by Paul Griner
• Opponents of gun control tend to point to other factors to explain America’s unusual levels of gun violence, particularly mental illness.
• But people with mental illnesses are more likely to be victims, not perpetrators, of violence. 78% of mass shooters were not mentally ill.
I sent the email off and laid out my work for the next day—a continuation of the campaign for Silver, a name for a new triple-cream cheese for Henry and Cora, six cold calls (my weekly quota) for new business—and had one beer while watching SportsCenter, then rolled into bed without looking at my phone. If May had responded, I didn’t really want to know.
Pistols kept me awake, GunBacker’s review of the best 9 mm: the CZ 75 B. Such lovely pluses: a low bore for reduced muzzle flip and more rapid fire; ease of control for greater accuracy; a full-metal frame to reduce recoil. I drifted off to sleep imagining one in my hand and woke an hour later to someone banging on a door. Not mine, and I began to nod off again, to remember I’d been dreaming of Kate.
Awake still, brain hazily engaged, I thought, Shoot her. Or yourself.
I sat up. No, I wouldn’t buy a gun, and I wouldn’t kill myself. Or Kate. But it was time to cause her serious pain. Find Kate indeed. I’d been lying to myself that I was over it. Somebody had to pay for something. Maybe May’s colleague Zhao could figure out some kind of algorithm to help me track her down.
Empty Barrel Birthday
MAY 7, 2019
Nash drove with her without speaking through the crowded rush-hour streets to get the gun, as if they were going to church. Some gun shop owners turned people away based on a gut feeling, which was both legal and smart. He doubted that would happen with May, but you never knew. She wouldn’t seem angry, that was unlike her, but nerves could show; almost everyone buying their first gun had them: a jittery hand, a breaking voice. He noticed, as he drove, one pink fingernail tapping a thigh. His presence would overcome any nerves; having a detective with her was the gold standard. He laughed at his own self-importance and she smiled.
May had done her research. A pistol, she said to the clerk, palms flat on top of the glass display case, not a revolver. Her name was Aubrey and as she began a disquisition about her fifteen best sellers, May interrupted her, A Glock 19, she said. Aubrey nodded and went to fetch one. Nash gave a low whistle of appreciation.
I wouldn’t have taken you for a sexist, May said.
What? No. He felt his face getting hot. That’s not what I meant.
That I’m a woman and know guns?
No, that you’re a civilian and know guns.
I’m a citizen, Nash. We’re not at war. And I’ve been around guns most of my life. Yours is a Glock 19 too, for example. Not a wonder nine, but a great one.
Things I didn’t know, he said. Your dad always had them? Then, seeing her look, he added, Or your mom?
My father was a cop.
He must be proud of you. An engineer.
She nodded. He was.
Oh, sorry, Nash said. He was still getting to know her and she was parsimonious with personal information. Private, he would have said, not secretive. It surprised and touched him that she’d asked him to go with her, but what did it mean that buying a gun was a kind of date? A recent passing? he asked.
Years ago, she said. Suicide. And yes, by gun.
Sweat prickled his armpits and groin and he studied her face. May, he said. Should we talk about this?
It’s okay, she said. I’m not buying the gun to do myself in. Mental illness, she said, and touched his wrist. It’s a terrible thing, but not what his life should be judged by. I’m not depressed like he was. Mine has to do with my son being shot, his was long-standing and formless, and I’m not buying the gun because of depression. I’m buying it because of the hoaxers. If they come to my house, I’ll be ready.
The clerk returned. May handled the gun as she extolled its virtues, its compact size and light weight, its minimal recoil and consistent trigger pull, its best-sellerdom, which meant that May could buy ammunition for it almost anywhere. Accurate and extremely reliable, she added, and because it’s popular, upgrades are common. This, for example, she said, and demonstrated the back straps, which allowed for a customized grip. Nash watched May’s concentration approvingly.
Aubrey had paperwork and a few questions and a distracting mole on one eyelid. May showed her license and a recent utility bill; Aubrey bent her head to check that the address was the same on both. The hair around her part was thinning, which surprised May. Such a young woman.
She gave May federal form 4473 to fill out and went off to file the state background check. May made her way down the list, answering No every time.
• Are you under indictment or information in any court for a felony?
• Have you ever been convicted in any court of a felony?
• Are you a fugitive from justice?
• Are you an unlawful user of, or addicted to, marijuana or any depressant, stimulant, narcotic drug, or any other controlled substance?
• Have you ever been adjudicated mentally defective or committed to a mental institution?
• Have you been discharged from the Armed Forces dishonorably?
• Are you subject to a court order restraining you from harassing, stalking, or threatening your child or an intimate partner or child of such partner?
• Have you ever been convicted of a misdemeanor crime of domestic violence?
• Have you ever renounced your United States citizenship?
• Are you an alien illegally in the United States?
All of May’s answers were pointlessly truthful. Some could be checked online, but if you wanted a gun, what would stop you from lying about being an illegal alien or addicted to drugs? She shook her head.
