drawer and inside were some golf tees and a small worn Bible with a green bookmark in it. The drawer smelled like talcum powder. Two silver knives like the one he had given me, with BURMA-1943 engraved on them, were also in the drawer. And there was a gun, a small automatic with a short barrel and a black plastic handle. I had picked up guns before. My father kept one in the same place Warren Miller did. This one was a small calibre–a .32 or even less than that, something to scare people with or wound them but not necessarily kill them. I picked it up and it was heavier than I thought it would be, and seemed more dangerous than I’d thought at first. I took a good grip, put my finger around the trigger, pointed thegun at the closet door, and made a soft little popping sound with my lips. I thought about shooting someone, following them, aiming, holding my arm and hand steady, then pulling the trigger. I had no one in mind to shoot. Shooting someone was a thing I was sure I’d never do. There
were
those things, after all. And it was all right to know about them long before you had the opportunity or the desire.
I turned to put the gun back in the drawer, but I saw that there was a white handkerchief that had been lying underneath it. The handkerchief had the same initials that were on the brush–WBM–stitched on the corner in blue letters. And for some reason I pressed my hand on the handkerchief, which was folded into a square. And I felt something inside or underneath it. I turned the handkerchief back so I could see what I’d felt, and there was one prophylactic rubber in a red and gold tinfoil envelope. I had seen one before. In fact, I’d seen them plenty of times, though I had never used one. Boys at the school I’d gone to in Lewiston had them and showed them off. No one I knew in school in Great Falls had shown me one, though the boys talked about fucking girls there, and I believed they had them and knew about them. I had never known my father to have any, although I had thought about his having them, and had even looked for them in his drawers. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d found them, because what I thought about the subject was that it was his business, his and my mother’s. I wasn’t innocent about life, about what people did with each other when they were alone. I knew they did what they pleased.
It did not surprise me that Warren Miller had a rubber, though I could not think about him using it. When I tried I could only picture him sitting on the side of the bed where I was, wearing his underwear, holding the edge of the mattress, wearing socks and staring at nothing but the floor. A woman was not involved. But I thought it was his right to have a rubber if he wanted it. I picked it up off the whitehandkerchief. Murphy was the name of the company that made it, in Akron, Ohio. I squeezed the envelope between my fingers, felt the outline of it inside. I smelled it, and it smelled starchy from the handkerchief. I thought about the possibility of opening it. But I had nothing whatsoever that I could do with it.
I laid it back between the folds of the handkerchief and put the gun back on top. Though as I did that I thought about Warren’s wife, Marie LaRose or whatever her name was, and that she had gone out of this house, this very room, and didn’t intend to come back. And that Warren was alone here, with that to remember and think about. I closed the drawer, then walked back out to where Warren Miller and my mother were, where the music had stopped.
My mother was sitting on the piano bench, her legs pushed out in front of her. Her green shoes weren’t off, but her green dress was up above her knees and she was fanning herself with a sheet of music off the piano. She smiled at me as if she’d expected to see me come out of the room at that very moment. Warren Miller was sitting at the dinner table, where all the dishes and plates were. He was smoking his cigar again.
‘Did you
were
those things, after all. And it was all right to know about them long before you had the opportunity or the desire.
I turned to put the gun back in the drawer, but I saw that there was a white handkerchief that had been lying underneath it. The handkerchief had the same initials that were on the brush–WBM–stitched on the corner in blue letters. And for some reason I pressed my hand on the handkerchief, which was folded into a square. And I felt something inside or underneath it. I turned the handkerchief back so I could see what I’d felt, and there was one prophylactic rubber in a red and gold tinfoil envelope. I had seen one before. In fact, I’d seen them plenty of times, though I had never used one. Boys at the school I’d gone to in Lewiston had them and showed them off. No one I knew in school in Great Falls had shown me one, though the boys talked about fucking girls there, and I believed they had them and knew about them. I had never known my father to have any, although I had thought about his having them, and had even looked for them in his drawers. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d found them, because what I thought about the subject was that it was his business, his and my mother’s. I wasn’t innocent about life, about what people did with each other when they were alone. I knew they did what they pleased.
It did not surprise me that Warren Miller had a rubber, though I could not think about him using it. When I tried I could only picture him sitting on the side of the bed where I was, wearing his underwear, holding the edge of the mattress, wearing socks and staring at nothing but the floor. A woman was not involved. But I thought it was his right to have a rubber if he wanted it. I picked it up off the whitehandkerchief. Murphy was the name of the company that made it, in Akron, Ohio. I squeezed the envelope between my fingers, felt the outline of it inside. I smelled it, and it smelled starchy from the handkerchief. I thought about the possibility of opening it. But I had nothing whatsoever that I could do with it.
I laid it back between the folds of the handkerchief and put the gun back on top. Though as I did that I thought about Warren’s wife, Marie LaRose or whatever her name was, and that she had gone out of this house, this very room, and didn’t intend to come back. And that Warren was alone here, with that to remember and think about. I closed the drawer, then walked back out to where Warren Miller and my mother were, where the music had stopped.
My mother was sitting on the piano bench, her legs pushed out in front of her. Her green shoes weren’t off, but her green dress was up above her knees and she was fanning herself with a sheet of music off the piano. She smiled at me as if she’d expected to see me come out of the room at that very moment. Warren Miller was sitting at the dinner table, where all the dishes and plates were. He was smoking his cigar again.
‘Did you
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