I had no idea how much it had cost, but I knew it was the most expensive thing I had ever been given. I looked at it. I just stood there staring. Peter spoke first.
“Wow. That is something, Kevin.”
“Yeah,” was all I could muster. I was afraid to pick it up.
My grandfather asked me if I liked it. I hugged him, held him real tight for a long time. He rubbed the top of my head and eased me back around to the rifle.
“It’s a 64’ Remington 700 series. The most accurate rifle made. I have one just like it, as did your father. If you like it, I’ll show you how to shoot it.
I shook my head yes, still in awe of the rifle before me. I asked before picking it up. My grandfather showed me how to operate the bolt, how to check and make sure the weapon was not loaded. He then gave me instructions regarding the handling of any firearm.
His first rule was to treat every firearm as if it were loaded. The second was to never point a firearm at anything you weren’t willing to destroy.
He was dead serious on both counts.
The following morning found all three of us atop a ridgeline. My grandfather had set up targets in one hundred yard increments. He explained all facets of marksmanship. He emphasized that proper breathing and trigger control were of highest importance. It was so much to take in, I remember feeling overwhelmed. It was another example of his endless stream of knowledge. I wondered as kids do, how someone learns that much?
Next, he showed me how to operate the scope. He performed what he called a cold bore shot. The first target was set up at one hundred yards. He said for this rifle that was “point blank” range.
I watched closely as he lay down upon the earth. He let his body become part of it. He moved into the rifle, pulled it in close to his right shoulder.
He started breathing very shallow, very slowly; he made no noise at all. He remained this way for several seconds, then crack! The shot was away. Peter and I were wearing hearing protection, but it was still loud. My grandfather worked the bolt, releasing the spent cartridge from the chamber. He quickly moved the bolt back into its original firing position, another round chambered and ready to go.
His body never moved. The action of his hand was independent from the rest of him. He must have done this a lot I remembered thinking. We walked the hundred yards to the target. The bullet had impacted just left and low of the tiny bull’s-eye.
Grandpa explained the possible reasons the bullet had not been exactly in the middle of the bull’s-eye. Cold barrel, flawed ammunition, or operator error. I would have disagreed with the last one. We walked back to our spot on the hill. Grandpa had marked the hole left by the first round. He said he would now fire a four round group, check that to make sure the scope and rifle were zeroed properly, and then it would be my turn.
The next four rounds had torn a jagged hole through the bull’s-eye. Each round touched the others.
“Ready to try, Kevin?”
I moved into the rifle just as my grandfather had. I placed my cheek against the same spot behind the scope. I couldn’t see anything at first. My grandfather explained cheek-weld. He told me we would have to place a pad where my cheek rested, build up the spot until my eye sat perfectly behind the scope giving me a perfect sight picture.
I moved about, fidgeting until I could see through the scope and find the target.
My hands were sweating though it was 60 degrees out. I noticed the crosshairs of the scope kept moving around the target.
I tried, but couldn’t get it to rest on the bull’s-eye.
My grandfather leaned down, told me it would take years of shooting before that became natural, said to breathe normally in and out. After doing this for several cycles, I should press the trigger back, just before the air entered my lungs again. He called it the respiratory pause.
The first shot startled me. The rifle kicked hard; my shoulder took the impact. My grandfather asked me how I thought I’d done. I told him how the kick had surprised me. He said the recoil would be like that unless I pulled the rifle in tight to my shoulder.
I did as instructed and the next two after that felt perfect. We walked down to check my target. One round was two inches away from the other three. The other three, however, were side by side.
My grandfather said something about not being surprised, that it ran in our blood. We spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon this way. Talking, shooting, checking targets. Grandfather knew more about shooting than I knew about anything.
After we’d finished, grandfather unfolded a large mat, took out a knapsack with long thin poles and brushes, and several different bottles of fluid. We cleaned my rifle under the afternoon sky. It was easy to see my father in my grandfather then. He had that same look of pride on his face when he cleaned the rifle, a look that could be described as respect. He spoke as we went along.
“Never put her away dirty, Kevin. She’s a part of you now, a member of the family; you treat her as you would yourself.”
I could imagine him saying those very same words to my dad. The hike back to the cabin was a good one. It had been a long day. Peter and I were both pretty beat. I stored my rifle in the place afforded to it inside the large safe.
Following this, we ate a simple meal of leftover fried chicken and biscuits, then washed up and called it a night.
I was sitting on one of the overstuffed mattresses in the loft when Peter removed his shirt. He turned and I noticed several large bruises in the shape of footprints on his back. I asked him how he’d gotten them. Peter quickly threw on a new t-shirt and then sat down on his bed.
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
I nodded, “That’s okay, man, I just wondered.”
I turned off the light between us. We lay there, each occupying space in the darkness. Peter spoke.
“My brother hits me. He’s crazy, like for real crazy and when there’s nothing else to hit, he hits me.”
