by Barb Goffman
“Compulsive Bubba” first appeared in Chesapeake Crimes 3, published by Wildside Press in 2008.
I once saw a terrible news story about a man whose toddler died. The snow had been bad, blocking in his parked car, so he put his child in the car with the heater on while he dug the car out. He either didn’t realize his car’s tail pipe was snowed in, or he didn’t know until it was too late that a snowed-in tail pipe could result in carbon monoxide backing up into the vehicle. That story stayed with me, and I thought I could use that tail pipe fact one day in my writing. I didn’t know how, though, until Amelia, my beleaguered character in “Compulsive Bubba,” started talking to me one day in the shower. Out of nowhere, I heard the story’s first paragraph—in a southern accent. And then, like kismet, I recalled that tail pipe story. I rinsed off as fast as I could and ran to my computer to write Amelia’s story: a southern woman using northern know-how to free herself from her abusive husband.
HAVE GUN—WON’T TRAVEL
I had just settled into my recliner with a Coors and the remote control when I heard a gun being racked behind me.
“You feeling lucky today, Earl?”
I spilled some of my beer—damn it!—as I twisted around and ducked. My wife, Christine, was pointing a shotgun at me. And not just any shotgun. It looked like my daddy’s favorite. I poked my head around the chair. Yep. It was the Mossberg 500 that Daddy used to carry when he went hunting. Its black barrel gleamed in the sunlight pouring through our living room back window, which overlooked the Allegheny Mountains.
“Now, I’m pretty sure that this old gun here isn’t loaded, but I could be mistaken,” Christine said, a glint in her eye and her finger nearing the trigger as she walked around to the front of my La-Z-Boy. “Think I should take a chance and fire it to be sure?”
My face grew hot as my blood pressure surely spiked. I knew that gun wasn’t loaded. I checked it myself after my last hunting trip. But I still didn’t like having a weapon aimed at me. Especially my own weapon.
“Let me guess,” I said, sitting back up. “Jenna called again today.”
Christine pointed the gun at the floor, walked to the couch, and perched on its edge. “You’re darn right she called again. We didn’t get two minutes into the conversation before she asked about the guns, Earl.”
I slammed my beer down on the end table so hard the lamp shook. It was Friday night. I’d just put in a long week at the lumber company, and this was supposed to be my time to relax. Now I had to deal with this shit.
“They’re my guns, damn it!” I said. “She has no right demanding I get rid of them.”
Shaking her head, Christine set the Mossberg next to her on the couch. A lock of brown hair fell forward and hung by her cheek. “I’m not having this argument with you again. Jenna has made it clear that she won’t come home to visit after the baby’s born if there’s a single gun here. So I want them sold.” She slapped her hands against her knees. “Every last one!”
“This is what we get for letting her move away,” I said. “When she wanted to go to college in D.C., what did I say?”
Christine started tapping her right foot, like she often does when I make a good point. I didn’t care.
“I said no, that’s what I said.” I sprang up and began pacing between the recliner and the window. “I said she could get just as good an education from a state school here in West Virginia. Fairmont State’s a good school. So’s W.V.U. Heck, we’ve even got Pot State right here in Keyser. But no. You said the schools in D.C. were better. You said we should let her go. And now look what’s happened. She married that liberal New Yorker and is living in hoity-toity Georgetown with all those two-faced politicians. And she’s demanding that I sell my daddy’s guns. Our family nest egg!”
“Nest egg?” Christine laughed. “You are just like your daddy, Earl. Convinced those guns are worth something when in reality they’re probably junk.”
“They’re not! They’re pure Americana is what they are. Heck, we’ve got guns from the Civil War, including one from the Battle of Droop Mountain.”
Christine rolled her eyes. “Not that old yarn again.”
Oh, I wanted to smack her. I’d never hit a woman, but lately Christine had been trying my patience.
