The Gun Also Rises

by Sherry Harris

“There he is now,” I said. I waved to Eric as he looked around for us. Eric was lean, with high cheekbones. As he got closer, I could tell something was on his mind.

  “How’s King doing?” I asked Eric when he sat down.

  “Okay. I’m hoping we can get him out of there before my buddy’s deployment ends,” Eric said.

  His friend who’d been caring for King since Eric came home was leaving Afghanistan in a month. The thought of King being back out on the street made my stomach churn. “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “We’ll get the money. Any recent pictures?”

  Eric grinned and whipped out his phone. “Here he is.” King was a big dog, some kind of mixed breed.

  “He looks good,” I said. “Very handsome.”

  “Did I ever show you the photos of the first day I found him?” Eric asked.

  “No,” I said.

  Eric flipped through some more photos. He shook his head. “Look.” He handed me his phone.

  The dog was so emaciated, I could see every rib poking through some loose, hanging skin. Patches of fur were missing, and there were some lesions on his shoulders. I blinked back tears. “That’s heartbreaking.”

  “The day I found him, I promised him if he’d hang in there, if he’d be strong, he would live like a king for the rest of his life.”

  “Thus the name King?” I asked.

  Eric swiped at his eyes. “Yes. I don’t want to break my promise.”

  “Sarah’s doing everything she can to make sure you don’t,” James said.

  “Will you be there on Saturday, Eric?” I asked.

  He stared down at the picture of King. “I’ll try.”

  We all took a sip of our coffee, but I could tell something else was bothering Eric and James.

  “Spit it out, you two. Not the coffee, but what you’re worried about.” I smiled, trying to ease the obvious tension radiating from James. I hoped something hadn’t triggered another bout of PTSD. I remembered a Vietnam vet who was a friend of my parents. We’d been having a cookout when a helicopter flew overhead. He had screamed at everyone to run for cover.

  “I’m worried about Tracy,” Eric said.

  “Your wife?” I knew her because we both volunteered at the base thrift shop. But I didn’t know her well.

  Eric nodded. The alarm on his phone went off. Eric stood. “I’ve got to go. James can explain.” Eric grinned. “My oldest has a soccer game and it’s good to be home to go to them.”

  We said our goodbyes, and after Eric left, I turned to James. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been over there a lot. Eric and I’ve been playing tennis and going for runs.”

  “That’s good.”

  “For both of us. Tracy wasn’t too keen about it at first because it meant Eric was away from the family after a yearlong deployment. But after she saw that it helped to relax Eric, she called me, asking me to schedule our games as often as necessary.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure. She always seems on edge when I’m there.”

  “Do you think he’s abusing her?” I asked. “Because if he is, you have to report it, no matter how much you don’t want to.”

  James shook his head. “I haven’t seen any signs. No bruises, no cowering. But I know that Eric’s gone through some bouts of anger and depression. I think it’s affecting her. How can it not? I’m just not sure to what degree.”

  “Ah,” I said. Here’s the thing about being a military wife: there’s an unspoken rule about keeping a stiff upper lip when things are tough. Not big things like injuries or death; people rushed in to help in those circumstances. Sometimes it was too much help. I remembered a woman whose young daughter lost her battle with cancer. I’d seen her across the room at the Officers Club but hadn’t spoken to her since her daughter had died. As I headed her way, an expression passed over her face that seemed to say, oh, no, someone else that wants to express their sympathy.

  Anyway, it was often the day-to-day problems that wore spouses down: sick kids, bad grades, a disciplinary problem, getting into trouble on base. Anyone could have similar problems, but adding on having a spouse in a war zone who was gone for months at a time made it worse. It could really weigh on a person. Most spouses bore it silently, even when you asked how they were doing. As a commander’s wife, I’d been responsible for the well-being of the spouses under CJ’s command. Sometimes people were so good at hiding what was really going on, they fell through the cracks. Spousal depression was a real and rarely talked about issue.

