by Elena Graf
“That’s quite a story.”
“But it proves Lucy’s suggestion is smart. She knows that mastering your fears goes a long way.”
“She told me why she became a brown belt.”
Liz smiled at the memory of Lucy defeating men twice her size in a martial arts demonstration at the parish fair. “Never get into a fight with that woman. She may be small, but she could easily kill someone.”
Cherie looked skeptical. “She could never kill anyone. I’ve never met anyone so full of love.”
“Even so, I’d never want to test that assumption.”
When they arrived at the house, Liz parked in front of the garage. “Let me run in and get what we need. I’ll just be a minute,” she said, hopping out of the truck.
Maggie came downstairs from her office. “You’re home so early. Is everything all right?” she asked with a worried look as she reached for Liz to give her a kiss.
“Yes, fine. I’m taking Cherie to the range to teach her to shoot. I just came home to get my equipment. I hope I have enough ammo.”
At that, Maggie looked even more worried. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?”
“No, but Lucy suggested it, and she knows what she’s doing. At least, I hope she does.”
Liz hurried to the basement and unlocked the gun safe to remove two .22 pistols and a box of ammunition. She took earmuff hearing protectors, safety glasses and targets from a nearby cabinet and threw everything into the canvas tool bag she used to carry her equipment to the range.
“What did you need to get?” asked Cherie curiously as Liz stowed the tool bag behind the seat of her truck.
“Hearing and eye protection. As a certified safety instructor, I would be setting bad example if I took you to the range without PPE.”
“Seems like PPE is the thing of the hour.”
Liz pulled on her seat belt. “That it is.”
The long dirt road to the fish and game club was full of potholes. The truck bounced up and down until Liz was almost seasick. She slowed to a snail’s pace. When they approached the gate, she reached over Cherie’s lap to take her magnetic pass out of the glove box. “We keep it locked,” she explained. “We don’t want people coming in and getting hurt.” Liz could tell Cherie was only half-listening. She was rigid and pale. “Don’t worry. You can do this. I’ll make sure everything we do is absolutely safe. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Cherie, but she didn’t sound convinced.
They parked at the end of one of the shooting bays and got out. Liz carried the canvas tool bag to a graying picnic table. There was nothing fancy about the outdoor range. Earthworks were piled high to stop overshot bullets from landing in the wrong place. Behind the gun club were acres of open land. Separating the bays were twenty-foot high concrete barriers.
Liz walked down the bay to put up some targets on the plywood backboards. The boards were shot up from last season and it was hard to find purchase for the push pins. She’d deliberately chosen traditional bullseye targets because the type with a human figure always seemed to alarm new shooters.
She walked back to the truck, where Cherie stood, hugging herself even though it wasn’t cold.
“Are you ready?” Liz asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Liz handed her a pair of safety glasses and switched on one of the hearing protectors. “They’re electronic and designed to block the sound only when it reaches a certain decibel level. That means we can hear one another, and you can hear me giving you instructions.” Liz handed one to Cherie, who put it on.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
Liz opened one of the pistol cases and Cherie instantly recoiled.
“Take it easy,” said Liz. “They’re not loaded. Let me show you.” She took out the pistol, dropped the magazine into her waiting hand. After she racked the slide, she sighted down the barrel. “This is how we make sure the gun is empty. This pistol also has a little window so you can see if there’s a round in the chamber, but I never trust it. I always check twice.”
Liz put a box of ammunition in her pocket and gestured to Cherie to follow. They walked down the bay to a little wooden table about ten feet from the targets. Liz demonstrated how to load the magazine. “This is called a magazine, not a clip. If you call it a clip that just says you don’t know what you’re talking about. Real shooters like to make fun of people who don’t use the right vocabulary. Do yourself a favor and learn to talk the talk.”
She finished loading the magazine but left the slide open. “When we’re on the range, we keep the slide open and pointed down range, so other shooters know there’s no round in the chamber. When it’s your turn to shoot, you rack the slide back like this.” Liz demonstrated. “Are you ready?”
Cherie shook her head.
“You want me to show you first?”
“Not really…but go ahead.”
“First, here’s how to stand.” Liz put one foot in front of the other and crouched a little. “You want to have a good, solid stance. In a real shooting situation, you don’t want someone to be able to push you over.” Liz gave Cherie a shove from her shoulder to emphasize her point. “These .22 rounds won’t give you much recoil, but you want everything about your stance to be rigid and solid for accuracy and safety.” Liz showed how to extend her arms and curl one hand over the other under the trigger. “When you shoot, you’re going to align the marks and aim at the center of the target. I’ll show you that later. Now stand back behind me about six feet. I don’t want the ejected casings to hit you.”
Liz emptied the magazine. She put the gun down and turned around. Cherie was back at the old picnic table, hugging herself. Liz sighed, wondering if they should come back another day and try again. She walked back and sat down beside Cherie. “You okay?” she asked, rubbing her back.
“No,” murmured Cherie.
“Want to leave?”
“Yes, but give me a moment.”
