Chapter 13
“Itold you, you don’t have to cook for me all the time, Stella.”
I inhale the heavenly scent of pancakes and my mouth waters. She’s been at it for twenty minutes, which is just too long for breakfast. But she smiles sweetly and says, “You got up early and cleaned up the glass and blood. You get pancakes. No arguing.”
“No arguing, I promise.” I smile and wrap my arms around her from behind, as she cooks. I kiss the nape of her neck and smell her sweet scent. Then I give her a little nibble there.
“Mm, stop,” she fusses and shimmies in my grasp. “I’ll burn the pancakes.”
“Fine, fine, no one wants that.” I pour some coffee for us both, and soon, the pancakes are done. “Good thing I already fed the dogs, or we wouldn’t get any.”
She asks, “You give Max pancakes?”
“Well, sure. He deserves something good, too.”
“You’re right. They both deserve something good for last night,” Stella says. Then she makes them each a plate and sets it on the floor, which they gobble down before she comes to the table. “You know something? A dog’s life sounds really nice right about now.”
I nod, “Sleep all day, someone else feeds you. Massages whenever you get near someone—"
“You like massages?” she appears surprised.
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
Stella shrugs, “Seems sorta girlie.”
“Not at all. I get deep tissue massages, sports massages, whatever they have that’ll work through this old body. And after five weeks in the jungle, nothing makes you feel like a human again, like two massage therapists tearing into your hide at the same time.”
“That a sex euphemism?”
I laugh. “Not at all. In fact, after this whole mess is settled, I think we could both use a week at a spa. Massages, manicures, facials, the whole nine.”
Her head tips backward and she groans, “Oh my god, I haven’t been to a spa in over three years. That sounds wonderful.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do soon.”
But right now we’ve got other things to take care of. First eating. Then practice. Stella’s pancakes are to die for, making them a great reward for cleaning up a little blood and glass.
After we get dressed, I set up a redneck range on her fence.
Old soda cans provide us something to aim at.
The shiny red cans stand out from the snow—covered fence.
I set the shotgun up on her shoulder and show her the proper way to hold it.
“…just like this. Aim. Take a breath. And when you let it out, squeeze the trigger.”
“Aim.” She takes a deep breath. “Breathe.” Another deep breath. “Pull—"
“No,” I interrupt her.
“But you said—"
“I said to squeeze the trigger. Not pull. If you pull, you wreck your aim. It doesn’t take much force to move the trigger. The squeeze should come from the fine muscles in the hand.”
“Wait, don’t I need to cock it or something?” she frowns.
I shake my head. “This isn’t that kind of shotgun. The cartridge is already in the chamber. If you pump it, like you see in movies, then that just dumps the cartridge, which actually just wastes ammo. No point in that.”
“Oh.” Stella aims again, then mumbles, “Breathe, let it out, and squeeze, don’t pull…” She shoots and hits the fence. “Damn.”
“Not bad. Try again.” We get her sporadically hitting the cans after a while. I tell her, “Let me give it a shot. Your aim and your form are good, so I can’t figure out why you’re not hitting anything consistently.”
But then a mint green antique Ford truck pulls up next to Hanson’s rusty old Suburban. Mrs. Black rolls the window down and asks, “What’re y’all doing?”
“Stella needs to learn how to shoot.”
Mrs. Black’s faintly crinkled face smiles at her and says, “Then I’m just in time.” She parks and gets out.
“I’m so sorry for all the noise, Mrs. Black,” Stella says. “I promise we won’t be at it for long.”
“You will be, shooting with Hanson’s cheap shotguns. Come ‘ere.” We join her at the truck and Mrs. Black unlatches the bed. I keep my cool on the outside, but just barely. In the back of little old Mrs. Black’s pickup cargo bed is a well—stocked arsenal, and I am envious.
“What in the hell?” I mumble.
“Stella, Mr. Hanson’s shotguns are antiques that haven’t been serviced in decades, and they’ve always shot a little funny,” Mrs. Black says, “Since I know you’re here to take care of Mr. Hanson’s property, and he’s been a wonderful neighbor over the years, that makes you family, as far as I’m concerned.
