me and
poked his sniffy head into the box that held the gun. I herded him away with the lid so I could close both boxes up tight
and slide them back into their places.
I slid the Stephen King book behind all the boxes, resting on its spine with the cover pressed flat to the back wall. I got
up and closed the closet door. Phil ran ahead of me down the hallway back to the kitchen, anxious and yelling. I took a minute
to fill his bowl up—it was that or get Pawpy’s gun back out and shoot him—and at that thought my hands shook, scattering pellets
that Phil hoovered up immediately. I wondered where Gretel was. If Gretel was.
I couldn’t walk across the yard and home and find out, though. Not while I stank of shooting and flop sweat and green woods.
The truth was all over my skin.
I went to Mrs. Fancy’s green-tiled guest bathroom and borrowed a washcloth. I didn’t have time for a shower, and damp hair
would be suspicious in its own way, so I took a whore’s bath in the sink. I washed the gun smell off my hands with Mrs. Fancy’s
apple-scented soap and then swabbed out under my arms and between my legs. The mirror told me I still looked like sweaty hell,
but that was a good thing. That could work for me. I threw the wet washcloth into the hamper and headed back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Fancy kept all her poisonous Comet and Pine-Sol in easy reach under the kitchen sink, like me. Neither one of us had
babies to worry about. I opened the cabinet and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: Lemon Pledge. I sprayed a fine
mist of it into the air like it was perfume and walked through. I grabbed the 409 and sprayed a jet directly on my hands and
wiped them through my hair, hiding the smell of shooting as if it were a lover’s musk.
I started to put the 409 back, but then I changed my mind and started pulling out all Mrs. Fancy’s cleaning supplies. I stood
themup in a scattered line on the counter and then got her vacuum out of the hall closet and left it in the middle of the living
room for good measure. Set dressing, in case Thom came over to check my story.
Time to go home. My heart started banging against my ribs like it was fighting to get out. I paused to take deep breaths,
ten of them, until I felt quieter inside. I set my face to its familiar sweet expression and walked out the front door, my
steps steady and unhurried.
Our aqua house glowed, fiercely cheerful, bouncing the morning sun at me hard. The low roof was mostly flat, but there was
a sloping point that rose up over the front door. It struck me that it looked like our house was wearing a jaunty hat several
sizes too small for it. It was silly looking, and the mint-fresh color made it sillier. It didn’t look like a house that would
have a wolf inside. Today, it held at least two.
Still, this was probably the first time in my marriage that I’d ever been pleased to have Thom’s parents over, especially
his daddy. Joe had no trouble wrestling his boots off and thumping his bare feet up on our coffee table like he owned the
place. In a way he did; the Grandees gave us nine thousand dollars for the down payment. It was a gift, not a loan, Joe said.
Out loud, he said it. Frequently. In public. By now he had to have been repaid twice over out of Thom’s considerable store
of banked pride. I didn’t think of it as a gift so much as another way to keep Thom feeling indebted. If Joe paid his eldest
son what he was worth for running all three Grand Guns stores, we’d have been able to afford our own damn down payment, and
on a house two steps up from Chez Crest.
But today, I was glad to think of Joe Grandee filling up the house like packing peanuts, pouring into every bit of open space.
There would be no room to breathe, but on the upside, Thom and I would be suspended and separated. He could not crash into
me.
I opened my front door. Just inside was a tiny square room with parquet flooring, a
poked his sniffy head into the box that held the gun. I herded him away with the lid so I could close both boxes up tight
and slide them back into their places.
I slid the Stephen King book behind all the boxes, resting on its spine with the cover pressed flat to the back wall. I got
up and closed the closet door. Phil ran ahead of me down the hallway back to the kitchen, anxious and yelling. I took a minute
to fill his bowl up—it was that or get Pawpy’s gun back out and shoot him—and at that thought my hands shook, scattering pellets
that Phil hoovered up immediately. I wondered where Gretel was. If Gretel was.
I couldn’t walk across the yard and home and find out, though. Not while I stank of shooting and flop sweat and green woods.
The truth was all over my skin.
I went to Mrs. Fancy’s green-tiled guest bathroom and borrowed a washcloth. I didn’t have time for a shower, and damp hair
would be suspicious in its own way, so I took a whore’s bath in the sink. I washed the gun smell off my hands with Mrs. Fancy’s
apple-scented soap and then swabbed out under my arms and between my legs. The mirror told me I still looked like sweaty hell,
but that was a good thing. That could work for me. I threw the wet washcloth into the hamper and headed back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Fancy kept all her poisonous Comet and Pine-Sol in easy reach under the kitchen sink, like me. Neither one of us had
babies to worry about. I opened the cabinet and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: Lemon Pledge. I sprayed a fine
mist of it into the air like it was perfume and walked through. I grabbed the 409 and sprayed a jet directly on my hands and
wiped them through my hair, hiding the smell of shooting as if it were a lover’s musk.
I started to put the 409 back, but then I changed my mind and started pulling out all Mrs. Fancy’s cleaning supplies. I stood
themup in a scattered line on the counter and then got her vacuum out of the hall closet and left it in the middle of the living
room for good measure. Set dressing, in case Thom came over to check my story.
Time to go home. My heart started banging against my ribs like it was fighting to get out. I paused to take deep breaths,
ten of them, until I felt quieter inside. I set my face to its familiar sweet expression and walked out the front door, my
steps steady and unhurried.
Our aqua house glowed, fiercely cheerful, bouncing the morning sun at me hard. The low roof was mostly flat, but there was
a sloping point that rose up over the front door. It struck me that it looked like our house was wearing a jaunty hat several
sizes too small for it. It was silly looking, and the mint-fresh color made it sillier. It didn’t look like a house that would
have a wolf inside. Today, it held at least two.
Still, this was probably the first time in my marriage that I’d ever been pleased to have Thom’s parents over, especially
his daddy. Joe had no trouble wrestling his boots off and thumping his bare feet up on our coffee table like he owned the
place. In a way he did; the Grandees gave us nine thousand dollars for the down payment. It was a gift, not a loan, Joe said.
Out loud, he said it. Frequently. In public. By now he had to have been repaid twice over out of Thom’s considerable store
of banked pride. I didn’t think of it as a gift so much as another way to keep Thom feeling indebted. If Joe paid his eldest
son what he was worth for running all three Grand Guns stores, we’d have been able to afford our own damn down payment, and
on a house two steps up from Chez Crest.
But today, I was glad to think of Joe Grandee filling up the house like packing peanuts, pouring into every bit of open space.
There would be no room to breathe, but on the upside, Thom and I would be suspended and separated. He could not crash into
me.
I opened my front door. Just inside was a tiny square room with parquet flooring, a
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