by Brian Bakos
***
The two drove off in the battered family sedan. With his rifles packed safely away, Bobber resumed his buoyant and chatty persona. Such a change always came over him whenever he was away from his guns.
“My fountain pen wasn’t working,” he said, “so I was shaking it to get the ink out. I didn’t expect old Cox to be walking by my desk just in time to get ink all over the back of her skirt!”
Kough chuckled. “I’m sure it was totally accidental, right?”
Bobber smiled mischievously.
“Anyway,” he said, “good thing she didn’t know what was going on. She was really pissed the next day, though. Nobody told on me, which is . . . ”
His voice trailed off as he spied the Texas-style steak house coming up on the right. Kough knew that Bobber wanted to stop, and he certainly wanted to take him into the restaurant, as well. After such a fine day of shooting, the boy deserved a reward.
Kough imagined the two them sauntering in through the swinging doors like a couple of wild west desperadoes. They’d stand before the big wall menu with hands on hips, oblivious to the backlog of customers piling up behind them waiting to go through the serving line.
But he continued driving and tried not to notice his son’s head turning to follow the receding restaurant. Kough gripped the steering wheel hard in growing resentment at his own impotence.
“Sorry Bobber,” he said, “I’m afraid that new rifle pretty much cleaned us out for a while.”
Again, he pondered with dismay on just how long it would take to pay off the firearm. But, damn, it was a premium Hatchel bolt action! Almost every top pro used the identical model. According to the brochure, it had “finely machined components throughout” crafted from “only the best materials” and a straight, rigid barrel guaranteed to be “sniper accurate.”
Bobber looked away from the window and began another of his Cox stories; part of the ongoing saga of his least favorite teacher.
“There were visitors in our class last week,” he said. “Cox couldn’t be her usual bitchy self, of course, and had to put on an act for them. Well, as it turned out . . . ”
2. The elusive dream
Ann Kough gave an icy welcome to Frank and Bobber upon their return home.
“Change your clothes, Bobber,” she said. “I can smell gunpowder on them.”
“Okay, Mom.”
Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. Bobber headed for his room.
Kough intercepted him and spoke in a confidential voice: “Just stay out of sight for a while, okay, son?”
“Sure, Dad. I understand.”
Kough drew a deep breath and followed his wife into the kitchen.
He hung around there a while drinking cola and trying to make small talk. Nothing he said seemed capable of engendering a response, though. His best efforts failed to create an opening into which he could break the news.
As it turned out, he didn’t need one.
“I read the letter you got from the shooting school,” Ann said through tightened lips.
“Oh . . .” Frank was too off his guard to say anything more.
“Yes, and you should be proud that the boy’s going to do exactly what you want.”
“But Ann,” Kough protested, “he wants it, too. It’s a wonderful opportunity.”
He almost added: “I wish I’d gotten a chance like this,” but he kept the thought to himself.
“He wants it because you tell him so,” Ann said.
“That’s not true!”
“Believe me, Frank, whatever he manages to do or not do, it isn’t going to make you any more of a man than you are now.”
Kough flinched at this brutal reference to his disabilities.
Damn you! he thought with a rancor born of helplessness.
She didn’t talk to him like this two years ago when he was a construction foreman bringing home fat paychecks. Everything was hunky dory then – before the fall which had left him incapacitated and unemployable.
“That’s not how it is!” he blurted.
“Send him to that school if you must,” Ann said. “It looks like I can’t do anything to stop you.”
She began jamming plates into the dishwasher with enough force to nearly shatter them.
“And put him in those tournaments, too,” she said. “Just don’t expect me to be around to watch all this.”
The harsh words from the usually soft-spoken woman rattled Kough badly. He could make no reply. Ann finished with the plates and stalked out of the kitchen.
Kough sat by himself for several minutes, drinking from his bottle. The cola had gone flat.