Wire Mesh Mothers by Elizabeth Massie

eyes as bright and wide as new wheel covers. He swore something unintelligible, and before Tony could even think of how to handle two instead of one he was leaping forward, knocking Mrs. Martin away from Tony and Tony back from the counter.
    “No!” Tony yelled as her feet went out from under her and she crashed to the floor on her shoulder. She heard and felt the joint pop at the same time, and her vision swirled in sparks of silver and white. The pistol skittered from her hand and slid beneath the rack of sunglasses at the end of the aisle. She rolled over and drove herself forward on her knees, grabbing for the gun. Her fingers came up short. NO fucker is going to stop me! No goddamn pussy-licking gas-man is going to….
    The gasoline man roared and Tony glanced up. He was coming over the counter, arms wide, hat flying. Mrs. Martin screamed like a dog getting its tail cut off.  
    “Mother fucker, no!” Tony shouted, and as she crouched out of the way of the man’s looming bulk there was a piercing blast from the middle of the store and the man lurched in mid-air, hit the floor on his toes, staggered, and fell backward on his ass. He clutched his chest and gurgled. His teeth snapped together loudly. In the center of his gasoline-delivering brown uniform jacket, a flower of wet red blossomed.
    “What the hell!” Leroy and Little Joe were there by Tony now, staring at the dying gasoline man, and then back down the center aisle where Whitey stood, still holding the gun out with both hands and pointing it straight ahead. A tendril of smoke haloed the weapon.
    Whitey pulled the scarf down from his mouth. A string of drool came with it. “I shot him.”
    “Damn!” said Leroy.
    Mrs. Martin appeared over the counter, her painted fingernails scratching against the countertop. She looked at the gasoline man and then at Tony. “Oh God you little bitch he’s dying!”
    Tony staggered to her feet. Her shoulder throbbed, hot and furious. “I didn’t shoot him, whore!” There were no bullets in that gun, the bullets all fell behind the stove! Whitey could not have shot that man! “I didn’t shoot him!”
    In a flash, the rats deserted the sinking ship.
    Leroy released the case of beer he had under his arm and darted for the door. Little Joe and Whitey followed. Tony spun to run, but the gasoline man’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the shoe. Tony bellowed and stomped the hand, kicked it, but the dying gasoline man held tight, some kind of rigor mortis, she thought.
    Fucking shoe is on too tight too many goddamned socks!
    “Let go, mother fucker!”
    On the other side of the counter, Mrs. Martin was fumbling with the telephone, her breaths coming in great Indian whoops that would have made DeeWee laugh.
    “Let go!” Tony stomped the hand, then raised the revolver and aimed it at the man’s wrist. “Now!”
    He looked up at her with red-rimmed, maniacal eyes and tried to say something. Blood puddled out the corners of his mouth.
    Tony pulled the trigger. The hand split and fell away, spraying her foot with hot crimson. It trembled, a fat and fleshy crab strumming the tile. Mrs. Martin screamed anew, dropped the receiver, then cried, “I’m callin ’! I’m getting the police!”
    Tony stomped the hand one last time and raced for the door, hurdling the wreckage and shoving the hot pistol into her Granddad’s trousers.  

16
     
    B y the time she had captured all the runaway snacks, sans a Twix that had slid across the sleety lot into the Twilight Zone that was the weeds behind the gas price signs, Kate’s knees were soaking wet and her head was hurting. The Pepsis had rolled under the Volvo along with the deviled ham. The bread, which had flopped out in another direction, had become an unintentional kneeling pad under Kate’s weight. She’d clawed up everything and tossed them through the passenger’s front door. As she dropped into the driver’s seat, a gasoline delivery truck had pulled into the parking