  “What can I do?” I asked. I drank some of my iced coffee.

  “Would you just go talk to her?” James asked.

  “Sure. I’ll give her a call.”

  James’s brow crinkled in a way that made me think more was coming.

  “I don’t want her to know I was worried. If she finds out and it gets back to Eric that I asked you to do this, it might make things worse for both of them. Can you arrange to bump in to her?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s at the thrift shop right now,” James said.

  “I’ll swing by there on my way home.”

  “Thank you.”

  Chapter Four

  When I got to the thrift shop, I threw a blue bib apron over my head, which identified me as a worker. Even though I was no longer a dependent, I could still volunteer here as long as someone sponsored me on base. They usually needed all the help they could get. Base thrift shops were run by spouses’ clubs. Membership in spouses’ clubs was dwindling. No one was quite sure why, but more women worked than in the past. Kids were in more activities. And there was still a perception of officers’ wives being snotty.

  Way before my time, spouses were separated by rank. There were clubs for officers’ wives and clubs for enlisted wives. It was all about teas, luncheons, wearing hats and gloves, helping to promote a husband’s career, and raising money for scholarships. Things morphed over time, but sadly, there were still some who lorded their spouses’ position over others.

  “Sarah,” the new manager said when she spotted me, “thanks for coming. We need to get out the back-to-school supplies.”

  I followed her through the maze of rooms, where things were sorted before they were put out on display. Once upon a time, this thrift shop had been a Chinese restaurant. When the restaurant was forced to close due to health violations, nothing had been cleaned. So, when we got to take over the space, it meant hours of scrubbing grease off surfaces. Some days it seemed like there was still a scent of sweet and sour chicken wafting around.

  Tracy was working the register, which wasn’t conducive to chatting. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing an almost painfully thin neck. It was surprising it could hold up her head.

  I helped set up a back-to-school display. It enabled me to keep an eye on Tracy while I worked. I hauled out backpacks, notebooks, and art supplies. As far as I could tell, she seemed okay. I didn’t know her all that well, but she was smiling and interacting with customers. Now I felt really awkward. I’d promised James but didn’t want to be intrusive. How did I get myself in to these situations?

  I worked until two, when the shop closed, and managed to walk out the door with Tracy.

  “Thanks for setting up the sale to bring Eric’s dog home,” Tracy said.

  “I’m happy to do it.”

  “Yeah, just what we need is a dog in our small place with all the kids and their things.” She shook her head.

  Ah, an opening. Base housing was assigned according to rank. The higher the rank, the bigger the house. Some consideration for number of dependents worked into the formula, but if a base had limited housing it was take what they offered or leave it. You’d be offered two units; if you didn’t like either of them, your name went to the bottom of the waiting list. In the summer, when most people moved, the waiting list could be fairly long.

  “Where do you live?” I asked.

  “In one of the o
lder three-bedroom town houses.”

  “That’s near where I used to live.” I didn’t add that it had been in a single-family house with plenty of room for just the two of us.

  “At least the kids love it. They can run around outside without a lot of supervision.”

  “I miss base. Instant family. People around to help out.”

  Tracy nodded but didn’t add anything.

  “How are you doing?” I decided being direct would be best. After all, she was aware that I knew Eric was having problems. It was the whole reason for the fund-raiser.

  “Great.”

  She said it reflexively and without any enthusiasm.

  “I know how tough it can be to have them gone and then back. And I didn’t even have any kids to take care of.” I wished I had. We’d wanted kids, and some days I think it would have made the time go by a lot faster when CJ was deployed.

  “How’d your husband do when he got back? Your ex. Sorry.”

  “It varied from deployment to deployment.” I stopped in the parking lot. “CJ never had PTSD, but he came back in various moods. Sometimes he was all gung-ho happy to be back, and sometimes he felt guilty for leaving when others were still stuck in a war zone.”

  “Eric’s been deployed four times. He volunteered once because of the extra pay.”

  I nodded.

