“I’m not going to go through this with you, Grace,” Mom said. “You eat what’s in front of you or you don’t eat at all.”
“I’m not eating something with a face, mother,” Grace chided. “Gawd, this totally sucks. You people are barbarians.”
“Jarrett,” Mom hissed. Dad looked genuinely surprised, as if the conversation was some reality show he was watching and which he’d suddenly become a part of. He swallowed a bite of burger.
“Grace, enough,” Dad said. He had a dad voice, scary and bellowing, but it had been a long time since he’d used it. His reprimand of Grace was the equivalent of swatting a fly.
“Seriously?” Mom asked. She reached across the table and pulled Grace’s plate in front of Gabe.
“Gabe gets two,” Mom said. Grace glared at her.
“The human garbage can doesn’t care what it puts in its body,” Grace proclaimed. “Someone in this family has to stand up for something.”
Grace pushed her chair away from the table and stormed off. Mom let out a protracted sigh.
“Big help, there, buddy,” Mom said. Dad shrugged and took another bite of his burger.
Maybe Grace would have become a vegetarian. Even a vegan. She experimented with a lot of things. She went through a phase where she meditated in the middle of her bedroom floor. Then she wanted to be a singer. We had endured weeks of Grace’s out of tune voice belting out Katy Perry songs. Not eating meat, it became the last thing she tried on.
My relationship with Grace was complicated. We were born twenty months apart, but it might as well have been twenty years. Grace was a maverick. You wouldn’t know it to look at her. She was fashionable even when her clothes were secondhand. She was tall, like Mom, thin, with a perpetual sneer on her lips. She was biding her time with her poor, weird little family until she could break free and inflict herself on the rest of the world. I loved her, but didn’t like her very much. Grace was always ten steps ahead, and wasn’t afraid to let me know it. Dark, deep, introspective Hannah, me the perfect punching bag for Grace. And Grace never pulled her punches. For me, life with my sister was like being in a constant state of war. Grace’s weapon was words. She could inflict more damage with a single phrase than a prizefighter could do in their entire career. It might have been why I turned to books as my refuge. I wanted to find words that healed me.
I miss Grace. How’s that for a weird admission? Maybe it’s because I so desperately wanted her approval. Despite the venom of her words, I wanted Grace to like me. Mom said that kind of toxicity was just what sisters did to each other. I think that was a cop-out. It wasn’t whatI did.
Wipe my eyes. Tears again. I thought all that garbage had passed. Crying whenever I think about the past. Tears are weak, and I don’t have time for weakness.
After dinner, I walk down to the makeshift lagoon between the ocean and the house. The sun is setting beside me and the stars burn over the water. I pick out Orion’s belt. That’s an easy one. The bright one? Probably Jupiter. Maybe Venus. I can’t remember which one comes up in the summer. I need to add an astronomy book to my reading list. A telescope, too.
And a gun.
I laugh. As if. Scrawny, weak little Hannah Barton with a loaded weapon. Not that I could even figure out how to load one in the first place.
“I’m not scrawny and weak. Not anymore.”
True enough. Walking and biking has given my arms and legs some heft. My body is still lean, but muscle tone is giving me some decided definition. I’ve even gone up a size in clothing. I need to scavenge the juniors department now. And along with muscle have come boobs. That was always a particularly sharp arrow in Grace’s quiver. Grace was taller and although she wouldn’t make it into a Victoria’s Secret catalog, her chest was more robust than mine. Grace’s boobs had started to appear after her eleventh birthday, and she’d been keenly aware of them ever since. My slight build and paper-thin body hadn’t started sprouting until the final couple months of Grace’s life. Now I’m starting to look almost female. I’m even becoming self-conscious about swimming naked in the ocean.
“Like anyone’s gonna’ see me.” I pull off my clothes and wade into the water. The iciest part of my soul feels victorious. Grace is dead. I outlasted everyone. Grace will always be fifteen. Little puny Hannah will get older. And boobs or not, my victory is the only one that counts.
I duck under the gentle waves. That’s a punitive feeling I couldn’t wait to wash away. Later, lying under the stars, listening to the hypnotic swell of the waves, I cry again. It’s a good cry, though. It releases an ounce or two of guilt.
