Web of Angels

by Lilian Nattel

  In the dining room, a thin grey rectangle lay on the floor, unnoticed beneath the table.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  The set-up of the Garrison Shooting Club hadn’t changed in sixty years. There were wooden dividers, gun rests, metal poles with paper targets—bull’s eyes only, no human figures. One of these days the club, down at heel, would have to close, much to the satisfaction of most of Seaton Grove. But that day hadn’t yet come. In the meantime the average age of membership was seventy-two, having come down from seventy-seven by the influx of some strays who had ended up in the vicinity, now indulged and cherished by the club, even women like Ingrid, whose sexual orientation was a matter of indifference to these odd old men who stubbornly clung to their club. The only compromise with modernity was a loudspeaker to amplify the whispery voice of the shooter in charge.

  “Hello Ingrid,” he said. “Brought your friends?” Vernon was eighty-eight. When he was young, he’d been thin-shouldered and homely. Now he was an old man like other old men, only better, because he still drove his car to the shooting club every day. And it was a good car, reliable, comfortable, without those plastic bits that always broke off in cheaper cars.

  “Yes, Vernon. They’re my guests.”

  “Fine, fine,” he said, checking that everyone had earplugs as Ingrid unpacked the duffle bag. The shooting club was named for Garrison Creek, which had run south, emptying into the lake near the fort on its shore. Two hundred years ago under the general’s orders, the soldiers had chopped down the forest to build the first road up over the ridge. The deforested land had been divided into estates, and the gentlemen of the estates had formed the club. “Nice gun you got there.”

  “It’s accurate,” she shouted back. Vernon turned off his hearing aids when he was at the club.

  “Yup, that Remington Nylon is a good rifle.” Happy to see new people, he handed them each a paper target, black background with white circles in the centre, a lighter background with dark circles on the outside.

  Ingrid picked up three metal poles, each of them topped by a square of corrugated cardboard wedged into a notch. While she taped the targets to the cardboard, her friends looked around. Three of the stalls were occupied. There were two old men standing to shoot. One of them had a palsy that made his gun shake while he reloaded it, but not while he was shooting. The owner of the candy-coloured house sat on a stool, his rifle on the gun rest. He was a newcomer to the shooting range, apparently looking for another hobby, for the time being finished with decorating his house. Taking off sunglasses now that they were indoors, Eleanor’s sister-in-law noted the exits on either side before casting a glance at the club members.

  “You want to go first?” Eleanor asked.

  “Naw. Your idea. You go ahead,” Alec said. There were eight stalls with gun rests and stools for those who wanted to sit while shooting. Twenty-five yards from each stall was a metal stand that held the target poles.

  Vernon was picking up the phone receiver, his voice coming through the loudspeakers as he called, “Shooters, unlatch your guns and move back from the shooting area.”

  The two old men and the owner of the candy-coloured house waited while Vernon walked up and down with a good firm step, being the man in charge as he checked the range and made sure that all the guns were disabled. Any shots in a wall or ceiling meant immediate dismissal from the club. When it was all clear, he told the men to fetch their targets and the women to put up theirs. Then Vernon walked through again, even though anyone could see that all the shooters were at their stalls. But there was a way to do things, and walking through was one of them.

  “Commence shooting,” he announced.

  Ingrid loaded the rifle for Eleanor, showing her how to keep her finger away from the trigger, look through the sight and pull when she was ready. Once she was set up, Ingrid moved to the next stall, holding her handgun with both hands, long fingers wrapped around it as she looked carefully at the target. Shoot. Kick. Pistol veering up. Shoot, kick. She had a Beretta M9. A good gun if you had big enough hands for it. Hers weren’t as steady as they ought to be while she fired. Alec wondered if it was the same gun that Heather had used, and, if it was, whether he could hold it any steadier. At one time, he’d have been sure of that. Now he looked at the gun, picturing a girl with awkwardly small hands, a barrel pressed into her ear. Did the baby hear the shot? Heather had taken no chances with turning herself into a vegetable, using the wall and pillows to support her back, head and arm, making sure she had the gun angled right. That was what he’d heard.

  So it wasn’t any spur-of-the-moment thing. She’d taken her time. She’d planned it all out. And while she was planning, all she’d have needed was one person to stand between her and the deep shit. Someone to say it don’t gotta be game over, kiddo. But she didn’t have that one. There couldn’t have been because she took herself out and meant to take her baby with her. Those were his thoughts as he stood silently, watching his sister-in-law struggle with the rifle while the sun shone through dusty windows.

  When Vernon called, “Stop shooting,” Ingrid disabled the guns, then picked up the targets.

  “That’s not bad,” she said to Eleanor. “You got 2.97.”

  “Out of ten?” Eleanor laughed, her dimples flashing. “And that’s not bad?”

  “It isn’t. You need a three to pass hunter safety, so you’re almost there.”

  Eleanor looked pleased.

  “Better than mine today,” Ingrid added generously, shaking her head over her target.

  “Commence shooting,” Vernon called.

  Alec balanced the rifle in his hands, butt touching his shoulder. It had been a lot of years since he’d held a gun like this, but his hands remembered, his eyes, too. He leaned his cheek against the stock and looked through the sight, setting the crosshairs on the centre of the target. He breathed in slowly, and when he breathed out, he squeezed the trigger. It wasn’t hard or loud. Just a pftt and the bullet shot out at the target. He took his time, concentrating on each shot. Nothing else existed but the sight and the target and holding the rifle steady. He ran out of ammo just as Vernon called for everyone to open their guns and he snapped the rifle apart. The shooters stood away from the stalls until Vernon announced that it was clear.

