“I got it, Granny. Who’s Freida? She likely to be popping in here unannounced?”
“Freida’s my neighbor. She lives two doors down with her friend, Minnie Paxton, but they’re out of town right now. Hasn’t anyone ever said, but I think them two are sweet on each other. Anyway, we had us a rash of burglaries about four months back. That’s what they call them, a ‘rash,’ like somebody caught a disease. Two nice policemen come down to the neighborhood and told us about self-defense. Minnie learned to kick out real hard sideways, but Freida fell flat on her back when she tried it.”
Ray fixed me with a look, but I couldn’t read the contents. Probably simple despair at the banality of their exchange.
Gilbert laughed. “Jesus, I’d like to seen that. How old is this old bag?”
“Let’s see now. I believe Freida’s thirty-one. Minnie’s two years younger and she’s in much better shape. Freida cracked her tailbone and she got mad. Whoo! Said there had to be a better way to fight crime than tryin’ to kick some fella in the kneecap.”
Gilbert shook his head with skepticism. “I don’t know. Bust a guy’s kneecap, that can really hurt,” he said.
“Well, yes,” Helen said, “but first you’d have to get close enough to kick, which isn’t always easy. And then my balance is not that good.”
“Freida’s balance ain’t good, either, from what you said. So what’d she suggest?”
“She suggested she make us each a rack and bolt it onto the bottom of the table, where we could keep a loaded shotgun about like this.” Helen turned slightly sideways as she rose to her feet. She took a long step away from the table, pulling up a twelve-gauge side-by-side shotgun with twenty-six-inch barrels. She pinned the butt stock between her forearm and her side, letting the butt stock rest on her right hip for support. The four of us stared at her, riveted by the sight of a gun that unwieldy in the hands of someone who, a nanosecond before, seemed so harmless and out of it. The effect, unfortunately, was undercut by the realities of age. Because of her poor eyesight, she was aiming at the window frame instead of Gilbert, a fact not lost on him. He made a face, saying, “Whoa! You better put that gun away.”
“You better put that gun away before I blow you to kingdom come,” she said. She backed up against the wall, all business, except for the problem with her aim, which was considerable. The heavy flesh on her upper arms shook, and it was clear she could barely keep the barrel up, even if it was pointed in the wrong direction. I could feel my heart begin to thump. I expected Gilbert to shoot, but he didn’t seem to take her seriously.
“Gun’s pretty heavy. You sure you can keep it up there?”
“Briefly,” she said.
“What’s that weigh, six or seven pounds? Doesn’t sound like much until you have to hooolld it up for long.” He dragged out the word “hold,” making it sound exhausting. I got tired just hearing it, but Helen didn’t seem dismayed.
“I’m going to shoot you long before my arms get tired. I feel it’s only fair to warn you. The one barrel’s loaded with number nine birdshot. The other’s double-O buck, tear your face right off.”
Gilbert laughed again. He seemed genuinely tickled by the old woman’s attitude. “Jesus, Hell on. That’s not nice. What about your arthritis? I thought you had arthritis so bad.”
“I do. That’s right. Affecting all but the one finger. Watch this.” Helen shifted the gun to the left, drew a bead on him, and pulled the trigger. Ka-blam! I saw a few bright yellow sparks. The blast was deafening, filling the room. A shock wave of air and gas spread out from the muzzle, followed by a faint doughnut of smoke. The mass of bird-shot blew by his right ear, continuing on past him at an upward angle, shattering the kitchen window. Stray pellets tore his earlobe and the top of his shoulder and the spreading fingers of the trailing shot cup raked his neck, painting it with blood. Laura screamed and hit the floor. I was down before she was. Ray’s startled reaction tipped his chair over sideways. Gilbert screamed in pain and disbelief, his hands flying up. His handgun flew forward and skittered across the floor.
The muzzle jump had knocked Helen back against the wall, the butt stock slamming into her right hip as the barrels whipped upwards with the recoil. She recovered and lowered the gun again, prepared to fire. Gilbert’s right cheek was already peppered with red, like a sudden rash of acne, and blood was seeping into the hair above his right ear. The air smelled acrid, and I could suddenly taste something sweet at the back of my throat.
“This time I’ll blow your head off,” she said.
Gilbert made a savage sound in his throat as he reached down and grabbed Laura by the hair. He hauled her to her feet, pinning her against him while he leaned down and snagged the harness with the other hand.
From the floor, Ray craned his neck, straining to see what was going on. “Ma, don’t fire!”
“Pull the trigger and she’s dead. I’ll snap her neck,” Gilbert said. He was clearly in pain, breathing heavily, no longer armed but still out of control. He had his forearm locked up under Laura’s chin. She was forced to hang on to him, pulling down to keep from being strangled. Gilbert began backing out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Laura was stumbling backward, half lifted off her feet.
Helen hesitated, no doubt confused by the jumble of sounds and shapes.
Gilbert disappeared into the dining room, plowing backward through the piles of junk furniture. Laura was making a series of chuffing noises, unable to vocalize with her windpipe choked off. I could hear a crash and the sound of glass shattering as he kicked the front door open. Then silence.
I was torn between the desire to chase after Gilbert and the need to help Helen, who was trembling and deadly pale. She lowered the gun barrel and sank weakly into her chair. “What’s happening? Where’d he go?”
“He’s got Laura. Just be cool. Everything’s going to be fine,” Ray said. He was still on the floor, lying sideways in the chair, struggling to get free of his bonds. I scrambled over to him, trying to help him right himself, but with the awkwardness of the chair he was too much for me to lift. I grabbed a butcher knife off the counter and cut through the layers of duct tape that bound his hands and feet. With one hand liberated, Ray started tearing off the rest of the tape, his attention still focused on his mother. “Gimme a hand here,” he grunted at me.
“What’s he going to do to her?”
“Nothing ’til he gets the money. She’s his insurance.” I grabbed his hand and braced myself as he hauled himself up from the floor. He glanced at me briefly. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. Both of us turned our attention to Helen.
The shotgun was laid across her lap. I crossed to her, took the gun, and set it on the kitchen table. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands were shaking badly, her breathing shallow and ragged. Her hip was probably bruised where the gun stock had kicked into it. She’d used up all her reserves of energy, and I worried she’d go into shock. “I should have killed him. Poor Laura. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, but I should have.”
Ray reached for a chair and pulled it closer to his mother’s. He took her hand, patting it, his tone tender. “How you doing, Hell on Wheels?” he said.
“I’ll be fine in a bit. I just need to catch my breath,” she said. She patted at her chest, trying to compose herself. “I’m not as feeble-minded as I was acting.”
“I couldn’t figure out what you were doing,” he said. “I can’t believe you did that. You started talking to him, I thought it was all bullshit until you pulled out that shotgun. You were terrific. Absolutely fearless.”
Helen waved him off, but she seemed pleased with herself and tickled by his praise. “Just because you get old doesn’t mean you lose your nerve.”
“I thought you had trouble with your eyes,” I said. “How’d you know where he was?”
“He was standing up against the kitchen window, so I could make out his shape. I may be near blind, but my ears still work. He shouldn’t have talked so much. Freida’s got me into lifting weights now, and I can bench-press twenty-five pounds. Did you hear what he said? He thought I couldn’t even hold up a seven-pound shotgun. I was insulted. Stereotyping the old. That’s your typical macho horseshit,” she said. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I believe I’m about to get sick now. Oh, dear.”