Chapter Twelve
The week passed as it had begun. Richard spent his days in the store while Susan searched for a solution to her predicament on the beach. Sunday was the only day the store was closed. Neither one took advantage of having the other’s undivided attention. The beach no longer provided a venue for them to be together. It was a dark overcast day. Each of them struggled to under-stand what they desired before deciding how to proceed.
It was after noon; late enough for Richard to justify having a drink. He stood from his favorite chair and walked across the room to an antique bar-cart. Susan cut her eyes away from the newspaper she was reading and watched him move toward the liquor. She looked at her watch. It was too early for him to be drinking, in her mind.
The bar-cart was made of mahogany and intricately designed. There was a ring of hand-carved, horse drawn chariots that encircled its edge. Mirrored glass laid snuggly on top and a thin brass rail ran through small pedestal brackets encircling the neatly arranged bottles. Richard habitually reached for the Maker’s Mark. He poured the whiskey into a highball glass and then placed the bottle back in its spot. His mood called for a stiffer drink, so he repeated his actions until he felt there was an adequate amount of bourbon to start him on his journey to the altered state of mind he craved. He walked from the living room into the kitchen and Susan, once again, watched him. She could see the change in him, but never thought that it may be due to her continued emotional betrayal. Her focus was on Ralph and how he could fill the chasm created by her husband’s withdrawal. His actions were all the justification she needed.
Richard opened the freezer and removed a handful of ice from the bin. He dropped them into his glass, but one reluctant cube fell onto and slid across the floor, coming to rest underneath the sink. The ice in the glass cracked and popped as the room temperature bourbon drastically raised its temperature. He closed the freezer and opened the refrigerator, then removed an already open can of Diet Coke and emptied it into his drink. There was no fizz. Richard didn’t mind. All he wanted was something to soften the bourbon. He placed his right index finger onto a piece of ice, applied pressure and stirred the drink by moving the cubes around inside the glass. The number of consecutive days he drank increased by one. Richard walked from the kitchen to where his odyssey for a libation began.
“Aren’t you going to pick up that piece of ice?” Susan asked without looking up from her paper.
“Oh crap! I forgot,” Richard said. “I guess my mind was somewhere else.” He walked back into the kitchen, picked up the ice and dropped it into the sink.
Susan ignored his stare as he walked, once again, back to his chair. The fact that she scolded him was taken as an affront. How could someone so guilty be so judgmental of others? He did not, however, wish to pursue an argument. Something deep within him knew that there would be no victors in such an emotionally charged confrontation.
Just as he sat down there was a knock at the door. Richard placed his drink on the table next to his chair, stood and walked to the front entry.
From the front foyer Susan heard her husband’s voice exclaim, “Oh my God!”
She stood and walked quickly toward him. An unfamiliar woman stood just inside the doorway with Richard. The woman was dressed in shorts, a tank top and running shoes. She had an Ipod strapped to her left arm and the wire connected to the ear buds was draped around her neck. Something about her made Susan feel that she was at least a decade older than she and Richard. It certainly wasn’t her appearance. The woman was beautiful and obviously kept herself in great shape.
Susan, unsure of what happened, asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I think she’s been shot in the arm.” He pointed to a wound. Blood had begun to trickle steadily and profusely enough that it settled between her fingers where it dried. Susan rushed over to the sink, turned on the faucet and soaked a dishtowel.
“What happened?” Susan asked the woman for more details.
“I was running down the road, and the next thing I know I have this excruciating pain in my right arm.”
“Where did this happen?” Richard asked.
“Right in front of your house,” the woman said.
It was apparent she was confused and a bit traumatized. Susan continued to wash the blood from her arm. She wiped away the fresh blood and the dried, coagulated blood left a hollow shape around the outer edge of its flow pattern. Once the wound was clean, Richard examined it. “I can’t tell if there are any fragments left. The bullet seems to have punctured enough of your arm to allow for entry, but I don’t see an exit wound.” Richard stopped and looked at the woman, who had a questioned looked on her face as she tried to size up just who her involuntary caretaker might be. “Not that I’m a doctor.”
“Well, a doctor is just what she needs. I’ll drive you to the hospital,” Susan said.
Richard followed his wife’s offer with one of his own. “Can I call your husband and let him know where you are?”
“That would be nice.” The woman gave Richard her number and husband’s name.
After he finished writing her information on a pad next to the phone, Susan led her back outside to-ward the couple’s car. The woman pressed the wet dish-towel against her wound, hoping to slow the bleeding.