It’s a couple of days later that I find myself in front of the display of guns in the sporting goods shop. I’ve purposely waited, hoping that the itch in the back of my brain will subside. A gun is a slippery slope. What if I shoot myself? What if I turn out to be a good shot? Both of these options are scary. Guns have a single purpose. That purpose is to injure something else. Injure or kill. Whether it’s an animal or another human being, that’s what they’re made to do. I’ve tried to think of another machine with such a singular purpose. Nothing comes to mind, except maybe nuclear bombs.
There’d been lots of rules about guns. There had been a lot of people who thought the rules shouldn’t be there. I stare at the display. A glass cabinet holds dozens of handguns. Some look like Old West revolvers. Others look like the guns in cop shows. Behind the cabinet, against the back wall, rifles and shotguns are lined up like books on a bookshelf. I identify them broadly. Rifles and shotguns are different, and seeing them side-by-side it’s easy to tell the difference. Shotguns look fatter, with wider barrels. Rifles are long and sleek, almost elegant. There are a few guns on the wall that look almost like military weapons. I know there’d been a serious kerfuffle about those types of guns. I can’t remember exactly why. I think it had something to do with school shootings.
From a practical point of view, canned food is a finite resource. There are no more factories or farms, and no more trucks by which to ship them. All I have is what already exists. And although I can’t be sure, most of the canned goods probably have expiration dates. That’s all I’d need, to survive the great plague and then die of food poisoning. There’s an abundance of canned food, that much is true. I don’t eat much. But I do eat. And eventually the supply will run out. I’ll have to find an alternative sooner or later.
I step hesitantly behind the counter. The guns on the wall are like a foreign language. I cautiously run my fingers along the upright stocks. The metal is cool to the touch. I selectd one of the military-style weapons. I don’t know why. Probably the cool factor. Military weapons were what the creepy gun enthusiasts at school had talked about most often. Creepy versus cool—there’s always a thin line. I lift the gun from the rack. It’s heavy. I almost drop it.
I hold the gun in front of me, one hand on the stock, the other on the barrel. It’s gray, a dull deep gray like a bucket of water after washing a car. It smelld greasy. And there’s another smell, too. It reminds me of the smell of an empty tin can.
The gun is big. In my tiny hands, it looks like a giant’s weapon. Although if a giant had this weapon, both Jack and his beanstalk would never have stood a chance. The gun has several small gray switches, all of which sit flush against the weapon’s body. I figure one of them was probably the safety. That and the fact that the barrel is where the bullet emerges constitute the extent of my gun vocabulary.
I set the gun down on the glass cabinet behind me. I look at the smaller, more compact pistols displayed below. The smaller guns make more sense. The assault weapon is the equivalent of a tank. I try to open the glass cabinet. It’s locked. I shatter the glass with a swift kick and reach inside.
There are a couple of pink guns. That’s a strange combination. An over-the-top pink, too, more at home with Hello Kitty than among a collection of handguns. A pink gun is what Grace would have chosen. She probably would’ve looted a Walgreens to pick up matching lipstick, if she’d been the o
ne who lived.
The assault weapon keeps drawing me back. It’s a ridiculous weapon, huge and unwieldy, but something about it gives me a rush. Maybe it’s the beveled ammunition clip dangling below the body like fruit on a tree. Or maybe it’s because Grace would’ve chosen the pink pistol. That’s the practical choice, thegirly choice.
God how I detest that expression. Girly. Like some sort of acceptable racial slur. To me, “girly” means weak. As if girls are still damsels to be rescued. Pink handguns, pink lipstick, dolls instead of LEGO, beauty pageants instead of space camp. Girls aren’t weak.I’m not weak. And maybe I’m finally in a position to change the word’s meaning. If I’m the last person standing, I get to make the rules. And the new rule is that “girly” means “tough”.
Tough girls,girly girls, they aren’t afraid of big assault weapons. They aren’t afraid of being impractical. I find a model number on the weapon’s price tag and pick up the gun’s corresponding owner’s manual from the shelf below the rifle display. See? There’s a book. I’m feeling more comfortable already.