Now, you see here, there’s handguns, some decent shotguns, my favorite little sawed—off but don’t tell anyone, because they’re not all that legal, depending on who is in office.
There’s my rifle, Beulah, you can practice with her, but you don’t get to keep her. But aside from her, take your pick.”
Stella half—smiles. “Are you serious?”
Mrs. Black nods. “And even if all that weren’t the case, us single gals gotta look out for each other. Hanson was the only person I know who knew how to use his shotguns with all their quirks. I know he always aimed down and to the left of his targets, but even I couldn’t get my aim with them.”
I ask, “What do you mean, even you couldn’t do it?”
She laughs, then asks, “You remember the pictures you saw on the wall in my house? The ones that look to be from the Old West?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“They aren’t old photos—"
“I figured they’re from one of those special photo booths.”
She shakes her head and says, “Nope. They are me, from when I was a young woman at my old job in the Big Pickle Circus. I was part of their Wild West show, and my thing,” she aims a pistol at the cans and hits each one, “was sharpshooting and trick riding, basically, whatever else they needed to sell they show.”
We clap, and she does a little bow. I ask, “How did you get involved in all that?”
“How does anyone get involved in anything?” she shrugs.
Stella’s face darkens, and she says, “Sometimes you start something, and you don’t know where it’ll end up.”
Mrs. Black says, “Exactly. In the sixties, when I came to the U.S., I went straight to California. Spent time all over the state and found the Big Pickle Circus by dating one of the cowboys from the Wild West show.”
“When you came over from where?” Stella asks.
“You can’t go tellin’ no one,” Mrs. Black warns.
“We never would,” I swear.
She half—smirks and says, “Ireland.”
I frown at Stella, who is equally confused. “But you sound like a Southern girl. An American Southern girl. Why not just be from Ireland?”
“When I joined the show,” her Irish accent heavy and endearing as she speaks, “we all had to do the Western film accent, which is not that different from a Southern accent. So, when I travelled around for the show, I used my Western film accent. Between shows, I had to choose either sounding American or sounding Irish, and well, when people heard my Irish accent, they acted like I was a freaking leprechaun and said they couldn’t understand me.
” Her drawl is back when she says, “Same thing happened my first day in Floyd, so I’ve been a Southern belle ever since. Just easier that way.”
Stella giggles, “Mrs. Black, might I try that pistol?”
“Of course, Dearie,” she passes it over.
The afternoon becomes a chance to show off, using Mrs. Black’s arsenal.
We all take turns, and the ladies clap when I shoot each can.
When it’s Stella’s chance, she gets closer with each shot, until she finally hits a can with a handgun.
She squeals, “Woo!” Then she takes my face in her hands and kisses me.
Mrs. Black teases, “Why is he the one getting a kiss? You’re the one who improved.”
“Exactly. He’s my reward.” She grins up at me and I can feel it in my bones.
—
By the end of our practice, Stella selects a Sig Sauer p220. “It just feels right in my hand. Is that weird?”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Black assures her with a pat to the back of her hand. “All my guns feel right to me, but Beulah feels right to my soul. Sometimes, a lady bonds with her guns. You keep practicing with your Sig, and you’ll get as good as me.”
Stella shakes her head, “I don’t think so. You outshot Jordan.”
I laugh. “And I think Mrs. Black has been going easy on me.”
The old woman giggles and says, “Well. Maybe a little.”
We bid her a fond farewell, then head on inside.
It’s been a long day, and we’re both spent.
I pour us two bourbons, then we take a seat on the couch.
I pull her closer to me and she leans onto my chest. Even after all the time outside, she still smells like birthday cake and jasmine.
I breathe her in, then kiss the top of her head. “So, what do you think of shooting?”
“It’s hard. Exhilarating. And it takes way more skill than I ever thought. I’ve been rethinking every action movie I have ever seen, because oh my shit, they’re just chock full of lies, aren’t they?”