Aubrey came back. She wore her Glock in an OWB holster on her left hip; years ago May and Otto and Liam had been at lunch and seen a woman wearing one just like it. Otto had said it made him nervous. Not me, May had said. It’s the concealed ones that concern me.
You passed the state check, Aubrey said and tucked her hair behind her ear.
The domestic violence case was taken care of out of court, May said, joking. From Aubrey’s face she saw it was a mistake.
A joke, Nash said and put his hand on hers. Dumb one, but a joke.
Aubrey nodded as May blushed. Do you have IWB holsters for this too? she asked, to shift attention, and left her hand under Nash’s. She liked its warmth.
Several models. I’ll bring a few after I run the federal check.
How long will that take?
Thirty seconds, Nash said, and lifted his hand and Aubrey nodded again.
She had other paperwork for May, but there was no waiting period, and she didn’t need to be fingerprinted, which surprised May. She had the odd thought that she could commit a crime with the gun and if she filed off the serial number no one would ever be able to connect it to her. The thrill of the dark side. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt it, or if she ever had. Well, people changed.
What about a gun safety course? she asked Aubrey.
Not a requirement, but this flyer lists ones we recommend. They’ll give you all of the information you need, and the asterisked ones have you fire and clean the gun. Good things to practice.
The last thing to buy was a locked carrying case. May had no real preference, so she opted for the least expensive hard-shelled one that had dense, Glock-specific foam, wondering as she did if it was a mental illness to want to kill someone.
While Aubrey rang up the purchases and May fitted the gun into the case Nash leaned toward her. One thing. Maybe your dad told you this, maybe not. Laws have become trickier over time. If you ever use the gun? Empty the clip. If you don’t, judges and juries might think you didn’t really fear for your life. Empty proves your fear.
Empty it is, then, May said. Every time. The thought made her shiver and she wondered: Fear or anticipation?
Letters
Why d
oes the Social Security Death Index not list a single “victim” of the school shooting, and why do FBI crime statistics for that day, month, and year not list a single person murdered in your hometown?
Your story was pretty good, but if you lie, eventually you’re found out. You didn’t cover all the bases!
And the most delicious thing is that the FBI, which is part of the deep-state cover up, is the one that fucked up this time. Good thing they’re not really competent, or we’d all be in trouble.
Liam at Five
May, with little patience, snapped at Liam for denting the front of our new dishwasher with his tricycle. He’d been riding it around the first floor because the temperature outside hadn’t gone above ten degrees for a week. The sun was a crust in the sky, a distant memory, and he needed to move.
How could you think slamming into the dishwasher was a good idea?
He stood beside the wounded appliance, looking at the mark his handlebars had made. At last he turned to her.
You know what, May? It’s not easy being a kid. It would be a lot easier if you came out as a big person, knowing all this stuff already.
This is how you learn it, she said, and took away his tricycle. Growing up means learning from decisions.
Nice, May, I said, when he walked away with his lip trembling. Maybe we should go with the less-brutal parenting option.
Not brutal, she said. Just realistic.
What was she being realistic about now? She hadn’t written me back or said a thing about the painting I’d left as a gift.
River of January
MAY 12, 2019
Torso forward, Nash said, and pressed a penny to May’s collarbone, once she had the stance down. He let it go and it dropped to the floor. Perfect, he said, kneeling to pick it up. It flashed in the light when he held it up to her.
Just remember that and you’ll be fine. The natural tendency for beginning shooters is to hold their arms out front and their body back, to stay as far away from the gun as possible, but that leads to poor control.
His touch lingered through her blouse, like a burn. She wanted him to unbutton her blouse, kiss her nape, make her shiver. For the first time in a couple of years, she had put on a bit of blush.
Pocket that, he said, of the penny, as a reminder. Bring it with you every time you go to the range, it’ll help you go through your checklist.
He packed for the range. Interior and exterior hearing protection for them both, safety glasses, the gun case. He’d chosen orange earmuffs for her, a color she hated, but for now she decided not to say so. Finally, he picked up the gun he’d taken the clip from. Three times, he’d walked her through the drill: insert clip, chamber bullet, empty clip, unload the single bullet. After she’d done it the third time, he’d done it once more. To be certain, he said. It was his gun and he was always responsible for it, even if she used it. The action was open now, the chamber empty. That’s how you always transport it, he said. He held it up and asked, Is this unloaded?
Yes.
He laughed and said, No. Remember, a gun is always loaded. That’s the only way to think of it. Always loaded, always ready to save you, always possibly lethal.
May liked that he was a patient teacher. You must be a good father, she said.
He laughed again. I try, but my boys might have a different opinion.
Oh, sure, she said. They always do, growing up. Ask when they’re in their twenties, though. It’ll be different then.
She touched the urn with Liam’s ashes on her way out.
She’d been to the industrial park a few times, mostly to pick up packages from the UPS store, once or twice with Liam to go indoor rock climbing. Another boy’s birthday party, once on their own. He didn’t much like it, but while she’d never been an athlete, she’d enjoyed the climbing and had meant to return; she wondered now why she hadn’t. Inside, the shooting range looked like a cross between the waiting room at a large doctor’s office and a bowling alley lounge, minus the beer signs. A right-angle bar with tall stools, a couple of seating areas with shooting magazines, large-screen TVs. The lack of beer signs was one tell, the sound-safe viewing area to watch the shooters another, the oversized Range Rules sign a third. And the gun shop. But still.