Richard called the woman’s husband. Not until the phone began to ring did he realize he did not know her name. After assuring the man on the other end of the line that his wife is going to be fine, and that he should meet the women at the hospital, he returned to his chair and began reading the book he kept nearby. He could not shake the thought that someone had been shot just outside his home. Who could have shot this woman? Why would someone shoot her? There had to be a reasonable explanation. He placed the book on the coffee table next to his chair, stood and walked to the door. Before he had a chance to close it behind him he noticed that dusk had begun to blanket the outside world. He walked back into the kitchen and opened the drawer to the right of the sink and removed a flashlight, then walked back out into the gray night. Richard turned the flashlight on as he closed the door behind him.
Cautiously, he walked down the street that intersected the one that ran in front of their house. It led him away from the gulf and toward several hundred acres of woods. He shined the flashlight from one shoulder of the road to the other in a sweeping manner. Richard had no idea who he was looking for. All of the homes in that area were built sixty to seventy years earlier and had little exterior lighting. Richard thought to himself, If it was a gunshot it could have come from a number of places. The many trees, bushes and vehicles parked in driveways offered perfect cover in the dimly lit neighborhood. Only once did he pause and question why he wasn’t worried about searching for a gunman. Regardless of any lurking danger, his desire for answers trumped logic.
Richard made a couple of passes up and down the street without finding anything significant. On the third pass, he heard an intermittent clicking sound that grew heavier with each one. It was loud and offered him a good indication of where to search. He shined his flashlight in the direction of the noise. The light illuminated a young boy, who was no more than nine years old, sitting on his bike. He held what appeared to be a BB gun and was pumping air into the cylinder.
“Don’t shoot!” Richard said, as he threw his hands in the air, joking to mask his concern. He walked down the driveway, toward the boy, who stopped pumping and steadied the gun on the handlebars of his bicycle. The boy took aim by slowly drawing a bead. Richard quickly stepped behind a truck that was parked in the driveway. His obvious skill as a marksman was frightening.
“Have you shot anybody with that gun?” Richard asked, from behind the truck.
“I didn’t see no lady running by here,” the boy answered, in a defiant tone.
“Is your mom or dad home?”
“Yep.”
“Would you go inside and get them for me?” Richard asked, keeping the vehicle between himself and the boy.
The boy stood from his seated position, still holding his gun firmly and ran inside yelling, “Pa, there’s a man what wants to see ya!”
Richard shook his head in disgust in reaction to the boy’s appalling grammar. A few moments after he disappeared through the front door of the house, a man emerged. He was tall and wiry, wearing blue jeans, a red flannel shirt and no shoes. In his hand was a greasy biscuit. The man had the same insolent expression on his face as his son. He took a bite of his roll. “Can I hep ya?” His southern drawl pierced Richard’s eardrums like fingernails across a chalkboard.
“Your son shot a woman jogging by your house with his BB gun.”
“It’s a pellet gun, mister,” the man scoffed, as if a BB gun was too juvenile for his son.
Trying to stay calm, because he was unsure what rifles, shotguns, pistols or crossbows might be trained on him, Richard continued, “Regardless, he shot some-one, and I thought you might want to know. My wife took her to the hospital.”
“So what the hell you want me to do?” The man sounded increasingly defiant.
“Well, it might be a nice gesture to go to the hospital and,” Richard paused nervously, “have your son apologize; maybe offer to pay the hospital bill.”
“What for? My boy has the right to bear arms. It’s in the Constitution.”
Richard could not believe what he was hearing. As calmly as he could, and in a non-threatening tone, Richard said, “Yes, but he doesn’t have the right to shoot just anyone.”
“How do you know he shot that lady?”
“He all but admitted it. He knew there was a woman jogging by your house before I mentioned it.”
Maintaining his insolence, the man responded, “So, what are ya’ gonna do, sue me? I know you run that mercantile store in town and if you sue me, I’ll ruin your business.”
Finding it increasingly difficult to maintain a congenial tone, Richard suggested the proper course of action for the second time. “Maybe if you took your son to the hospital and had him apologize, it might make things better for everyone involved. I’m sure she will forgive him.”
“Mister, my boy has every right to shoot his gun. One day that boy is going to be a man, and he is going to have to know how to handle a gun in order to feed his family.”
The voice in Richard’s head screamed, He can’t practice on his neighbors! He took a deep breath and tried to maintain rationality. It became increasingly difficult to look the man in the face, so he looked down at the ground and rubbed his forehead between his thumb and forefinger, soothing the tension. “No one is allowed to discharge a firearm in a populated area.”
In an increasingly condescending manner, and while shaking his head, the man replied, “Mister, we ain’t in the city limits,” and advised Richard, “You need to get with the program, boy, iffin you’re gonna live in Erstwhile.”
Richard did not know how to respond. Without saying anything he turned and walked away expecting to feel the pain of a pellet as it pierced his back. He made his way back to the house incredulous to the intergenerational passage of outdated concepts. It was obvious to him that his own father was placing the young boy at a great disadvantage. His disgust turned to sympathy as he found himself recalling his own childhood and how he felt many times that his family had ill-prepared him to survive in an increasingly complex world.