I hadn’t met Peter’s older brother. Peter never spoke of him. I doubt he would have mentioned him tonight had I not seen the marks.
“Why don’t you tell your mom?”
“She’s got enough to deal with. Anyway, if I did, and she said something to him, he’d probably kill me.”
I would have laughed, but Peter wasn’t kidding.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, man, there’s nothing to do. He’s three years older than me, about fifty pounds heavier, and nuttier than a shithouse rat.”
I giggled at that one; I couldn’t help it.
“A shithouse rat? Where did you get that from?”
Peter was laughing a little himself, “I thought I heard your grandpa say it.”
I agreed it was something my grandfather would say.
We talked until the early morning hours. Peter’s brother, David, faded from the conversation. It was the talk of young men, the foolishness of youth. A brotherhood forged by unusual circumstance and universal law.
Amidst the trials of adolescence, neither would ever find the other alone.
Without ever saying it, or admitting it, we had become as close as brothers, and to this end, we followed the path created by our hand. Right or wrong, stupid or not, and a lot of it was, we walked to the beat of our own design.
We dropped Peter off that following morning.
I got my first look at his brother then as I helped Peter carry his stuff into the house. David seemed a foot taller than Peter. It didn’t help that his head was ginormous and his eyes were spun with the brush of the crazies. I would have introduced myself; however, I had already decided I disliked him. I said my goodbyes, heard David ask Peter if he was going to give me a kiss. It was a brief glimpse at Peter’s particular brand of hell. The guy looked like an asshole and his manner of speech did nothing to betray it. I wanted to tell David he could walk over and kiss my dick; however, I knew that would only add to Peter’s sufferings. I said nothing, walked away.
The next day, Peter was absent f
rom school.
At my request, my grandfather drove me to Peter’s house at the end of the day. Peter didn’t answer the door, David did.
I asked for Peter, but David closed the door in my face while announcing his candy ass brother was not home.
I raged inside but left it there. When we arrived home, Peter was waiting on the front porch. His left eye was swollen and turning shades of purple and black. My grandfather handed him a frozen bag of peas, told him to place it over the eye. Peter and I walked the fence line, his speech one of indifference, my gut a blend of fire and ice.
David had cornered Peter after we left yesterday, made more remarks regarding Peter and I, called us “little fags” - all of this to encourage Peter to take a swing at him. Peter knew what he would get; however, he didn’t care. He placed the fear of pain behind him and took his shot.
David beat on Peter for twenty minutes.
He chased him around the house. He wouldn’t let him out the door until he had satisfied his primal urge to reduce his younger brother to the point of begging. But that was just it. Peter didn’t beg. And when it got really bad, Peter just laughed. This induced more rage, more beating. Peter finally got his turn to run when David fell back from exhaustion.
I found out then David had hospitalized Peter on two occasions. They were younger. David had even less control then. I asked Peter why he didn’t report David to the police. If his mom wouldn’t listen, the police would have. Peter explained the process, the investigation. The police officer chucked it up to a sibling rivalry, brothers being brothers and all that. The police officer actually told Peter he should toughen up and learn to fight. Now Peter just avoided David whenever he could. But sometimes, sometimes you just couldn’t.
The world could be an awful place.
I knew that first hand. People like Peter didn’t deserve to be shit on by people like David.
“I’ll talk to my grandfather; he’ll know what to do.”
“It will just get worse, man, just let me handle it.”
“How could it get worse? You dead?”
“Seriously, pal, if I could just stay here for a night or two - let him get back to normal.”
“I seriously doubt your brother has a place called normal within him. That fucking guy couldn’t find normal with a road map.”
Peter agreed. I told him he could stay. I knew grandpa would be all right with it. My grandfather agreed that Peter could stay; his only exception was Peter’s mother would have to give her permission. We called Peter’s house. There was no answer.
Later that night after training, my grandfather drove us to Peter’s house so Peter could pick up some school clothes, and perhaps his mother would be available to give her blessing. Peter’s mother was not at home. It was eight o’clock. Peter didn’t have a key to his front door. When he knocked, David answered.
David only opened the door about two feet. He spoke through a mouthful of ice cream, “What do you want, fag?”
My grandfather was at the door with us. His presence didn’t seem to change David’s behavior in the slightest.
Peter was embarrassed. “I just want to get some clothes.”
David mocked him, whined his sentence, “I just want to get some clothes. You’re such a little pussy; get the fuck out of here.”
My grandfather spoke then, “Why don’t you let your brother in so he can get some of his things?”
David’s face twisted, his words grew uglier, “Why don’t you just fucking butt out?”
David really was crazy.
My grandfather tried again, “Let Peter in. You stand aside, let him in, then we’ll be gone.”
David smiled then. There was nothing funny about it, nothing funny about any of this. “I get it now. My little queer brother here is what? Sucking you off? Maybe sucking off your boy there too, right?”
“Boys go wait in the truck.” The words were my grandfather’s. I’d never heard my grandfather’s voice quite like that before. The tone was calm, so eerily calm it was frightening. Peter and I walked back to the truck as requested.
