Authors: Joanne DeMaio
“Don’t ask.”
“What’d you do to the phone?”
“I said, don’t ask.” He grabs up the broken phone, storms into his office and closes the door behind him. Then, nothing. Because what is there to do? And doesn’t someone know it, that he’s tied up in knots with the whole damn thing. He lifts his black apron over his head and tosses it over the hook on the back of the door. Isn’t it enough that he followed their orders on the day of the heist? Because the words from a dark confessional have been growing louder lately. He can’t seek only His pardon, but His likeness as well. But doesn’t the good he
has
done count for anything? He folds back his shirt cuffs and sits down at his desk when someone knocks at the door.
“Later,” he yells out.
The knock repeats before the door slowly opens.
“I said
later
!”
“Hey,” Nate says. “It’s me. Dean said you’re all wound up back here.” He slips out of his denim work shirt and drapes it over a chair. “We doing lunch?”
“We’ll grab something out. I’ve got to run an errand.”
Nate picks up the broken phone from the desk. “Nice work, George. What’s going on?”
“Long story. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Where we going?”
“I need a new phone. And I’ve got to stop at the florist.”
“Florist?”
“I’ll tell you about it on the way.” George lifts his keys off the top of the file cabinet beside his desk. He pulls Nate’s shirt off the chair, too. “Don’t forget your God damn shirt.” He throws it to his brother.
“What happened? Someone bother Amy again?” Nate shifts into his shirt sleeves.
George opens his office door and tosses the cracked phone in the trash. If he could find the son of a bitch, there would be a head cracked open, too. He turns around and throws his keys to Nate. “You don’t know the half of it. You better drive. I’m not seeing straight right now.”
* * *
“
Both
eyes open, people.
Both
eyes.” Seven pairs of eyes widen simultaneously. “Heads up. Shoulders square. Arms bent, hands together.” Ron surveys the line of students aiming handguns at distant targets. “Trigger finger
free
,” he yells and seven fingers relax. “Your trigger finger should not touch anywhere on the gun except for the trigger.” He walks the line and reaches to a middle-aged man’s hand. “Use the pad, never the joint of the finger. Do you hear that, people? Use the
pad
of the finger. And why do we do this?”
“Better trigger control.”
Amy doesn’t know who said it. The voice suspends in the air like a target waiting to be pinpointed. She has her own targets pinpointed. A produce stocker. A flower deliveryman. The dry cleaner clerk. Any ordinary person can be the recipient of her bullet. Because any one of them might have pulled hosiery over their face. And hosiery turns ordinary evil.
“Okay. Now your target is in sight and you’re going to pull the trigger. Never yank or jerk it. Don’t pull across it. Apply a steady pressure, straight back.” The instructor takes a step. “
But
, before you do, be absolutely sure of not only your target, but of what’s behind it, too. You’re going to hit
something
. Make sure you know what the hell it is.”
That’s why, she knows and thanks God, that’s why the armored truck workers did not discharge their weapons. Grace was behind their target. Now as she prepares to pull the trigger and shoot her weapon for the first time, her mind superimposes the concealed faces of those assailants on the target.
“Some advice as you hold your target in sight?” Ron walks along the line of students, occasionally tucking in a wayward elbow. “Breathe with your diaphragm. Upper body breathing, when you fill your lungs, can actually move the gun, which you don’t want. Practice at home. Put your open hand beneath your ribcage and force the inhale to come from there until you do it naturally. It’s beneficial for you, too, bringing more oxygen into the cardiovascular system with each breath.”
Amy holds her stance, gun aimed at the target, and inhales a deep breath.
“And remember, it’s not so much
what
your gun is firing, as
where
you hit your target that matters. Any time you’re ready, people. Ear protection in place, focus and feel free to try your hand.”
Behind the headphones, sound is muffled. She flinches at the first gun being discharged. Other shots follow randomly, with no pattern to the distinct pops from both sides of her. And she finds herself pushing the soles of her feet desperately into the floor. Her diaphragm fills to capacity and slowly empties. Then again, even slower. Perspiration lines her forehead. The flashback comes quick. That seems to be the only pattern in her life right now. The speed and intensity of her flashbacks. They’ve grown infrequent, but hit her hard.