I pick up a box of ammunition that corresponds to the type listed in the owner’s manual and take the heavy gun, bullets and manual with me. On my way out, I pass a display of carrying cases for guns. I find one that fits the assault weapon, a foam-padded black fabric sack with yellow trim, and put everything inside. The carrying case has a strap similar to my backpack. I sling the weapon over my shoulder and ride my bike home. Like a badass.
The gun is less complex than it looks. One of the switches that sits flush against the gun releases the ammunition cartridge. It’s called a magazine or a clip, according to the manual. Open up the box of bullets and one by one insert them into the spring-loaded clip. The bullets fit snugly. There’s room for twenty-eight bullets in the clip. That seems like an oddly specific number. Why not thirty? Or twenty-five? The bullets themselves are smooth, golden colored with rounded gray metal tips. The bullets in the clip look like paratroopers getting ready to jump out of a plane.
Slide the magazine back into the gun. It connects with a satisfying CLICK. The manual is fairly straightforward. Release the safety. Brace the stock against my shoulder. Line up my target through the notched sight at the far end of the barrel. Pull the trigger. Shoot the gun.
I’m really going to do this. I’m really going to take this gun, find a deer, and I’m really going to shoot that deer. And then, somehow, I’m going to eat that deer. That confluence of facts appears very matter-of-fact. Almost like a rational decision.
Does it even have anything to do with hunger? I’m not hungry. Not yet at least. Shooting a deer isn’t necessary. And even as part of my redefinition of girly, as if just by saying it makes it so, it’s a smokescreen. It’s all for Grace. Or rather,because of Grace.
“I’m not a dweeb,” I tell her. I hear the word echoing in my head, Grace’s nasally disgust dripping through it like blood oozing from a wound. Dweeb. Nerd. Geek. Freak. Loser. Take your pick from the catalog. Grace’s greatest hits album, played over and over on repeat.
So that’s it, isn’t it? This machine with its lone purpose, locked and loaded and waiting only for my unsure hand to set it in motion. Some unsuspecting deer, waiting months in the woods while the horrible sound of people grew softer and softer until at last the sound is gone. The whir of traffic, car after car, maybe the deer has watched its family die too, struck by some speeding metal beast, and then suddenly the metal beasts are all gone. In the new silence that’s humankind’s legacy, slowly the deer goes exploring. Grows braver. Just like me. Until these two unconnected creatures are joined together through the muzzle of this gun.
The problem with pain is that it trumps reason. Emotional stab wounds get pushed to the head of the line. Despite seeing clearly what I’m about to do, it’s Grace’s voice that takes over. Will killing a deer let me win? In the pain-stained confusion of my own mind, in the suite of rooms in which Grace still holds court, will doing this thing make Grace respect me? The thought is absurd. But absurdity means thatreason is involved. This isn’t something I can think away. Because in a lot of ways, Grace is more alive in my head than she’d ever been in life.
“Get out of here, you maggot,” Grace sneered. I stood in the open doorway of Grace’s bedroom. What posters she’d salvaged from our house in Flint were plastered haphazardly on the walls.
“Seriously, shift your ass,” Grace said. “I’m gonna’ need disinfectant now.”
“Why are you so cruel?” I asked. Grace looked up from her half-hearted attempt at homework. Her heavily mascaraed eyes glinted.
“Is baby gonna’ cry?” Grace mocked. “You’re such a total dweeb.”
“Just tell me why.”
“Seriously?” Grace asked, and rolled her eyes. “You’re embarrassing. You look like some kid drew a stick figure and threw a bad wig on its head. You’re like the antidote to cool.”
How I’d tried. When Grace wasn’t home, I stood in her closet trying on her clothes. I even attempted makeup, but ended up looking like a clown that wanted to kill you. Graceoozed cool. It seeped out of her like sweat. All I wanted was a taste. No matter how much Grace beat me down, I kept coming back for more.
Grace’s death was messy. They all were, but with Grace it seemed more pronounced. My sister had expended so much energy trying to look perfect that the humiliation of dying badly was an insult.