“You know full well my Enfield musket was used down at Droop Mountain,” I said. “And since it was the last major battle in West Virginia during the Civil War, that makes the musket valuable—not to mention it’s a part of our heritage.”
“It’s a part of your daddy’s tall-tale collection is what it is,” Christine said. “No one but your daddy ever thought that gun was actually used at Droop Mountain, and you know it.”
I kicked the coffee table leg so hard pain shot through my foot. “You’re wrong! About that gun. About all of ’em. Daddy spent years building that collection. He knew what he was doing. Heck, that musket’s probably worth a fortune.”
“Prove it!” She stood up, hands on her hips. “If you think those old guns are worth something, sell ’em so we can finally afford to go on that vacation to Florida you’ve been promising.”
I shook my head, turned to the window. I loved looking out at all those trees and the mountains behind. Why go to Florida when we’ve got everything we need here in Keyser? Fishing. Hunting. High school football in the fall. There’s even a golf course, not that I play. Tried it once. Nearly had a stroke trying to hit that freaking ball. I took a deep breath. Our property runs five miles behind the house and a half-mile in front. Tons of privacy. What more could you want in life? Nothing. Yet Christine kept harping about taking a vacation. Stupid waste of money.
“No. This isn’t the right time to sell the guns.” I turned and faced her. “We need to wait till the economy picks up so we can get the best price.”
Always nice when an excuse is also the truth.
Christine stared at me. “There is no more time to wait, Earl,” she said, speaking slowly, as if I was a child. “Jenna’s baby will be born before you know it.”
I picked up my beer, took a swill, and wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “That girl has gotten entirely too big for her britches.”
“There is nothing wrong with her wanting to make sure our house is safe for the baby—”
“Safe! Of course it’s safe. Did we ever have any incidents with the guns while she was growing up? No. I taught her everything she needed to know about gun safety. We never keep ’em loaded. Heck, nearly every single one’s an antique anyway. Probably wouldn’t fire if you wanted ’em to.”
“That’s not the point!” Christine stepped closer, looking me square in my eyes.
“Then what the heck is the point?”
Christine breathed in and out several times, her face all red. She reminded me of those old cartoons of Toro the Bull right before he charged.
“The point, as you well know,” she said, so slowly and calmly I knew she was truly reaching her limit, “is that accidents happen, and Jenna and David aren’t taking any chances. All we need is one gun to have one bullet in it and for the baby to get a hold of it—”
“Ha!” I said. “I’d like to see that. A baby holding a gun.”
“You know what I mean. Once the child gets old enough to run around—”
“But the guns aren’t loaded!”
“Oh, you don’t know that, Earl.” She flopped back down on the couch, crossing her legs and waving her hand. Like she was dismissing a servant. Always made my want to wring her neck. “Most of those guns have been gathering dust in the attic for years. Your daddy used to pick ’em up anywhere, thrilled to have more firepower in the house. I bet he never checked if they were actually loaded or not, and I’m sure you didn’t check every single one of them either before you put them in the cabinets.”
“Well then, neither did you, if you’re so concerned about safety.”
“I’m not the one who’s concerned. Jenna is.”
“Irrationally.”
“Enough!” Ch
ristine leaned forward again. “I’m sick and tired of having this argument with you. Right or wrong, those are her terms. We get rid of the guns or she won’t ever come home again. So we are going to meet her terms, Earl. You hear me? You have one more month to find a dealer to come and buy all those guns.”
“Or what?”
“Or what?” She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “You don’t want to know ‘or what’.”
* * * *
I leaned back in the red vinyl booth at Denny’s late the next morning, sipping my black coffee. The remains of my eggs and scrapple lay on my plate. Across the table, my buddy Ted eyed me while swallowing the last of his grits. His beard was grayer than mine and had some crumbs stuck in it. We’d just returned from a few hours of trout fishing, our Saturday morning routine. Damn fool had caught a whole lot more than me today.
“So you gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Ted said, pointing a strip of bacon my way. “You’ve been quieter than usual this morning.”