“Okay,” Liz agreed and sat back to enjoy the cold air and silence while Cherie pulled herself together. It was too early for bird song, but a few crows complained as they flew overhead.
Finally, Cherie sat up and turned to Liz. “I came this far. Let’s try again.”
Liz nodded. She opened the other pistol case. Once again, she went through the drill to make sure the gun was empty and replaced the empty magazine. She sat down beside Cherie. “Always keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Just lay your finger along the slide like this.” Liz showed her how, then reached for Cherie’s hand. She felt the instant tension. “Don’t look at it. Just feel it in your hand.”
Cherie snatched her hand away.
“It’s just a thing,” said Liz in a calm voice. “Without human intervention, it has no power. It’s just a tool like a screwdriver or a scalpel.”
“Screwdrivers or scalpels don’t kill people.”
“No, but they could.”
When Liz reached for Cherie’s hand again, this time she took the gun.
“It’s heavier than I expected.”
“It will be even heavier when it’s loaded. Wait til you hold my 9mm. How does it feel?”
“Strange.”
“I know. It always feels strange to hold a real gun for the first time.”
“Let’s do this,” said Cherie impatiently. “I just want to get it over with.”
Liz looked at her carefully. The poor woman was plainly terrified.
“You’re sure?”
Cherie nodded and Liz escorted her back to the little table. She loaded her own magazine to reinforce the earlier lesson, then watched while Cherie loaded hers. Liz repeated the stance demonstration and showed how to line up the sights. “Remember to aim and then squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it. And keep your eyes open. Loud noises make people want to close
their eyes. Don’t.” She patted Cherie’s shoulder. “Okay. Give it a try.” She stepped back to avoid the ejected shells.
The first time Cherie positioned herself to shoot, she was shaking uncontrollably. She carefully set the gun down on the little table. Liz waited, gazing at the brilliantly blue sky overhead. Finally, Cherie raised her arms and fired a shot, then another. She wasn’t hitting the target, shooting low because she was too tense and still shaking, but then she started to get the hang of it. She began hitting the paper around the bullseye and finally placed a few shots on the target. Liz could hear the slide rack open when the magazine emptied. She approached and gave Cherie an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“Congratulations. You did it.” Still trembling, Cherie turned into Liz’s arms and began to cry. “That was a big step you took,” Liz whispered into Cherie’s ear as she stroked her back soothingly. “You should be proud. I know I’m proud.”
Cherie clung to her for a long moment, then finally let go.
“Would you like to try it again?” Liz asked.
Wiping away her tears, Cherie nodded.
They continued the target practice until they’d used up all the ammunition. Liz encouraged Cherie to shoot her 9mm to get the feel of it. The recoil startled her, but she continued until she emptied the magazine. Finally, they collected their targets.
“You have a good eye, Cherie. Well done.”
“Thanks,” murmured Cherie.
Liz handed her a rusty rake, explaining, “We always clean up after ourselves when we shoot. We used to recycle the brass, but it’s too expensive now.” Liz took another rake and the old snow shovel standing next to it and showed how to collect the spent shell casings. “Good range etiquette is important,” said Liz, pouring the casings into an old oil drum.
“You say that like you expect me to come back here.”
“Now that you know what to do, maybe you can ask Brenda to take you shooting.”
“We’ll see,” replied Cherie vaguely. “But I would appreciate it if we could do this again.”
“Sure. Next nice afternoon when we’re both free.”
Chapter Twelve
“What does Liz think?” asked Alina.
“She’s worried, especially because no one seems to be taking it seriously.”
“Well? What should we expect? The man in the White House is saying it will be gone by the warm weather…that it’s a Democratic hoax!”
“Calm down, Alina. We share your views. Don’t preach to the choir.”
“So, can I talk to her?”
“You know Liz won’t give you any statements about the virus. She doesn’t want to be on the record with her opinions about politics.”
“Of course, not…and especially not in that fucking Republican town of yours.”
“Alina!” Maggie had tried so hard to teach her children to avoid bad language, but Alina had always been a rebel. Of Maggie’s two adopted daughters, she had been the more difficult. After the horror of their early childhood in a Romanian orphanage, both girls had a difficult adolescence that challenged their adoptive parents. Sofia, the elder, had been a brilliant student. She dealt with her anxieties by retreating into her studies. She was now an oncology resident at Dana Farber. Her sister, Alina, was constantly getting into mischief with her friends and talking back to her mother. It was her stubbornness that made her such a good journalist. She never took “no” for an answer.
“Mom, I want to talk to Liz. I need to ask her something.”
Maggie frowned despite the fact that Alina couldn’t see her. “She’s in a pretty foul mood. She’s been analyzing our portfolio. As you know, the stock market has been a roller coaster. We’ve had big losses.”
“Makes me almost glad I don’t have any money.”
Although it was said lightly, the remark saddened Maggie. Alina had once been doing very well as a regional news producer for a network affiliate. That was before her ex-husband spent everything, even her retirement account. They’d lost their house to foreclosure. Now, her daughter was starting over again with no money and a wrecked credit rating, which was why Liz was holding her mortgage. Fortunately, Alina was still young and had time to build up her savings again.
