TWO GUNS

Caroline’s dad calls and asks which of his peepaw’s guns I want.

You showed some interest last time you were here, he says.

For sure, I say. How many are there, again?

Two.

And one’s a shotgun, no?

No, he says, and goes on to describe the guns. I’m not really listening. I’m wondering why I thought one was a shotgun. I’m doubting he knows what a shotgun looks like. I’m feeling shortchanged if immature.

When he finishes, I say I’ll take the one George doesn’t want.

Sounds good, he says, then before he can ask how I’ve been, I tell him I’m about to step into a thing and will have to call him back. But that’s not true. I’m on the couch drawing a pencil portrait of Tobey Maguire.

He hurries off the phone apologetically. I hate lying to him.

I go back to drawing. I erase the eyes and make them smaller, which really completes the likeness. They’re still huge, but I’d overdone it before. Now it’s undeniable. It’s Tobey Maguire. But I can’t enjoy it. I’m growing sick with my lie.

I put down Tobey.

I’m wondering if lying to her dad betrays a lack of respect for Caroline. Our marriage has been off lately. We’ve been talking to each other like children. We always have at least one AirPod in and playing something. We hardly have sex. We hardly serve each other anymore. Does my lie belie the reason?

I pick up Tobey.

I decide it’s not the lie, but the ingratitude that sickens me. He wanted me to have this precious thing, and I just rejected it. I didn’t even look the horse in the mouth. I look at Tobey’s little mouth. He asked me before asking George, his only son.

George is anti-gun. He’s anti-faith, despite once brimming with it. He once put his hand on my shoulder and said, I’m just glad that you and I aren’t toxic males. I laughed and said, Speak for yourself, and things have been off between us since. He’s a therapist, which exacerbates my view of him and has kept me away from therapy, even though Caroline has begged me to go, even though I know it would help. He calls his dad by his first name, which feels disrespectful generally, but specifically for this son, this dad.

I put down Tobey. His bug eyes stare up at me, calling me to repentance.

I call my father-in-law. Hey, man, I say. (He likes it when his kids and in-laws are casual with him, which is how George justifies calling him by his first name.) The truth is, I say, I don’t have anywhere to be. I just wanted to end the call because the air kinda went out of me when you said there was no shotgun. I guess because lately, when I think about what’s missing from my life, a gun comes to mind. And not just any gun. A shotgun. And not to use for anything specific. Just to have. To own. I feel like I should be a gun owner, you know? I’ve got two kids, two little girls—your granddaughters. I need a gun. And, for some reason, I remembered one of your peepaw’s guns being a shotgun, so I was disappointed when you said it wasn’t. Anyway, I’m just calling to say I’m touched that you’d even consider me for this heirloom. Truly honored. Why don’t we take a look at them next time I’m up there?

He doesn’t answer right away, and when he does, I wish he hadn’t.

Well, he says, thanks for clearing that up … But, uh … Yeah, I’ll just double check with George and let you know … Well, hold on … You know, sitting here talking about it, I might remember him saying something about them at Christmas. The guns. There’s a chance he had his eye on one, maybe both … You know, he never met my peepaw, but he always felt a closeness … Like I said, I’ll let you know. Give Caroline a squeeze for me.

 

 

WHIPPING BOY

Winding the path at Memorial Park with the dog. I remove his leash to let him chase the laser pointer before it gets dark enough to see the bright green beam from the pointer to the ground, which he doesn’t like. He likes the illusion of a neon creaturette.

In the middle of the grass, across from the retired anti-aircraft gun, a young fella, maybe twenty-five, has two tripods set up, one bearing what looks like an expensive camera, the other, nothing. I don’t wonder what he’s doing. Considering content creators as I find them out in the world—trying to infer their skillset, audience, sexual activity—only ever saddens me.

I often overestimate my empathy.

A big woman guides her feeble, harnessed mutt along the same path on the far side of the park. I met her a few months ago. The dog, my dog, was off leash chasing the laser when he spotted them and ran over, eager to greet them. She’s not good with other dogs! the woman yelled, very rehearsed, She’s NOT good with other dogs! This is a public park where dogs are often off their leashes, where a local pair of mini-Labradoodles often roam at will, barking walkers off the path. She’s back now, knowing all of this, and I feel myself having a problem with that.

But I don’t want contention. I replace the dog’s leash and keep on the path.

The maples are yellowing. A woman with short hair sits on a nearby bench, calling to her toddler son. He waddles over and climbs onto her lap, mostly by his own effort. She removes the roundest breast I’ve ever seen, and as she guides the nipple, a line of milk shoots into the boy’s mouth. I pretend this is nothing special, looking at the yellow leaves.

We keep along the path until we find ourselves much closer to the camera guy. He’s built like a Mormon suitor, intramurally athletic. The maroon V-neck and khakis together suggest he ends each day with journaling and prayer and peaceful sleep.

I don’t mean to sound critical. I envy him. The last time I prayed was when Putin said he’d drop the nuke. I’ve never kept a good routine.

He sets a head of cabbage on the empty tripod and steps back, unspooling a braided whip I hadn’t noticed from afar. My first thought is to trace the path ahead to see if I should double back or else end up in the frame, in the background of some dumb video.

But then he cracks the whip, splitting the air, the cabbage into pale ribbons.

We stop and watch as he puts another head on the tripod and checks his camera settings.

With ease he cracks the thing three, four times in one smooth stroke. Again, he shreds the cabbage. An extension of his mind. He’s an artist. Disciplined, constant. He is better than me.

I have no passions. I have no faith.

At least you’d beat him in a fight, I think, then think again, Nah, Lamby, he’d whip your ass. He’d make you cry.

As we walk on, I smell the rawness of the broken vegetable. It’s on the air, hung above the tang of yellow leaves.

I look around the park at all of them. The nursing mother. The patient owner of the dying dog. The virgin and his ancient tool. The couple swaying on the swings. The family playing spike ball in the shadow of the obelisk. The veteran climbing out of a recumbent bike, removing his blue hat. Just children.

And here am I, desperate to be with them, wanting badly to ask what they know about our Father.