Because Nash was a member, she got a reduced rate on the ammo and targets. The boy behind the counter buzzed back and forth in his wheelchair. He had the tiniest hands; congenital, she guessed. He seemed barely old enough to drive, but he was comfortable walking her through the steps and had the most beautiful hair. She smiled as he handed her the paperwork she had to sign, and again when he helped her choose the ammo and the targets. The pink ones were all men.
Do you have any female silhouettes? May asked.
He did, and steered his wheelchair to the back room and came back with three. Blue, for some reason.
Even with the double hearing protection, the noise shocked her, and the recoil hurt her hand, but after Nash repositioned her supplemental hand, reminding her to press it firmly on the grip, it felt better. And she shot better when she mastered squaring up her sights. She was glad he’d had her dry fire it at her house; it would have been harder to learn the gun’s nuances while actually shooting it.
She fired the entire clip at the first target, the paper shredding and dancing.
You can pause between shots, Nash said, when she was done.
Don’t you remember what you taught me? His blank face meant she needed to remind him. Empty the entire clip, every time.
Oh, yes. Of course. But that’s only if you’re shooting at a person.
I was, she said.
He said, Finger off the trigger, and she flushed, embarrassed. He’d reminded her on the drive over, to prepare her, and she disliked making mistakes. Otto and Liam always said she was like a cat.
You did really well, Nash said right after. She wasn’t sure if the praise was genuine or if he’d picked up on her quirks. Both, maybe.
Hard not to, she said. It’s only five yards away.
When my dad first took me, Nash said, he put the target only three yards away. You want first-time shooters to enjoy themselves. Even so, I didn’t do nearly as well as you.
Ha. Faulty memory, she said. Time does that.
Nope, he said. I have it at home still.
Your first target?
Yep. I’ll show you sometime. You’ll see.
———
On the ride home, she was mostly quiet, and he didn’t try to get her to talk. She’d told him she enjoyed it and that was enough for him. She liked that about him, his security.
As they passed one fast-food place after another and a hotel—Why was there a Marriot in the middle of all these small factories, she wondered–she stretched her fingers to relieve the surprising soreness and went over the list he’d first impressed upon her:
• A gun is always loaded, so treat it as such.
• Keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot.
• Be sure of your target and what’s behind it.
• Never point the weapon at anything you’re not willing to destroy.
She lingered on that last one.
Home Alone
MAY 14, 2019
The apartment over Otto’s Auto had a landline, leftover from a previous tenant; Otto had asked that I keep it. I hadn’t given the number to anyone and it rarely rang and when it did most of the calls were marketers, though a few were for previous tenants. I always took down their forlorn messages.
One morning at three a.m. it rang, and a woman’s voice asked, Are you home alone now? Is your door locked?
I checked that it was and looked out at the rain sheeting down so hard it blurred the streetlights and went back to bed and it rang again.
You’re not alone. God is watching you. He’s always watching you.
I disconnected it and was woken at five by a knock on the door but whoever it was was gone by the time I answered. The rain had stopped, the wind picked up, the old building cr
eaked as it blew. They’d left a red Nike shoebox wrapped in a purple ribbon on the welcome mat, and a Valentine’s card taped to the door. No trace of perfume, so I guessed it wasn’t Palmer. The downstairs door opened and shut. I wasn’t quick enough down the sloping hallway to the front windows to see them, but when I turned on the outside light, it was as if I’d turned on a hundred of them, it was reflected in so many puddles.
No way I’d get back to sleep, so I made coffee and opened the damp envelope while waiting for it to brew. Not a valentine, it turned out, but a mental health checklist.
Bipolar disorder, Anxiety, Depression, MPD, ADHD, Psychosis, Eating disorder, Mood disorder, Dissociative identity disorder, Somatic symptom disorder, Substance abuse disorder, Intellectual disability, Asperger’s syndrome, Autism, Paranoia, Delusional disorder, Body dysmorphic disorder, Hypochondriasis and Disorganized schizophrenia.
Which do you have? Check any or all. And below that, Do You Not See That GOD Has Afflicted You?
Fenchwood or his followers, I guessed, payback for having appeared at his church. You fucked with the wrong Fenchwood! Inside the box was a tiny coffin with a hinged lid that, when opened, revealed a picture of Liam’s face.
For a while I sat on the sagging couch and tried to control my breathing. I could move again, but I didn’t want to, and I didn’t feel I should have to, though two groups were after me now, Kate’s followers and Fenchwoods, and I sensed I was running out of time. I wanted to get at least one of them, before one or the other got me. My hands shook with fear, with desperation and desire, with the hope that I was the only one. Not May, please. Not her.
But knowing them, she was probably a target too. I pushed the coffee table over with my foot and spent a long time on my knees cleaning up the mess.
Interim 7
Number of school shootings since:
148
Number of school children killed:
257