by Joy Fielding
Ben laughs. “Let ’em rip,” he repeats.
“And I got your favorite .38 right here, Doc.”
“Thank you kindly, as my wife would say.” Nick puts his arm around Dani’s waist, pulls her close. “Right, sweetheart?”
“Right,” she echoes.
“You got a real good man here,” Wes tells Dani. “Not everyone is as concerned as the doc here about his family’s welfare.”
Dani nods. He’s right after all. Her husband is a real good man. Everybody says so.
“Are these animals real?” Ben asks.
“Well, they were,” Wes explains. “Till someone shot ’em and stuffed ’em.”
“Cool,” says Ben. “Hey, I have an idea. We should stuff our fish.”
“Shut up, Ben,” Tyler says, the first words out of his mouth since they entered the place. “That’s not funny.”
“Is, too,” Ben says, doing a three-sixty surveillance of the premises.
Dani follows her son’s eyes with her own. Mixed in with the seemingly endless display of guns and rifles are cabinets filled with knives of every shape and size. A regular cornucopia of death, Dani thinks, as Wes lays four sets of headphones on the counter.
“What are these for?” Ben asks.
“They’re to protect your ears,” Wes states, warming to his role as instructor. “Guns are really loud and we got ten stalls back there, most of them occupied. Wouldn’t want you going deaf and suing us. So, you put these on,” he says, “and when you get inside the shooting range, you press this button here on the side. You’ll hear a beep, and then you’ll be able to hear talking but not the gun shots. You got glasses? ’Cause you need to protect your eyes, too. If you don’t have any, I got some here.”
“We’ll need three pairs,” Nick says. “I brought my own.”
Wes deposits the protective glasses on the counter beside the headphones and guns. “Okay, so I’m assuming none of you smokes, ’cause we got a strict no-smoking policy. Those things’ll kill you surer than anything we sell in here. Right, Doc?”
“No arguments from me on that score,” Nick concurs.
“Nasty, nasty habit. And no chewing gum once you pass through those doors.” He points toward the doors leading to the shooting range. “You want to know why?” he asks, directing his question to Tyler and Ben.
“Why?” Ben obliges him by asking.
“It’s because of the lead in the ammunition. You don’t want to be opening and closing your mouth too often, letting all that lead poison in. You can talk and stuff. Just try not to open your mouth too wide.”
“Won’t be a problem,” Ben tells him. “We aren’t allowed to chew gum.”
“My wife’s a dentist,” Nick explains.
“Is that right? Well, good for you,” Wes says, as if Dani has just received an A on a spelling test.
“A damn good one, too,” Nick says. “You ever need any work done, she’s the one to see. You have a business card you can give the man, honey?”
Seriously? Dani wonders, thinking that this morning is becoming increasingly surreal. “No. I didn’t bring any with me.”
“Should always carry some with you. Just in case. I’ve told you that.”
“I know. I just keep forgettin’. Forgetting,” she corrects.
“I gotta admit, I’m not too fond of dentists,” Wes says, winking at Dani. “But it’s nice to see a husband so proud of his wife.”
Dani forces a smile onto her lips.
“Can we go shoot now?” Ben whines, pulling on Nick’s arm.
“Hold your horses,” Wes admonishes. “First you gotta pick out what kind of target you’re gonna shoot at. You got two choices. This one”—he holds up a shiny laminated square containing a small, bright orange bull’s-eye in the center of a series of black concentric circles against a lime-green background—“or this one.” He offers up a larger sheet, this one displaying the outline of a man’s head and torso against an all-white background.
“I want that one,” says Ben.
Nick chuckles. “You heard the man. We’ll take two.”
“Then you’re all set,” Wes says, watching as everyone grabs their headphones and protective glasses and Nick retrieves their weapons. “Just remember to wash your hands real good with the special soap in the bathrooms when you’re done,” he warns, “ ’cause you don’t want any of that lead sinking into your skin.”
Does no one else see the irony here? Dani wonders.
“Stalls seven and eight,” Wes says. “Now go in there and…”
“Let ’em rip,” says Ben, racing for the door to the shooting range.
“Do we have to?” Tyler whispers to Dani.
“Is there a problem?” Nick asks.
“No problem.” Dani pushes her older son gently forward. “Let’s just do this real quick like a bunny,” she whispers, as Nick opens the first of two doors leading to the range. They wait in the small glass enclosure for the first door to fully close before the second one opens.
The shooting range itself is mostly concrete and predominantly black and gray in color. A long gray rubber wall at the far end serves as a buffer for the bullets to bounce off. The area is well ventilated, air-conditioned, and soundproofed to the outside world.
A red-and-yellow sign on one wall states: !!Warning!! Tracer and Incendiary Ammunition Are Not Permitted. Another advises: For your safety and the safety of others, No Tracer Ammunition, No Reload Ammunition, No Armor Piercing, No Exceptions.