The kidnapper doesn’t stop moving, shifting his weight back and forth, turning, surveying the armored truck, moving right and left. Her head turns to follow his erratic movements. He clutches Grace around her belly and quietly gives an order prompting the gunman near the truck to move. She feels the other gunman’s hand press firmly on top of hers. A strange prickling sensation grows on her skin beneath his strong grip.
That’s where it always stops. She looks first at the hand on hers before looking back over her shoulder. There is a pressure on her arms as Ron raises them. “Mrs. Trewist,” he says, close and loud enough for her to hear through her headphones. “Keep your sights on the target. Try not to be lax with your aim.”
Ron steps behind her but the pressure of his hands stays, lifting her arms, waiting for her to obey. Her arms tighten their position as she sees the hooded kidnapper holding her daughter on the target. She fires one shot.
“Not bad,” Ron yells from behind. His voice sounds muted. “The grip was a little tight though. Is the right your dominant side?”
“Yes.” It amazes her the way her mind switches back to the task at hand. As quickly as it came, the flashback has left, leaving her with a fatigued trembling in her muscles.
“Try not to choke the gun. You’ll develop a quicker trigger speed that way and have more control over the weapon.”
Amy raises her arms again, relaxes her right hand’s grip, keeps her target in sight and continues to discharge her weapon, each bullet hitting her assailants over and over again.
“Okay, class,” Ron says once they gather back in the lecture room. “Not bad for your first time. In the next few lessons, you’ll improve your grips and follow-through before moving on to shooting while moving forward, as well as from a kneeling position. We’ll also begin next week’s class with a lesson on
verbally
challenging your assailant before firing. You have to try everything possible before resorting to using your weapon. We’ll finish up now with cleaning and storage.”
One of the students raises his hand and Ron checks his watch. “I’ll answer questions as I move down the line.”
Amy stands first in line. “Will you be covering methods for carrying a weapon in public?” She looks from the gun to his face. “All this training wouldn’t have done me any good in the bank parking lot if my gun was at home in the closet.”
Ron nods. “You can take one of our lecture classes on concealed carry and transportation. Think about it and I can sign you up after any lesson here. Safety and responsibility are
huge
issues once that gun leaves your house. The course makes sure the gun owner has developed a firm plan for the use of the firearm.”
Amy doubts the idea of developing a firm plan. She could never have dreamed up, imagined, or planned the armored truck heist and kidnapping. Her only plan now has to be to think on her toes.
* * *
One thing she noticed as she held her gun with outstretched arms was the condition of her fingernails. That evening after dinner, Amy calls Celia.
“Are you busy?” she asks.
“Why?”
“Don’t sound so suspicious.”
“Convince me not to.”
“I want you to do my nails.”
“Your nails? Tonight?”
“I have a date,” Amy answers in a hushed voice.
“What?”
“I’m going on my first date tomorrow night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going on my first real date since Mark died.” She fans her face with her fingers. “I can’t believe how nervous I am.”
“What about George?”
“George?”
“Yes. My God, who are you going out with? I can’t believe you’d do this to George.”
Amy smiles into the phone. “Why not? If someone asks me out, I’m free to go.”
“But George is, I don’t know, aren’t you a couple, kind of?”
“Celia, relax. My date’s
with
George. So just come over, okay? I need you to do my nails and I’ll tell you all about it.”
That’s the delicious part about having a best friend, no matter if you are thirteen or thirty-three. That sweet anticipation of sharing a romantic story, the sharp intake of your friend’s breath as the words spill out, the double entendres suggested beneath raised eyebrows.
Amy pours fresh coffee and sets two mugs on the kitchen table. She watches the bronze polish streak a line down the center of her nails, Celia’s steady hand filling in the color. First she painted Grace’s nails purple and Grace marched a parade through the house, waving her purple-dotted fingers like a baton in front of her, Angel bringing up the rear. Ellen directed the parade out to the shady backyard, an ice cream cone in each hand.
“But you’ve gone out on dates before. How about the time you went to Joel’s and I stayed here with Grace?”