Ted and I always came to Denny’s after fishing. Best place for in town for breakfast and news. But I wasn’t feeling my usual sociable self. I’d been replaying my argument with Christine over and over in my mind since Ted picked me up at six. I gave him the highlights.
“Well, it’s not unreasonable for your girl to want you to get rid of the firearms,” he said.
“Ted, you kidding me?”
He sighed. “You hear it on the news all the time. Folks think their guns are unloaded when they’re not. Or kids find the ammunition and load ’em themselves. You remember what happened last year over in Cumberland.”
Cumberland? “No, what happened?”
“Lord, Earl, don’t you ever watch the news or read the paper? Some kid, six or seven years old, found his pappy’s pistol, loaded it up, and shot his little sister in the head. He thought it was a toy.”
I let out a big sigh. “Nothing good ever comes out of watching the news. That’s why I only pay attention to the sports. Kids killing kids. Who wants to know about things like that?”
“People involved in the world?”
“Hmph.” I tugged on my chin. When did my whiskers get so coarse? “Only time I listen to the news is if they’re talking about taxes going up. And that happens all too freaking often. Damn liberal politicians. All they want is to take, take, take, right outa my pocket. And yours.” I banged my fist on the table. “Anyway, something like what happened in Cumberland would never happen to me. I control what goes on in my home.”
“Yeah, you and every other parent before something awful happens. Besides, it doesn’t sound like you have much choice in the matter.”
He was right, and that fact had been gnawing at my craw ever since Jenna brought up the damn gun issue. That’s what her husband, David, called it. The “gun issue.” I bet this was all his idea in the first place.
I grumbled as Rhonda came by to refill my coffee. She wasn’t much to look at—graying red hair, a thick middle, and stumpy legs—but she was a great listener. She’d been waiting tables here nearly twenty years. Word was her husband had been nagging her to spend more time at home cooking for him, but she wouldn’t give up this job for anything. It kept her in the loop.
“What’s the matter, Earl?” Rhonda said. “Did Ted outfish you again today?”
Ted smirked.
“Or is it that fight you had with Christine last night that’s making you all grumpy?” she said.
“Son of a… How do you do that, Rhonda?” I asked. “How do you know everything about everybody so damn fast?”
“Honey, this is Keyser. The gossip train’s not that long. Christine talked to Lolly who told her husband, who’s cousins with Bobby in the kitchen.” She tilted her head toward the swinging doors behind her and raised one eyebrow.
“Of course,” I said. “And now you know, so everybody knows.”
Rhonda shrugged. “I don’t get what all the fuss is about. If Jenna’s so worked up about those guns, why don’t you just put a lock on the attic door?”
My mouth fell open. Hot damn.
“Rhonda, you have earned your tip.” I grinned up at her. “A lock. Why didn’t I think of that before?”
* * * *
We finished eating quick so we could make it to Ace Hardware before it closed at one. Then Ted dropped me off at home. In record time I dressed the two trout I’d caught and put ’em in the fridge. Then I grabbed my toolbox from the garage and marched straight to the door leading up to the attic. I was in the middle of removing the doorknob when Christine came up behind me.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I rose from my crouch, my knees creaking. Cripes, when did I get so old?
“I’m putting a new doorknob on so no one can get in the attic without a key.” I jerked my thumb at the door. Smiled. “Solves all our problems. I don’t have to sell the guns. And the baby will be safe. The only ones who’ll have a key will be you and me. I knew I’d find a way to fix this mess.”
Christine frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know, Earl.”
“What’s not to know? It’s a perfect solution.”
“It’s only a perfect solution if Jenna agrees. The gun cabinets are already locked, and that hasn’t given her any comfort.”
“Well this will. I told you. It’s perfect.”
“Hmm. We’ll see.” She turned and walked to the stairs. “Make sure you take a shower before you come back down,” she called. “You smell like fish!”