I laugh. “Yeah, they are. Same story about fighting, by the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“In most shows, the hand-to-hand combat is hogwash. The fights are choreographed for ease of camera work, not for effective combat. So, when you see a fight, it’s usually a punch is thrown, then the actors reset, the next blow is thrown, then the actors reset, and so on.
Unfortunately, a lot of guys get into the Marines, thinking that watching kung fu movies is enough training for hand—"to—hand. It’s kinda funny now, but back then, it was detrimental. ”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I know you need to get back to your life, Jordan. Doing everything you do normally, so I hate to ask—"
“Don’t ever hate to ask anything of me, Stella.”
She holds her breath before she asks, “Would you train me to fight? I mean, maybe like an hour a day or something? I don’t want to interrupt your usual routine, but I think it might be useful for me to know how to defend myself.”
“That sounds like a smart idea.”
“Are you sure? You don’t think it sounds stupid?”
“No, I think you should know how to handle yourself, if the need arises. In fact, I’d be a lot more comfortable about leaving your side, if you know how to defend yourself.”
Stella nervously says, “Leaving my side?”
“To go to work.”
“Oh. I see.”
I ask, “Is that okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because you tensed up like a bobcat in a tree being chased by a large man.”
She looks up and says, “That’s oddly specific.”
“Why did you tense up?”
She sighs, “I don’t want to say it. It’s selfish.”
“You don’t want me to go to work, because you’ll be alone, I get that.”
“I don’t—"
“It’s okay, Stella. And if you want, I can take a leave of absence.”
“I can’t ask that.” She shakes her head. Her voice sounds different now. “Let’s talk about something else, okay?”
“Whatever you want.”
She cuddles up onto me again. “Do you ever think about the future?”
“Sure. Like next week is Michael’s birthday. I work with him at the firehouse. He’s a good guy, you’d like him. I still need to figure out what to get him.”
“I mean, the future, like years from now. You ever think about that?”
“Not usually,” I admit. “In the Marines, I got in the habit of staying focused on the moment and what might happen in the very next moment. My work, not that I can get into too much detail, was usually about taking care of temporarily bad situations. I didn’t have much of a chance to think about the long game.
Now that I’m out, I still haven’t had much practice on the matter. ”
“Well,” she glances out the window, “what would you like for supper. I have—"
“Let me take you out.”
“No need for that.”
I need to breach the topic. I don’t want to, because she’s been cagey about it. But I need to know what’s up with her. “Stella, we’ve known each other for a little while, and we haven’t gone anywhere together. Seems strange.”
She quietly says, “That’s because going out is a risk for me and for anyone else who might be there.
I go to the grocery store once a week at most, I go for a run here and there, but that’s it.
I keep to myself, because it keeps everyone out of harm’s way.
What would happen if I go to a restaurant, halfway through a pile of corned beef hash, when one of Riker’s men shows up?
That’s why I stopped going to the diner.
What if they’re not as shy as the guys who broke in here? What if they’re worse?”
“Danger is everywhere, Stella. You can’t let it run your life.”
“Says the man whose feet are bandaged up because he ran through glass to attack the men who came to kidnap me.”
I chuckle. “Point taken, but that’s also exactly why you should try to have a life. You don’t know when it could be your last day. None of us do. So, you have to enjoy yourself while you can.”
“I do,” she smiles up at me. “And part of my enjoyment comes from knowing I’m not endangering anyone else.
You, you lunatic, you’re here by choice, so that’s fine, but I can’t put other people at risk.
Innocent bystanders who have nothing to do with any of this.
Not people who don’t have a choice in the matter.
It wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to someone because I had a hankering for corned beef hash. ”
“I have an idea. How about I run into town and pick up supper? We’ll leave our cell phones on, so we’re in constant contact, and now that you’ve got your Sig, you can practice on anyone who comes by that you don’t know.”
She clutches her stomach. “I don’t know that I could actually shoot a person. I mean, I’d like to believe I could save myself, but the idea of actually doing it…that’s a lot.”
I sigh. “Then, would you like to ride in the car with me?”
“No. You’re not going to be here all the time. I need to deal with that. And the corned beef hash sounds like heaven right now.”