  “Eric barely knows our youngest because he’s been gone so much.” Tracy shook her head. “And he’s not getting a very good impression of his daddy right now. It’s heartbreaking.” Her voice caught on the word heartbreaking.

  My heart ached for her. “Who’s taking care of you?” I asked.

  She barked a bitter laugh.

  “So, no one,” I said.

  Tracy shrugged. “I have a couple of neighbors who take the kids sometimes. But some days I just want to run away.”

  “There are resources that can help you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Eric’s commander’s wife said too.” She shrugged again. “But those resources aren’t going to cook the meals or clean the house.” Tracy’s eyes filled with tears. “Or—” She clamped her lips together.

  “Or what, Tracy?”

  She attempted a smile. “It’s not that bad. I’ve got to go pick up the kids from school.” She hurried to her car.

  My heart felt heavy. I had to figure out how to help her.

  * * *

  At seven a.m. on Tuesday, I rang Belle’s doorbell. Running my garage sale business meant a lot of early mornings. I’d already worked on my virtual garage sale site, showered, and run through Dunkin’s for an iced coffee. I wished there was an entrance I could use without dragging Kay away from whatever she was doing. After a few moments, Kay opened the door. She gave my outfit—khaki shorts and a Red Sox T-shirt—the once over. Even though Belle’s attic was immaculate, I didn’t want to wear a dress to work in. Cataloging and moving books around might not be as easy as I’d originally thought. But now I felt a bit underdressed.

  “Hi, I’m Sarah Winston. We didn’t really meet yesterday.” I stuck out my hand.

  “Kay Kimble,” she said after she reluctantly shook my hand.

  She managed a smile and gestured for me to follow her. We went to Sebastian’s library. Belle sat behind her desk, and Roger was nowhere in sight. Somehow, that made me happy.

  “Good morning,” Belle said. She stood, and I saw she was dressed in a simple rose-colored sheath dress. “Thanks for coming today.”

  “Thank you. I’m excited to get started.” I glanced behind me. Kay had left. “Is there an entrance I can come in where I won’t have to bother Kay?”

  Belle frowned. “Well, you could come in the kitchen entrance. It’s usually unlocked during the day. But it’s Kay’s job to answer the door. Was she unpleasant?”

  “Not at all. I just might be in and out a lot the next couple of weeks until the sale, and I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “You do whichever suits you,” Belle said.

  “Great. Thanks. I’ll head on up.”

  * * *

  I decided to tackle the Nancy Drew books first. Although I looked longingly at a jumble of old suitcases. Who knew what treasures they held? I’d read up on the Drew books last night, and the different editions. They debuted in the thirties and different iterations followed through the late 2000s. Nancy’s personality seemed to reflect the times. In the thirties, she was jaunty and daring, in the fifties she became more the perfect girl, in the nineties, the books focused on her somewhat dysfunctional relationship with Ned. The thirties Nancy sounded the most interesting to me, and I was secretly hoping to find one up here to take home to read.

  I worked through them, but they all looked to be regular editions from the fifties and sixties that were sold by the thousands over the years. There weren’t any first editions or rare old ones among this pile anyway. I didn’t have any luck finding a single copy of a thirties Nancy Drew. Now that my interest was piqued, I wondered if I could find one at a garage sale or online. Or maybe Miss Belle had some down in her study. That’s where I’d keep my best books if I had a study. I organized the books by edition, number in the series, and price. There was something so satisfying about working with books for a change. I loved the smell and feel of books old and new.

  I took a break to stretch and moved about a bit. I was much more used to being active than sitting. Thank heavens it was air-conditioned up here. Not only for my well-being but for that of the books, and Kay too because she lived up here. I wandered around the big room for a bit. Books were tucked under the eaves and some sat on rickety shelves. There were also the trunks and suitcases I itched to open. I peeked in a couple of the trunks. One was empty, which was terribly disappointing, and one was full of vintage clothing. I’d love to take time to look at it, but that wasn’t what Miss Belle was paying me for. Maybe she’d let me take a look when I was off the clock.