* * * *
I finished explaining my solution to Jenna and David and pulled on the tangled phone cord some more so I could stretch it across the kitchen. The cord snagged on some of the utensils Christine kept in a pitcher on the counter, next to the crock pot, knife block, and can opener. Hell. Why’d she always keep so much crap out?
“Hold on, Daddy.”
I heard Jenna and David talking, but they must have been covering the mouth pieces ’cause I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then, after a half minute or so: “I’m sorry, Earl, but that’s not going to work,” David said.
We’d called them right after dinner so they could sign off on my great idea. I couldn’t believe my ears.
“Why the heck not?” I untangled the cord and began pacing across the checkered brown-and-white linoleum floor that Christine wanted to replace even though it was in perfectly good condition.
“How hard do you think it would be for a child to find your spare key, Earl?” David said. “A door with a lock on it’ll draw kids like a moth to a flame. Just like those locked cabinets would. We can’t risk it.”
“Be reasonable, Jenna.” I aimed my comment at her. She’d have the sense to override her nervous Nellie husband. “Your mother and I will keep the keys on us at all times.”
The line was silent for a couple moments. I was getting to her.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Jenna finally said, “but you can’t promise me that will always be the case. It’s too dangerous. David and I want the guns gone.”
I gritted my teeth and growled. That girl had moved three hours east, but she might as well have moved to Mars, considering how much she’d changed. Agreeing with her high-strung husband instead of me!
“Well, you know what I want?” I held the receiver so tight my fingers ached. “I want my old Jenna back. The one who listened to me. Looked up to me. Who had the common sense God gave her.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Daddy.”
“Fine,” I said. “Why don’t we make this real simple? You don’t have to visit. Ever!” I turned and punched the wall, leaving a large dent.
Christine stormed in from the living room, where she’d been listening on the extension. She grabbed the phone and glared.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Christine said into the receiver. “Of course we want you and David to keep coming home. Your father’s just a bit worked up. I’ll take care of it.” She walked to the other side of the room, trying to soothe Jenna. As if
she was the one who needed soothing.
I stomped into the living room, shaking my stinging knuckles, and took a few deep breaths to keep myself from smashing that ugly end-table lamp Christine loved so much. Then I dropped into my La-Z-Boy and flipped on the TV. A pre-season football game between the Steelers and the Lions had just started. I envied the players every time they slammed into each other, letting out their aggression. Must be nice.
Christine came into the room a few minutes later, stood beside me, a large book clutched under her left arm. “I told you so, Earl.”
I told you so, Earl. Whatever happened to a wife supporting her husband?
“That girl sounds more like her husband every day,” I said. “No common sense at all.”
Christine snorted. “There’s someone in this family lacking common sense, but it’s not Jenna.”
I snorted back. “What’s that you’re holding?”
She tossed the book to me. The yellow pages.
“What’s this for?”
“There must be a section on gun dealers in there, Earl. Use it. And make sure you fix that drywall!”
* * * *
A couple hours later, Christine had gone up to bed with one of her women’s magazines. I was polishing off my third beer. The Lions were ahead. Unbelievable.
I’d gone through that phone book several times. Found lots of ads from folks willing to take my guns off my hands. Collectors. Pawn brokers. Antique shops. Gun shops. Rip-off artists. Every single one of ’em.
I dropped the book on the floor with a thud. No way to tell which of these guys would be trustworthy. Or if any of them would be. I thought about checking the Internet for collectors, but I’d face the same problem there. I even considered reaching out to Stan from work—he has a cousin who collects. But you can’t even count on getting a good deal from folks you know, and I couldn’t stand the thought of being swindled. Daddy had spent so long building his collection. Remington revolvers. Ballard carbines. He had guns from every American war going back to the Civil War, including the Enfield musket and a Gatling gun. I couldn’t sell them to just anyone. I thought for a second about moving the guns to a storage unit, but the chances of being robbed were far too great. No way I’d risk that.