“All right,” said Maggie. “Hold on. Let me see if Liz can talk to you now.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Maggie knocked on the door of Liz’s office. Liz motioned to her to come in. Maggie muted the call.
“Sweetheart, Alina wants to talk to you.”
Liz sighed. “I’m downloading data.” She glanced at her screen. “Okay, put her on speaker.”
Maggie put the phone on speaker and set it down on Liz’s desk. Liz pointed to a chair and Maggie sat down.
“Hey, girlie, what are you up to?” asked Liz in a cheerful voice.
“Hey, Mom.” Liz smiled broadly at that. She might not admit it, but she really liked being called “mom” by Alina. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Okay, but I have you on speaker because I’m downloading some data, and I need to keep an eye on it. Your mom’s in the room, so don’t say anything bad about her.”
Liz shot Maggie an off-centered grin. Maggie momentarily saw the young Liz of seventeen she had known forty-six years ago. The eyes were the same, still full of mischief.
“First, I want to ask if this virus turns into something, can the kids stay with you?”
Liz glanced away from the screen to engage Maggie. “Of course. Why are you asking me?”
“I know Mom would always say, ‘yes,’ but it’s your house.”
“It’s our house. Your mother is my wife.”
“You know what I mean.”
Liz leaned a little closer to the phone. “I want you to listen carefully. You and the kids are always welcome here. So is your sister. We are a family.”
There was a long pause. On the other end, Alina loudly cleared her throat.
Liz frowned. “What’s behind this question, Alina? What do you know?”
“I hear there are some sick kids in the Scarborough schools. People are wondering if it’s the virus.”
With a plainly worried look, Liz held Maggie’s gaze. “Alina, I want you to pack up your stuff and come down here right away. If there’s a quarantine, we have more space.”
“But Mom, I have to work. I have to drive up to Portland.”
“I know it’s a long drive. I’m sorry about that. Just put the gas on my card.”
“You gave her your gas card?” asked Maggie with surprise.
Liz nodded but raised her hand to keep her from saying more.
“Do you hear me, Alina?” asked Liz. “It will be safer here for the kids and for you.”
“Honey, I made a nice stew,” said Maggie in an encouraging tone. “I can heat some up for you and the girls.”
“Oh, Mom, that sounds so good,” said Alina in a voice that sounded surprisingly young. “We’ll be there in about an hour.”
“Can’t wait,” said Maggie and tapped off the call. She tried to read Liz’s response to the conversation. In difficult situations, Liz always carefully masked her feelings, but Maggie could tell from the pinch around Liz’s mouth that she was concerned.
“What are you thinking, Dr. Stolz?” asked Maggie. “Come on. Out with it.”
“The coronavirus has come to Maine, and it’s probably been here for a while.” Liz emitted a long sigh. “I wish we had reliable tests. It takes ten days for them to process them. People could be walking around infecting people and we don’t even know it!”
“But wouldn’t those people be really sick?”
“Not necessarily. Plus, we’re in the middle of flu season. The flu can have many of the same symptoms and can be really nasty too. Remember last year when the vaccine was only thirty percent effective and you got it? You thought you
were dying!”
Maggie smiled. “That was mostly an act to get your attention. When you’re married to a doctor that’s not always easy.”
“Hah. Very funny. You were really sick. Remember I can hear it when your lungs are full of congestion.”
Maggie got up and rubbed Liz’s back. “Oh sweetie, I was only teasing. You always take good care of me when I’m sick.”
“I’m not in the mood for humor tonight.”
“So, I see. What can I do to cheer you up?”
Instantly, Liz grinned and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“Not that! The kids will be here in less than an hour.”
“So? We can be quick.”
“I don’t like it when it’s quick. Later. I promise.”
Liz growled.
“Stop it,” Maggie said, gently squeezing Liz’s cheeks. “You’re not a bear, although sometimes, you act like one. Everyone knows it’s all for show.”
Liz growled again.
Maggie laughed and gave her a kiss. “I’ll let you sulk over our finances. I’m going to heat up the stew.”
Maggie headed to the kitchen. She took out the pot of beef stew they’d had for dinner and set it on the stove to heat up. As she waited, she looked around the well-appointed kitchen. The stove, the refrigerator, the farm sink, everything had been planned to cook for a large crowd. Sometimes it seemed that they were cooking for an army, especially in the summertime when the five guestrooms and the apartment over the garage were full. Liz had said she knew when she’d moved to Maine, she’d have many friends and family visit, so she’d designed the house with guests in mind.
Liz came into the kitchen and hugged Maggie from behind.
“You’re gazing into stew as if animal entrails rise and will reveal your fortune.”
“I see you found your sense of humor…weird as it is.”
“Can’t be glum around the kiddies. You know they count on Grandma Liz to help them find mischief.”
Maggie turned and put her arms around Liz’s waist. “I think you’ve got that backwards. Grandma Liz counts on them to help her find mischief.”