“That wasn’t a date. That was to calm me down. This is a
date
date.”
“Where’s he taking you?” Celia asks, bent low over Amy’s hand.
“I’m not sure. He said I should dress for somewhere formal where we can dance all night.”
“You should wear that black dress with the flowers on it. And the pretty star necklace I gave you.”
“I will.”
Celia sets the polish aside and cups her mug of coffee close. “For a while, anyway.”
Amy kicks her lightly and smiles. “I actually get butterflies when I think about it.”
“Butterflies are good.” Celia caps the polish bottle and gives it a shake. “Whatever happened with those flowers you got?”
“What an ordeal, Cee. We know which flower shop they came from. According to Hayes, the guy walked in and picked out the biggest display in the case with a rush delivery. But it was a cash order, so no record of identity. Another dead-end. Then I threw the whole bouquet out.”
“I don’t blame you. How frightening,” Celia says.
“I’ve got all the flowers I need right here.” Amy slides her white vase with the pale pink rose to the center of the table. “George gave this to me, and it says it all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Each color of a rose means something different. Pale pink? It symbolizes grace.”
Celia pulls the nail brush from the bottle, beginning Amy’s second coat. “He’s so sweet, Amy. Tomorrow night will be good for you two.”
“I know.”
“A date, dancing,” Celia says quietly. “It’ll be just like a fairy tale.”
Twenty-seven
WHEN DOES IT HAPPEN? AT what point does that invisible shift occur? When does a relationship depend on one to inhale, the other exhale? George glances out his living room window. The soft wash of evening sunlight casts a rich depth to the green grass, to the dappled colors in the flowerbeds, to the cool shadows beneath the maples. It is the depth of color recalled in memory. With a touch of summer nostalgia, he goes to his bedroom and clasps on his leather watchband before leaving to pick up Amy for their first date. As he turns away from the dresser, a glimmer catches his eye. He turns back and lifts the gold ring from the black valet on the dresser top and when he does, his father is in the mirror, adjusting crisp white shirt cuffs before putting on a tailored suit jacket, the ring, ruby set in gold, on his finger. The colors in George’s memory of his father are liquid, soft gold enveloping the deep red stone as though it is wet to the touch.
So he slips on the ring and watches his father reflected back at him. Tall, dark hair, brown understanding eyes, strong chin. George adjusts his own thin black tie, then tugs his black sport coat sleeves into place over his pale gray shirt and black pants. In the ruby stone on his own finger he sees what his father always saw: a sweet night opening before him. And so he leaves the ring on, finally feeling a long-awaited approval from the past.
He has given the summer to Amy, slow and easy. What she doesn’t know is that he’s also given himself the summer to turn himself in, with or without Nate.
Life is like a ship tossing on the sea
, the priest had told him.
Your duty is not to abandon it, but to keep her on her course
. Turning himself in is the only way to steer his life through these seas. Coming to that decision unleashes something—he’s grown older, somehow, with the knowledge of what is soon to come. At some point this summer, he’ll tell Amy the truth.
But not yet. Because though his father would be proud when he does, he’s still afraid. Afraid to lay his cards down for her, for Amy to see his hand. She’ll know, then, and he’s not sure where that truth will take them. If he’ll lose her with it.
* * *
“Where are we going?” Amy asks.
George glances at her sitting beside him in the pickup truck. She turns toward him with a curious smile. A black silky wrap drapes loosely around her shoulders. “It’s not far,” he answers.
They drive through the center of Olde Addison, along Main Street’s mix of historic homes, storefront boutiques including Amy’s bridal shop, a coffee café and a hardware store. Beyond are streets lined with old estates, their sloping manicured lawns overlooking the cove. At this dusky hour, the sky is nature’s watercolor. Hues of pinks and dark blues shimmer, fluid. Sailboats dock in the cove, fishermen cast off a long pier. George drives past as the sun sinks below the horizon. They follow a country road that takes them alongside a wide expanse of the river. It flows south, a shiny gray ribbon glimmering against the dark evening sky. Above the distant silhouette of trees, stars emerge.