He'd given us our first taste of firing at a human...and hitting one.
In the following weeks, we'd be forced to shoot and kill squirrels, cats, raccoons, dogs, and deer. Our initial resistance to these needless deaths gradually gave way to uneasy acquiescence, which in turn gave way to a determination to improve our skill and technique with the Winchesters-if only to more rapidly earn Grandfather's approval and end the afternoon's bloodshed with more efficiency and speed.
Both Paul and I got damn good at it. We quickly learned to aim for the heart or head of the animal in order to kill it outright rather than watch it limp painfully away into the brush. If that happened, Grandfather would force us to follow and finish the kill, thereby doubling the horror as we butted the muzzle of the rifle against the pained, bloody, frightened, maimed creature and pulled the trigger a second time.
Paul cried each and every time he shot the head off anything, but his skill and proficiency increased in spite of the tears. So did mine. We got better and better at not flinching as we fired rounds, anticipating the ear-ringing pop with less and less horror.
We became swift and efficient at lifting the bolt handle up and back four inches, popping the spent rounds, chambering the new rounds, and then sliding the bolt back to locked position, until we could quite capably cock and reload the four bullets in the magazine blindfolded. We learned to breathe rhythmically and steadily until the pull of the trigger became smooth, controlled, and well-timed. We learned to relax our shoulders to absorb the recoil of the stock of the rifle after firing, and the end-of-day bruises gradually reduced. Eventually we even learned to zero our scopes by adjusting the vertical turrets to compensate for the drop of the bullets at a hundred yards, subtly calibrating for cold barrels versus warm barrels.
Most importantly, however, we learned not to look into the eyes of the target, thereby making the kill less heart wrenching and more systematic.
But as horrifying as our daily schooling felt, none of the downed wildlife had the same impact as firing that pellet into Paul's leg next to the nightstand in Grandfather' bedroom.
The pulling of the trigger that day brought on a dread of some terrible eventuality. What if the bullet had been real? What if I had maimed my brother? What would Paul's collapse have been like if a bullet had penetrated his jeans, broken through his skin, and shattered his femur as it traveled through his leg and out the other side? What kind of wasteland would my life turn into if I had to wake up every morning and watch my brother hobble for the rest of his life knowing I'd voluntarily and needlessly shot a bullet into him?
After a day of silent killing in the Placerville woods, we would return more accomplished hunters than the day before. We would pass Palmer's trailer in silence every evening, and I grew to enjoy his smile of inexplicable reassurance to me after Grandfather had passed by. We would proceed with the rigorous nightly routine of cleaning every speck of mud from our boots and drying them on the front porch. We would pull out the bed from the couch as Grandfather closed every curtain except the one facing Graves' living room window and sit wordlessly at the kitchen counter to watch Grandfather cook beans and hot dogs in the pot. When Graves passed through his kitchen and paused to look at the three of us eating, Grandfather would ignore him. And every evening before bed Grandfather locked the front door, locked the rifles in that closet, and turned out the lights. We never questioned the routine.
But one afternoon, as I captured a young doe in the crosshairs of my scope, lying on my belly with my elbows dug into the soil for stabilization, a question occurred. It was so glaringly inexplicable, I was astounded it'd never occurred to me before. Why wouldn't we be having venison for dinner that night? Why would we be fed beans and hotdogs yet again instead of cooking a slab of … of...anything else?
I did not pull the trigger.
Grandfather looked at me quizzically.
For the first time since we'd arrived, I spoke to Grandfather:
"Why kill it if we're not going to eat it?"
The silence following was astronomically worse than killing one thousand deer needlessly.
Paul refused to look my direction or at my Grandfather, staring with fear into the green. Grandfather did not answer me, nor did he acknowledge I'd said anything at all. Was he angry or could he care less? Had he heard me at all?
The doe certainly heard my words. It lifted its neck alertly and spotted the three humans in the woods only twenty feet from it. In panic, she bolted into the green, dislodging a wet log in her haste. Two large black rats with long pointy pink tails scurried from their exposed hole where the log had been.
With the same quick reflexes we'd witnessed when Graves suddenly found himself at rifle point, Grandfather snatched the rifle from me in the blink of an eye, put the scope to his eye, and squeezed the trigger twice. The rats were blown to the ground instantly, headless.
Grandfather gestured to Paul to retrieve the rats.
As we marched back to the trailer, Paul held the rats by the tails at arm's distance from his body, disgusted. Palmer sat on his porch smearing an icy Bud against the back of his neck. When Grandfather passed, Palmer looked at me and covered his mouth. It was a small gesture that betrayed his amusement. I did not understand. They were dead rats. What was funny about that?
It was not until after Grandfather skinned the rats and began cutting them into hot dog size chunks did I realize why Palmer had covered his mouth. Grandfather knew exactly how to punish us for the crime of asking a very sensible question in a very defiant way. I knew the irritation Grandfather never displayed when he first caught us sneaking in his bedroom would surface one day. The resentment he never displayed when he was first saddled with these two nitwit grandchildren had to claw its way out of hibernation one way or another.
With his hands full of bloodied rat chunks, we followed Grandfather into the trailer and across the living room floor to the kitchen …
Thum thum thum …
Palmer returned slowly across the hollow floor.
Click … a glass tumbler placed on the wooden nightstand.
Squish … his old body settling into an old mattress.
Scrape … the receiver dragging across the nightstand toward his ear.
"Eh … so … you wanna know 'bout Graves?"
Did I want to? I don't know. Did I need to? Hmm hmm.
"I don't understand … " I began hesitantly, for aside from a gut feeling there was a lot to unearth, I was not clear exactly what I did not understand, " … I'm confused how two neighbors could live next to each other-literally see into each other's trailers-and never speak to each other."
"Eh … dunno … just the way it was."
"Did they hate each other?" I asked.
"They were soldiers. Feelings were for pussies."
"They merely respected each other?"
He hesitated yet again. "They saluted each other."
Surprisingly juicy reply. If he had been reluctant to go into details, he ought to have given me a brief yes. Palmer, instead, directed me to an outward demonstration of respect, suggesting the inward manifestation of respect did not match. At some level Palmer needed to drop this breadcrumb, and I needed to pick it up.
"Which war?"
"Your Grandfather reported to Graves in World War II. Then in Korea. I met them in 1951 when I was transferred to Korea from the reserves, eh, Camp Irwin, where I'd enlisted 'bout half a year before."
Errg. I did not know which direction I should pursue. What caused the disconnect between respect and a salute?
I placed my forehead against the window where the curtain was cracked open. The sharp coolness on my temple focused my thoughts and roused my energy. I breathed out and a circle of fog had formed on the pane. As it evaporated, I saw the Little Old Man cross to his front door and open it. In the light of the hallway, the Old Black Man with the White Mustache appeared dressed in black from head to foot, holding a black duffle bag that seemed to be flattened out as it accommodated something wider than the bag.
Their expressions were somber, and their exchange was wordless. Not hurried, but not relaxed either. What object could possibly be so important it had to be delivered at four in the morning?
He placed the bag gently on the bed and then retreated to the vicinity of the doorway again. This balancing act of helpfulness and remaining noninvasive in the Little Old Man's life struck a chord with me.
Their relationship was that of tacit respect, comprised of decades of infrequent but consistent small transactions. Perhaps they had themselves been united at one point in their younger lives during a war or even at work. Regardless, the dissolution of that catalyst gave way to an ongoing codependence in which their brief monthly visits over the years bore witness to the gradual withering of muscle tone, the slow fading of eyesight, the increasingly receding hairline, and the slowing of speech. They mirrored each other; they needed the mirror to mark the distance covered in their lives.