, taking a longer look at her. Gail nodded. “Never would have guessed,” he said. “Of course, it’s kind of hard to tell with that bright orange skin. “He glanced back at the piece of paper. “I’ll need your driver’s license,” he said.