Inside, the noise from the weapons being discharged is overwhelming. “Quick, put on your headphones,” Dani says, securing her own and remembering to press the button on its side so they can communicate with one another. They dodge an explosion of empty bullet casings as they hurry toward stalls seven and eight, the smell of gunfire reaching so deep into Dani’s nostrils that she has to fight the urge to gag.
“You and Goldilocks take stall eight,” Nick instructs his wife. “I’ll get Ben started, then come back.”
Tyler appeals to Dani with his eyes, and Dani replies with a silent plea of her own. Just go along, her eyes say. You know that if I had my druthers, we’d be anyplace but here.
“I don’t need help,” Ben announces. “I already know what to do.”
“Easy there, cowboy,” Nick says, clipping the targets to their respective wires and adjusting their distance. “That should do it. Okay, tough guy,” he says to Ben, his voice filled with unmistakable pride. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Chapter Sixteen
Maggie is walking up and down the aisles at Publix, hoping to see something that will twig her memory, remind her why she is here, what groceries she came in for. Damn it. Why didn’t she make a list?
She hates grocery shopping. Always has. Especially since Craig is no longer around to accompany her. “Really, Maggie,” he’d said when they first moved to Palm Beach Gardens. “You have to start doing these things on your own again.”
Had he been preparing her even then for his departure?
“Milk, yogurt, lettuce, tomatoes, raisin bread, Cap’n Crunch,” she says out loud, counting off the items in her cart, knowing she’s leaving out a bunch of essentials. “Toilet paper!” she exclaims loudly, attracting the attention of a nearby shopper.
“I believe the toilet paper is two aisles down,” the woman volunteers.
Maggie spends the next five minutes trying to decide which brand of toilet paper to buy. Charmin was always Craig’s favorite, so she chooses Cottonelle instead, then decides she’s being petty and returns the Cottonelle to the shelf, replacing it with a jumbo-size package of Charmin. “You’re overcompensating,” she mutters, moving on to an aisle stuffed with candies and cookies. “Much better,” she says, surveying the mind-boggling selection of sweets.
She’s tempted by the variety of M&M’s av
ailable, and even more intrigued by the many flavors of licorice and jujubes. “What the hell. I could use something sweet about now,” she decides. “Something sweet and gooey.” She reaches for a box of sticky toffee, opening the package on the spot and popping one of the butterscotch squares into her mouth. It gloms instantly onto one of her back teeth. “Damn it,” she says, trying to extricate it with her tongue, wondering if she’s going to have to resort to using her fingers, when it finally pops out. “Probably loosened a damn filling,” she grouses, mindful of another shopper’s stare.
Attention, shoppers. Crazy lady in aisle five.
Maggie completes another tour of the large store until she’s satisfied she has everything she needs, plus a lot of stuff she surely doesn’t. Still, the more she loads up on now, the fewer trips back here she’ll have to make later.
She approaches the busy checkout counters, angling in behind a woman whose groceries have already been bagged. Maggie recognizes the woman as one of her neighbors, Olivia Something-or-other, the one who’s married to the man she always sees staring out his front window.
This is the second time she’s run into one of her neighbors away from their block, she thinks, wondering at the coincidence.
It’s not a coincidence, she hears Craig admonish. It’s Saturday. This is the closest Publix to our house. Of course she shops here.
You’re being paranoid, he adds.
Screw you, Maggie thinks, pretending to study the racks of magazines beside the counter, hoping Olivia is too preoccupied with checking out to notice her.
“Excuse me, but I think there’s something wrong with this machine,” Olivia is saying to the checkout clerk.
“There is?”
“It keeps declining my card.”
The clerk shrugs. “It was working fine a minute ago. Do you have another card?”
Olivia shakes her head and looks helplessly around. “Sorry about this,” she says to Maggie. “Oh. I know you. Maggie, right?”
Maggie smiles. “Problems?”
“The machine won’t take my credit card.”
“Do you have a debit card?” the clerk asks, clearly hoping to speed things along. A line is starting to form behind Maggie.
“I do,” Olivia says, inserting it. “I don’t normally do the shopping…. Declined,” she says a moment later. “I told you, there’s something wrong with this machine.”
“How about cash?” the clerk suggests.
“Over two hundred dollars? Who carries that much cash around these days?”
“Let me take this other customer and see if her card works,” the clerk offers.
“It won’t,” Olivia insists, as the clerk rings in Maggie’s purchases. She watches as Maggie inserts her card, waiting for it to be declined, then steps back in dismay when the transaction goes through without a glitch. “I don’t understand. I’m nowhere near my limit and I should have more than enough cash in my account.”
“I’m sure there’s a legitimate explanation,” Maggie begins. “Probably some screw-up at the bank.”
“I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. Here, put her purchases on my card,” Maggie directs the clerk.
“What? No,” Olivia protests. “I can’t let you do that.”
“I insist. I know you’re good for it.” She smiles. “Remember, I know where you live.”
Olivia manages a weak smile in return.
The clerk hesitates. “So, I’m putting it through on your card?”
Maggie nods.