General Tsao was a slob. The mucous alone was a nightmare. No matter how many tissues I could scavenge from the neighbors’ houses, there were green and yellow stains everywhere. The General’s victims coughed up blood in the days preceding their deaths. Deep red lung blood sprayed out like window cleaner and dried in grotesque patterns on the walls and floor and soiled bedding. And that was the other part. General Tsao’s victims lost control of their bowels. The diarrhea that never seemed to end had a putrid, stinging smell. That was the part I never got used to.
Grace never thanked me. None of them did, not even Mom who was such a stickler for stuff like that. Most of the time, my family drifted in and out of a confused consciousness. It was hard not to take it personally. Right up until the end, the series of ends, I still thought they all might get better. I would be their hero. Even Grace would’ve been grateful. They’d have a party for me. There’d be cake.
But there was no party. Nobody thanked me and nobody cared about all the horrible things I had to do. There are no other survivors. And I’m learning that survival is a very thankless existence.
So I sit in the doorway of the food co-op in North Charleston where I last saw the deer. The gun rests across my lap. Fight the urge to doze off. The shade of the doorway is disappearing. The air is hot. And the deer have yet to show up.
I assume they’ll come back. Don’t animals have migratory patterns? Or is that just birds? Make a mental note to pick up a book on that, too.
The city is deathly quiet. Funny expression, deathly quiet. And entirely appropriate. The smell of rot is fading. Maybe the heat has accelerated decomposition. Or maybe everything that can stink has already done so. Either way, the city is becoming a more pleasant place to be.
There, just down the street. A rustle in the bushes that separates the residential neighborhood from the shops. Hold my breath. Yes, there they are, Mama and her two fawns. The babies are growing quickly. One of them, the male, already has small, furry horn buds protruding from his head. The deer step cautiously out of the bushes. The doe still remembers humans. It hasn’t been that long since she’s had to avoid them. Maybe it isn’t just humans the deer are leery of. If there’s prey, there’s always a predator. If not right away, then coming in on the next train.
Watch the deer carefully. Want them to feel confident. They’re high-strung animals. Their insanely thin legs can catapult them away in a heartbeat. I’m patient. I know why I’m sitting here. The deer don’t.
It takes a few minutes but the doe eventually decides the coast is clear. She leads the fawns across the street to the same hedge on
which they’d noshed when I first saw them. Slowly lift the rifle. Becoming more accustomed to its weight. The weapon has a particular feel in my hands that’s on its way to becoming familiar. Not comfortable, but not like the foreign object it was.
Maybe I should’ve taken a practice shot or two. Set up my surplus tin cans and do some target practice, like an Old West gunfighter. Too late now. If I miss these deer, I’ll call this target practice. No harm, no foul. That was one of Dad’s favorites.
Use my thumb to slip the gun’s safety switch to its off position. I practiced that move, and have become a bit of an expert at it. Perform the task silently. A quick glance at the deer lets me know I haven’t disturbed them. Good. A stationary target should be easier to hit.
I’m really doing this, aren’t I? Watch the doe as her long, wedge-shaped head strips leaves from the hedge. It has to be the doe. That’s hard enough to wrap my head around. I don’t think I have it in me to kill one of the babies. No matter how badly I want to impress Grace.
Lift the gun to my shoulder. It fits snugly against my shoulder blade. Stare down the barrel at the distant sight. Hold the gun steady. Surprised at how steady I am. Feeling calm. An unexpected feeling.
Gently rub my finger over the trigger. The manual warned me that the trigger is sensitive. It also said that the gun has a kick, whatever that is.
The sound of the shot and the pain happen simultaneously. I’ve shot myself. I’m sure of it. Maybe confused which end was the barrel. The gun drops to the stoop below me. All three deer run off. Missed them.
White haze. The pain is so intense I’m sure I’ll pass out. But passing out is too easy. Every breath is agony. The pain is centralized in my right arm. Tentatively reached up with my left hand to survey the damage. Expect my arm to be gone and my left hand to slip into the bloody goo of my shoulder stump. That thought brings me closer to passing out.
The First Year Page 10
