Me & Emma

by Elizabeth Flock

  I don’t hear what Emma says but I hear Momma clear as day.

  “You damn well better apologize or you’ll get yourself ten extra licks!”

  That’s enough for me. “Sorry,” I say as loudly as I can without having to take too deep a breath.

  Emma’s voice is too faint to make out, but pretty soon Mrs. Sprague climbs back into the truck with Fred scrambling up on his side and it sputters to starting.

  Momma and Emma are gone when the truck clears out. “Git on over here,” Momma’s calling to me from inside the house. “Why you got to act up every single time I turn my back? Huh?” The sound of the strap catching wind on its way to skin is probably the worst sound in the universe. I guess we’ll be sleeping on our bellies tonight. It takes a while for Emma to finish up after me, but here she comes, walking careful the entire way down to me. Before too long our feet are taking us right back down the blacktop and over to Mr. Wilson’s.

  * * *

  “Seems to me sumpen’s wrong wit’ you kids today when shooting at a tin can is sumpen you ain’t been doing since birth,” he says.

  “I’m only eight,” I say. “My sister’s six. We ain’t too growned up yet.”

  He just shakes his head and walks over to the fence to put the cans one-two-three right in a row. Emma hangs way back watching since her backside’s no doubt sore as all get out right now. So’s mine but I’m older. I’ve had way more experience with it.

  “Now—” he spits and picks up the gun “—I’ll show you what I’m talking ’bout and then we git to know the gun a little.”

  He puts the gun against his shoulder and pow! He fires the first shot without even telling me he’s gonna do it. It’s so loud I feel like it split my head clean open.

  “Go on over an see if I made my mark,” he orders at me. He talks a bit loud and I figure it’s ’cause his ears are ringing, too.

  Up at the top fence rail the two cans sit tall and proud but the third’s down and I have to climb through the bottom rungs to fetch it.

  “You did it!” I call out to him. Right there in the middle of the curved can is a big old hole where the bullet pushed through. I look through it back at him like it’s a telescope. Brownie must know he did it right ’cause she’s wagging that tail of hers in the dirt.

  “Git back over here and I’ll do it again,” he says. And I scramble back through and run across the dirt and rocks toward him before he fires again. This time I’m not taking any chances. I hold my ears the whole way.

  Pow! Pow!

  I hustle back over and pick up the last two cans and sure enough: holes right through the middle sections of each.

  “Wow,” I say to him as I get back close. “Can I try? Can I try?”

  “Sure can,” he says. “But first you got to learn to respect the gun. To respect it, you got to learn it good. My pappy taught me just like I’m teachin’ you. It’s not too hard but you got to learn it good, you hear me, girl?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “This here’s the chamber.” He holds the gun out to me like it’s a towel draped across his hands. “Ain’t got no bullets left in it right now so it’s okay if you hold it. That’s right, hold it careful. With respect. Don’t ever aim it at anyone like you doing right now. That’s bad. Aim it out to the fence while I’m talking to you else the lesson’s over. Now, this here—put your finger right there—good. That there is the catch. That’s got to be off if’n you mean business. Once that catch is off the bullet knows it could be called on at any minute. That there’s—no, feel right here. That’s right—that’s the safety. That’s on in case the catch comes undone by mistake. That safety gets pushed off and then you’re good to go. This here, this is the most dang’rous part of all—it’s the trigger. So you gots the catch, the safety and the trigger. They all there to make it happen for you. Slide your finger in against that trigger and feel what it’s like. That’s right. You got a nat’ral stand right there. That’s good. That cain’t be taught good. You either got it or you don’t. Do like I did and hole it up to your shoulder—no, the other way…that’s right—and feel how heavy it is. This one here’s one of the heaviest of guns they making. My pappy done shot a good number’f white tails wit’ this here gun and I reckon I add to it ev’ry coupla weeks in season. Now. Bring it back down and give it over. I s’pose you ready now for a bullet in that chamber. I just cock this part open and slide a bullet in it—see how it fits in there? I slide it in like that. There. I click it back closed and the bullet’s aimed down the shoot like it s’posed to be. Now put it back on your shoulder…”

  “Am I gonna shoot now?” I feel sick at my stomach. The gun feels much heavier with the bullet in it, even though the bullet weighs no more than a pin.

  “Yep, you gonna shoot off at the fence. But first you got to hand it back to me so I can set up the cans fer you.”

  I do as he says. He walks over to the fence, swinging his wooden leg out in front of his good one slowly with each step.

  One, two, then three cans are set back up on the top of the fence rail.

  When he comes back he gets behind me before settling the gun in my hands from over my head and shoulders.

  “Now. Remember what I taught you, girl,” he says. “Look through the crosshair until that can is right in the middle of where the two lines meet up. Once you get it there slip the safety off and slide your finger in front of the trigger….”

  “I’m scared….”

  “You should be,” he says from behind me. “’F’you weren’t scared I would be. ’Snormal to be scared. Fear and respect. That’s what you got to have when you holding a gun. Now you ready. Pull that trigger when you see the can ’tween them two lines…”

  Pow!