“That’s really scary old man.” David tried to close the door, but he couldn’t. David felt himself being lifted from the floor. The hand around his throat was strong, too strong to be removed. David tried to speak, but he couldn’t.
His smile had vanished, there was something else in its place now, something David, up until right then had been unfamiliar with, fear. He hadn’t breathed right in almost ten seconds, when the hand let go, David back-peddled into the wall. He was screaming now.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” The words blew out with the force of dandelion petals on a spring breeze. They were what were left of a bully’s resolve, the resolve shaken to its core, now a mixture of fear and hope. This would have scared his brother, this mask of primal rage. It wasn’t distracting this old man in the slightest.
David was caught again, this time with a sharp right hand to the midsection. David dropped, once again breathless, this time in a new and different manner than before. David was still clinging for breath, willing some air into his lungs when the hand was back, this time wrapped tightly into a thick wad of his hair. The hand pulled tight, his head snapping back leaving him feeling as if his neck might break. He felt himself rolled over and submitted as easily as one would a puppy.
“I ever hear of you hitting Peter again, ever speaking to him in a manner such as the one you used tonight, I’ll come back. I’ll climb right through your window and kill you in your sleep. I won’t be so polite about it either; I’ll wake you up with both my thumbs jammed into your empty eye holes. You know why they’ll be empty?” The old man’s face was more frightening than any Halloween mask David had ever seen. David was crying.
“I’ll have already popped out your eyes with a spoon from your kitchen, perhaps the same spoon you were just shoveling ice cream with into that shithole of a mouth of yours.”
David’s hair was being pulled so hard it brought fresh tears to his eyes.
He would have made a sound; however, there was a knee on his already damaged gut leaving him void of that basic function.
“I should just kill you right now. Guys like you, there ain’t no fixing that, you’re just wired wrong.”
David felt his head start to twist at an unusual angle. His body was still rooted to the ground by the large man atop him. His head was the only thing moving. He could see behind himself now. He was afraid. His bladder revealed this much. At the point where he knew he could take no more, the hands released. The old man stood, looked down at him. My grandfather then turned and walked out the door.
When my grandfather returned to the truck, he was still calm. His eyes had a certain movement to them; something had shifted within him that was certain. His outward manner betrayed nothing. All the way home we remained silent.
When we got to our house he told Peter he could stay as long as he liked. Peter stayed with us most weekends. He would return home every Monday, and most weeks ride home with me and grandpa on Fridays after school. He never spoke of David anymore, and he never missed school or arrived at my house with fresh bruises. David had become something of a non-issue. I never found out what my grandfather said to David that night. Whatever it was, it worked.
My mother still didn’t know me. I was shifting through time as nothing more than a memory to her. On my fourteenth birthday, I was permitted to miss school. I spent most of that morning sitting beside her in her room. Somewhere along the way, since residing with my grandfather, I had gained a passionate appreciation for the written word.
Probably from studying him, each night when the sun had passed its shift onto the moon, my grandfather would build a small fire, ease into the brown leather chair next to it, and read.
He would be that way for at least an hour or two every evening. It was almost ritualistic in his pattern. He invited me to join him on most nights, and on most nights I would.
Tea, he loved it. Each night he brewed English bre
akfast, or Earl Grey, to enjoy with the reading. It would become one of my fondest memories of him.
On that morning I brought a book with me. I had done so for about a year now. Mom would sit, looking out a window, waiting for the ones she loved to return and I would read to her. I read all kinds of books. She didn’t mind. If she did, she never said a thing. The sadness was always there, but in a different and tolerable way. She was there at least. I could still see her, even if she didn’t talk with me. I read to her, talked to her, told her stories of grandfather, Peter, and myself. I told her everything, well almost everything. I didn’t think she needed to hear all about the boxing lessons and shooting trips.
I relived many times with her, however, and all of them were warm with thought and merit.
On this day she appeared better. I spoke softly to her, brought forth a childhood memory of the two cakes she would bring. I admitted my greed and longing for the first one and the manner in which I would consume it. I was laughing with the mental picture when I noticed she was no longer staring out the window. She had shifted; it was slight, but undeniable. My mother was looking at me. I stared back at her, looked deeply into those soft green eyes of hers. “I’m here, Mom,” I said through choked effort. “I love you.”
She adjusted then, her head moving ever so slightly to regain focus on the window. I had been here every Sunday for two years without fail. In that time she had never moved and had never spoken. Now she had looked at me and I knew she had seen me, even if only for a second.
I didn’t want to panic any of the staff or other residents, I just wanted my mother to look at me one more time, see me as she had moments ago. I dropped to my knees at her side, placed her frail hand on top of my head. I made the effort for her, stroked my hair with her hand, imagined her leaning forward and kissing the top of my head. I was praying for a second’s worth of brilliance, a heartbeat of knowing where she would whisper to me, only for me, that she still loved me.
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