  Instead, I tackled the Bobbsey Twins books. My mom had a bunch of them from when she was growing up and had read them to me when I was little. I always loved the younger set of twins, Freddie and Flossie. Flossie had blue eyes and blond hair like I did, although hers was curly and mine was straight. And she was mischievous, always getting into some kind of trouble. It was the polar opposite of how I’d been when I was young. I normally wasn’t a rule breaker. But now, trouble seemed to find me. It’s not like I sought it, but I did have a hard time saying no when someone asked me to help them with a problem. Maybe I’d gotten in touch with my inner Flossie.

  I spent another thirty minutes sorting through the Bobbsey Twin books. Occasionally, I had to check the price of an edition online. Belle had a few that were quite old. I set them aside to ask Roger about them. From what I’d learned, they didn’t seem extremely valuable, but better to err on the side of caution. I glanced at my phone. It was already nine.

  I glanced again at the stack of precariously piled old suitcases and smiled. Maybe the thirties Drew books I was interested in would be stuck in one of them. There were seven in this particular pile but more scattered around the room. Which one to open first? It was almost like Christmas morning. The brass latches and locks twinkled at me. The scent of their leather filled my nose.

  Lots of people stacked old suitcases like these to use as an accent table in their homes. It was a look I loved. I used an old trunk as a coffee table in my apartment. It had so much character, plus it provided extra storage that was so important in a one-bedroom place like mine. When I’d decorated Seth’s house for him, I’d used a Louis Vuitton trunk I’d found in his basement as a coffee table.

  I lifted the top one off. It was heavy. A leather behemoth with straps that buckled it closed. It made the whole pile sway. I didn’t want them to fall over. It would make an enormous racket in a house that was always so quiet, and I didn’t want anything to break. How embarrassing would that be? I hastily set down the big one and managed to stop the swaying pile by leaning them against my body. I unstacked the rest of them to keep them from falling
over. Some were covered in beautiful, aged leather, others in hardcovered vinyl; one had what looked like a fake alligator print stamped on it. I took a better look. It was real alligator. Wow. The smallest was a battered overnight case with travel stickers from Paris, Spain, and other European cities.

  The behemoth was full of Agatha Christie paperbacks. I set it aside after I tapped a note in my phone of its contents. The overnight case intrigued me. The travel stickers made it look like it had been on lots of adventures. If only it could talk. I snapped open the brass metal locks and lifted the lid.

  It was filled with manila file folders. I took one out and flipped it open. It held typewritten sheets of eight-and-a-half by eleven pages, complete with carbon paper and copies. The print on the copies was slightly blurred. The paper had yellowed a bit but still looked sturdy. It looked like a short story. My hands begin to shake as I flipped through the pages. I stared down and blinked a couple of times before reading a few paragraphs. The protagonist’s name was familiar, Nick Adams. There was a title, and after the title it said, “By Ernest Hemingway.”

  Chapter Five

  I lifted more and more folders out of the suitcase. Each one contained a story that said it was written by Ernest Hemingway. I was so shaken, I had to find a chair to sit on. After staring down for several minutes, my mind worked furiously to recall what I knew about Ernest Hemingway. I had a degree in literature I’d piecemealed together as CJ and I’d moved around the country. I’d taken a class on Hemingway. I confess he wasn’t my favorite. I’d always been more of a Twain and Steinbeck fan. Maybe it was my California roots. I looked through the typed pages again.

  Then it came to me. The story had fascinated me when I’d first heard it. In the twenties, Hemingway had traveled to Switzerland. His wife, Hadley, stayed behind because she had a cold. She set out to join him a few weeks later, packing his works in progress, which were the Nick Adams stories set in Michigan. Everything he’d worked on for months. She boarded a train, stowed her luggage, and went off to buy water. When she returned, the bag was gone. Never to be seen again. Until now, if I was right.