  The gun slams back into my shoulder so hard I yelp and drop it right there in the dirt in front of Mr. Wilson. Brownie looks down at it and back up at her master.

  He spits into the dirt and after a second or so he slides his wooden leg out to the side so he can bend over and pick the rifle back up.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away from him. I get ready to run just in case. “I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to drop it. It hurt my shoulder so bad I couldn’t help but drop it. I didn’t mean—”

  “Quiet, girl,” he says, patting me on the head. “You making more racket than that ole dog does at dinnertime. ’Sal’right you let it drop. I forgots to tell you about the pain. Guess I’m numb to it by now. You did good. Now, don’t you be crying like a sissy-girl. I hope I ain’t wastin’ my time on a sissy-girl. Stop your crying. ’Sal’right, I tell you.”

  I sniffle and wipe my tears with sweaty hands that smell smoky and metallic.

  “Now, take the gun back,” he says, trying to hand it back over to me, but I’m shaking my head. I don’t want it back.

  “What? Again? But…but I dropped it in the dirt,” I sniff. “I didn’t respect it any.” Plus my shoulder is throbbing like a heartbeat, but I don’t want him to think I’m a sissy-girl so I don’t say nothing about that.

  “Take the gun back,” he says with a gruff voice. “You never get past your mistakes if you leave ’em right there. ’Sides, there’s a can missing on the top rail and I think you and me both know what that means.”

  I squint out to the fence and he’s right! I hit the can!

  “Easy, girl,” he says to me, but Brownie thinks he’s talking to her so she starts wagging again. “Remember, this’ll be a strong punch in the gut again but this time you got
to hold on to the gun no matter what. Let it push you back. Relax into it and it won’t hurt but a little this time. You’ll know it’s coming. Look for that can in the crosshair. You see it? Good. Now you’re ready to pull that trigger back. Anytime now you’re fine.”

  Pow!

  The pain shoots sharp through my neck this time, but once I open my eyes back up I see the gun’s still in my hands. Mr. Wilson lets out a low whistle and Brownie gets up and hobbles out to the fence like she knows that was my last shot—which it is. If I shoot again I feel like my head’ll blow clear off my neck, the pain’s so bad.

  “I’ll be a bumpy toad on a clean white lily pad,” he whistles again, calling me out to where he’s standing by the fence. “Git on out here, girl. Come see what you done.”

  Only one can is left teetering on the edge of the top of the wood fence. The other two are lying on their sides in the dirt on the ground. And there, right below his holes are two clean ones in each shiny can.

  “Looks to me like I got myself a shooter here, what you think, Brownie?” He pats the dog’s head like it’s her who shot that second can clean off the fence. He whistles again.

  “I shot both?” I see it but I cain’t believe it.

  “You shot both, sissy-girl.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  His laugh sounds like a chicken clucking. He spits again. “Guess you be wanting me to call you Annie Oakley after this!” He laughs again. “Now, come on back to the house and wash your hands off’r you’ momma’ll take it up wit’ me and I ain’t in no mood to fight wit’ some sissy-girl’s momma.”

  Somehow knowing I shot the cans on my first try at target shooting makes the pain in my shoulder go away almost altogether.

  “Can I do it again tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see,” he says, clucking alongside me. “We’ll see.”

  “Please? I got to do it again tomorrow,” I say. “Please, Mr. Wilson?”

  “I told you we’ll see,” he says. “Now git.”

  I push open his screen door like it’s my own. Walking through to the kitchen takes some doing since his whole front room is crowded up with stacks and stacks of papers. There’s a little trail carved through the stacks so you don’t have to step over anything, but it’s hard to focus on the trail since there’s no light coming through. Now I think I know why Mr. Wilson’s always out on his front porch…he doesn’t have any chairs, any furniture to speak of. Just stacks and stacks of newspapers, magazines and white papers with writing all over them. I wonder what he does in the winter when it’s too cold to sit up on the porch.

  “There’s a bar of soap right by the faucet,” he calls out after me, once the porch door slams telling me he’s in the house, too, now. “See you wipe off some a that blood while you at it.”

  I look down and sure ’nuff there’s blood on my hand and some just starting to dry up on my arm. Twisting my neck good I see that the gun carved a little cut clean into my skin up where my shoulder meets my neck bone. Momma’ll kill me, I just bet. She’s always after Richard, telling him to “git that thing out of here” when he pulls his gun out. She never lets me or Emma go near it, even when he takes it apart to clean it.

  The faucet squeaks and squeaks when I turn it, which I have to do a lot of before any water even trickles out. When the water finally does come out it’s rust-colored and I give up waiting for it to turn clear after a minute or so. The soap Mr. Wilson told me to use is a brown square and I can’t tell if it’s brown from dirt or just plain brown to begin with. I use it anyway. After pushing it to and fro between the palms of my hands I get a good lather up and wipe that all over my hands and as much of my arms as I can hold over the sink. There’s nothing else but a rag by the tap so I use it to dry off, dragging it up my arm to my shoulder where I dab the blood off real good so Momma won’t have a fit when she sees me. Sometimes she doesn’t say anything when I come home hurt—or when I used to come home hurt from my old school where I got beat up a bit—but I can tell that inside she’s having a fit. She turns away slow and tightens her lips into each other and that’s Momma’s way of being fit to be tied.