“I don’t know what to say, except thank you so much,” Olivia says as the two women wheel their carts toward the parking lot at the front of the long strip mall. “I’ll go to the bank first thing Monday morning and get this straightened out. You’ll have your money back by Monday night. I promise.”
“I’m not worried,” Maggie says honestly.
“At least let me buy you a cup of coffee. I swear I have enough money for that.”
“That’s quite unnecessary.”
“My turn to insist. Please.”
“Okay. Sure. Why not?” Why not, indeed? Maggie thinks, deciding it would be rude to refuse, and it might even be nice. Olivia is clearly no threat to her. Besides, what does she have to rush home for? Erin and Leo are spending the weekend with their father, and the groceries will keep.
“There’s a cute little pastry shop a few doors down.”
A few minutes later, they’re settled into a table for two in a corner of the small, brightly lit room, steaming cups of coffee in front of them.
“You’re sure you don’t want one of those delicious-looking tarts?” Olivia asks.
“Quite sure. Thank you.”
They sit for several seconds in silence. It’s been a long time since Maggie had a real conversation with another woman. She realizes how much she’s missed it.
“So,” Olivia says, “I understand you’re from California originally.”
“That’s right.”
“How do you like Florida?”
“Takes a bit of getting used to,” Maggie says. “It’s very different from L.A.”
“What made you relocate?”
“Long story,” Maggie says, deciding it’s way too early for such confidences. “You have three kids, right?”
“Twin boys and a girl. Twelve and ten.”
“That must keep you hopping.”
“It does. Although they’ll be spending July with my parents up in Nantucket, so we’ll have a bit of a break.”
“Sounds great.”
“Yeah. I think my husband could really use it. He’s been the one at home looking after them most of this past year, and it can get a bit much.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in advertising,” Olivia says, her face brightening immediately. “I was a stay-at-home mom for years. Then when my husband got laid off, I decided to go back to work. And I have to confess, I’m absolutely loving it. There’s something about making your own money…” She stops, her mind clearly returning to what happened earlier in Publix. “You?”
“I was a teacher. Now I guess I’m…on sabbatical.”
“And your husband?”
“He sells luxury cars. But…well, I guess it’s no secret—we’re separated.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Well, nothing’s been decided. There’s still a chance…” Again, too soon for such confidences. “How long have you been married?”
“Going on sixteen years.”
“What’s your secret?” Maggie says lightly, trying to keep the focus on her neighbor.
“My secret?”
“To a happy marriage.”
“Who said I was happy?” Olivia laughs. “No, I’m just kidding. Honestly. We’re happy. Mostly,” she continues, the words sputtering from her mouth, as if a tap has been turned on and is now stuck. “I mean, some years are better than others. Well, I don’t have to tell you that. This last one’s been more difficult than most, what with Sean being out of a job and everything.”
And everything, Maggie repeats silently. She knows all about and everything.
“Not that he hasn’t enjoyed being home, being a full-time dad and all. And God knows I’ve loved having someone do the laundry and make dinner every night. But you and I know it’s a pretty thankless job, and I think it’s been harder on him than he lets on. His ego’s taken a big hit.” She sighs. “Anyway, that’s all about to change. It’s looking as if he may have finally found something. Over at Advert-X in Palm Beach. Do you know Advert-X?”
“No. I’m afraid I don’t.”
“It’s this relatively new agency on South County Road. Very cutting edge.” She takes another sip of coffee, continues without prompting. “When Sean first told me he had an interview there, I
thought, no way are they going to hire him. Not that he’s not capable or anything like that. But Sean’s pretty conservative, strictly Brooks Brothers, as he himself admits. And the guys the agencies like Advert-X are hiring these days are young and super hip. You know the type I mean, with their ankle-length, tight pants and thin, monochromatic ties. That’s definitely not Sean.”
Maggie pictures Sean standing by his living room window, staring out at the street, sometimes for hours on end. More potted plant than cutting edge, she finds herself thinking.
“Of course, I would never tell him that,” Olivia continues. “And thank God I didn’t because, turns out, I was completely wrong. Maybe it’s a case of opposites attracting, I don’t know, but they seem to really like him. I’ve lost track of the number of interviews he’s had these last few weeks. Wednesday, it was one after another. He met with the head of the creative team, the head of marketing, even the president of the company. Then he had to run to pick up the kids. Poor guy was absolutely exhausted when he got home.”
Maggie thinks back to last Wednesday. From her position at the end of the cul-de-sac, she has a clear view of everything that goes on in the street, and she knows that, aside from picking his kids up from school each afternoon, Sean’s car rarely leaves his driveway. As far as Maggie can remember, that was true last Wednesday. No way had his car spent most of the day anywhere near South County Road.
Which means, what exactly?
That Sean has been lying to his wife?
That Olivia’s year is about to get a whole lot more difficult?
Should she say something?
Don’t get involved, she hears Craig warn. Whatever is going on with them is none of your business.
“We should know something definite this week,” her neighbor is saying, crossing the fingers of both hands and holding them up. “Fingers crossed,” she adds for emphasis.
