The Next(29)

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.