  * * *

  “You tell me who did this to you and I’ll take care of ’em,” Daddy said, his hands on his hips right where his belt looped carefully into his pants. “Go on, now. Tell your Daddy.”

  “I…cain’t…tell…you,” I said when I came up for air in between sobs, “they…said…not…to.”

  “They cowards, that’s why they said that,” he said. “Now, put these frozen peas on your eye and set yourself down here and tell me exactly what happened.”

  The cold bag felt good against my eye.

  “Leave her be,” Momma said from the kitchen. “She’ll be fine. How’s she ever gonna toughen up with you babying her all the time?”

  “Hush, now, Lib. Our girl’s got a shiner and I’m gonna take care a who gave it to her ’fit kills me. Now, go on, Butter Bean. Tell me.”

  He stroked the hair that’d got caught up in my tears and stuck to my cheeks. By the time I got home from school so much of it was stuck there it felt like my face was flattened in a web. Daddy knew just how to push it back to behind my ears, the way I liked it in the first beginning.

  “They started by calling me crazy girl, Scary Carrie,” I said to him, pressing the bag on and off my face since the cold hurt if I left it too long against my eye. “And then,” sniff, “and then they said after school they gonna knock some sense into me,” sniff, “and then when I came out the back door on my way to the bus I see ’em waitin’ for me.”

  “Who?” Daddy cooed to me like a turtledove does to its chicks. “Who’s waitin’ for you?”

  “Tommy,” sniff, “Bucksmith. And Floyd Cunningham. And I couldn’t see who else.”

  “Who threw the punch?”

  “I don’t know.” I was telling the truth since I was looking down to my scattered books when the fist came.

  “Why can’t you just leave it be?” Momma asked Daddy from the doorway, her lips all tight after her question.

  “I’m going over to the Cunninghams and then to the Bucksmiths and I’ll be back after that.” Daddy stood up, smoothing the wrinkles he got in his pants from sitting down next to me. “Don’t give me that look, Libby Culver. It’s a coward that hits a little girl.”

  When Daddy left the house it stayed quiet, so the only sound I heard was the rattling of the frozen peas when I’d readjust the bag over my swollen eye.

  Momma stayed in the kitchen and I stayed in the front room next to the imprint of Daddy in the cushions next to me on the couch.

  That night the smell of carpet got up close to my face and I felt Daddy kissing my forehead.

  “Ev’rything’s all right, Butter Bean,” he whispered, stroking my hair again like he did earlier. “And don’t think your Momma ain’t fit to be tied. She just got a diff’rent way of showing it than me.”

  * * *

  “Where you been all this time?” Momma asks me, inhaling on her cigarette and blowing smoke right into my face. “This in’t some diner you can come in an’ out of, orderin’ food whenever you please. Supper’s over. You better find something to put in your stomach ’fore you get at your homework. But don’t be expectin’ me to come wait on you hand and foot. You miss supper, you get something for yourself later on. I swear, Carrie Parker. You working on my last nerve.” The smoke lifted delicately up into the air. Two ribbons of it stay right above her head and for a second it looks like Momma h
as horns. Emma goes straight up to our room and I know why: sometimes, even if Momma’s already long done with a whipping, if she sees your face again it reminds her of how mad she was and she’ll start hollering all over again. Emma doesn’t want to take that chance and I cain’t see as I blame her.

  I love the color of the drink Momma’s sipping on, it’s cat’s-eye orange. When she gets to drinking on it, it’s a good idea to do as she says.

  “Go on,” she says, flicking her head toward the inside of the house.

  “Momma?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you like living here?”

  She takes another gulp of her drink and brings her cigarette up to her mouth but pauses for a hair of a second before she inhales smoke. She’s still looking out at the forest. Then she inhales and blows it out.

  “Some things aren’t a matter of like or hate,” she says, the wispy smoke floating away from her. “Some things are just a matter of fact. Nothing you can do to change the facts.”

  “We gonna live here forever?” I ask her.

  Her arm stops before it rests back on the arm of the unraveling wicker chair she’s settled in. I can see her head’s cocked to the side while she thinks about my question.

  “Libby!” Richard’s voice shatters the still air between us.

  She steps on her half-smoked cigarette and sets her drink down under the chair.

  “Go on and get at your homework,” she says, pushing past me into the house with the hole in the roof. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” her voice getting farther and farther from my ears.

  I look out in the direction she was staring in and I see that she’s nailed up the old wooden birdhouse Daddy made way back before I was born. I guess that answers my question.

  Sure enough, up in our room, Emma’s lying on her belly when I come in the door. She’s propped up on her elbows, drawing whatever picture is her homework tonight.