  When Alec came back with his target, his sister-in-law said, “I didn’t know you could do that,” looking at him half bemused, half admiring. The bullet holes were all in the black area, many right in the centre.

  “And you never go to a shooting range?” Ingrid asked.

  “Never.”

  “This is tremendous.” She was counting the shots, doing some figuring on a piece of paper. “Look at this,” she said. “You see all the holes here and here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You got a 9.69. That’s really good.”

  “Naw.”

  “Yes it is.”

  Shit. Alec didn’t know what to say.

  “We should go hunting. The meat is healthier for your kids. How did you learn to shoot like that?”

  “My uncle.” His one person, though he was a drunk.

  “Which uncle?” Eleanor asked as Ingrid repacked the duffle bag.

  “My father’s brother. They hated each other.”

  Uncle Frank was a shame to the family, a criminologist who’d given up on his thriving career. His wife had walked out on him and taken his kids. A survivalist, he drank and had one hell of a temper. Being sent to Uncle Frank’s was a punishment to make a kid appreciate home because you had to work till you got blisters and there were no amenities like electricity or indoor plumbing. As per custom, Uncle Frank beat the shit out of his niece on the first night. But when he passed out drunk, Alec beat the shit out of him. Alec was eight. He took a board and smashed Uncle Frank all over. Good thing he wasn’t bigger or he might have done serious damage. Alec figured when his uncle woke up he’d get killed. So he hid out in the woods in back of the house for two days. The third day Alec was so hungry, h
e came sneaking back and the asshole was waiting. Only Uncle Frank didn’t touch him. He had a gun. He said that he was going to teach Alec to shoot because if you want to kill someone, beating them up just means they are going to come back for you. Alec said, Are you sure you wanna do that cuz you might not wake up one morning. And Uncle Frank said, Jesus F. Christ, shut your smart mouth and listen good. You are the first one in this family that is worth a fucking nickel. You show me how hard you can work and I’ll let you stay for the whole summer. And Alec said, Oh yeah? Just so you can get drunk and beat me up again? Uncle Frank said that he wouldn’t drink while they worked the farm. They shook on it. And Uncle Frank kept his word. Six days a week he was sober. On Sundays he drank and Alec hid out in the woods, taking food and water and a poncho in case it rained. It was a good summer. He slept on the porch. He swam in the lake. There were water lilies.

  They were walking back along Hammond Street, past the car mechanic, which in a former time had been a coal depot selling egg coal, pea coal, stove coal, nut coal and buckwheat coal. The sun was strong, the wind cool. It was the spring equinox, day balanced evenly with night, the earth momentarily neither leaning toward the sun nor away from it, like the shooting club balanced precariously between existence and non-existence. On the other side of the road, cars were turning into the parking lot of Best Foods on the right and Magee’s on the left, the arched windows and copper trim of the old Ford factory shining in the sun. Next to it, the walls of the underpass were painted with sunflowers and the Ford logo.

  “I wish I wasn’t so busy,” Ingrid said. “I’d like to come back to the shooting range. I didn’t want to keep the gun that … you know … so I traded in my Makarov for a Beretta. It’s bigger, and I’m not comfortable with it yet.”

  “Did the cops hassle you about the gun?” Alec asked.

  “Not really. They gave it right back after questioning me. It wasn’t needed for evidence and I wasn’t the one who broke any laws, whatever Debra thinks about it. I thought the old lock on the gun cabinet would do. But it turns out you could slide it open with a credit card.”

  “Is that how Heather broke in?” Eleanor asked.

  “That’s what everyone assumes.” Ingrid’s eyes were dark grey, a clouded sky. “I don’t think it was Heather.” Delivery trucks and cars drove by. She studied the houses, some dilapidated and others renovated, for it was the nature of time in Seaton Grove to jump ahead and twist back.

  “She could have got one of those street kids she hung out with to do it,” Eleanor said, and it was only natural she should, for people have worried about strangers ever since their lives depended on being part of a tribe.

  “What’s the difference?” Ingrid said. “At the end of the day, she used my gun. A sixteen-year-old girl used it and I’ll never be able to forget that. I saved a little money on a cheap lock. I’ve got a new one now. But I should have realized …”

  As she paused, Eleanor made encouraging sounds and Alec said, “We’re cheaper than therapy.”

  “Okay, it’s like this.” Ingrid stopped walking, forcing them to stop with her. “Some nights I’m at the observatory and I get home at five or six in the morning. Then when I’m not, my hours are turned around and I work upstairs in the office until I can get to sleep. Heather’s bedroom was on the other side of that wall. There were a lot of nights I heard her up, moving things around, and her mother coming in and shouting at her. I couldn’t hear words, just the sound of their voices, her mother upset. And Heather speaking very fast or sometimes laughing. At first I thought maybe she was on drugs.”

  “That would explain some things,” Eleanor said.

  “No, that’s not it. I talked to her and her sister several times and I know what someone on drugs is like. She didn’t seem depressed either.”

  “You can’t always tell.”

  “No, but I had the distinct impression that she was an angry kid, which is also something I know about. I was an angry kid, too. They came over …” She hesitated again. “The girls came over to see the guns. I thought their parents knew, but when I mentioned it to Rick that evening, he was pretty choked about it. I heard him talking to her the night she died. Her mother too. And she was quiet. If they’d just had more time.”

  “I wish I’d talked to her when I had the chance,” Alec said. “Maybe it would’ve made a difference.”

  “Everybody who knew her is asking themselves if they could have done something to prevent Heather’s death,” Eleanor said. “But ‘ifs’ don’t get you anywhere. You do what’s in your nature to. I’m nosey and you keep things to yourself.” Eleanor dug into her sister-in-law’s side with her elbow as they waited for the green light. “You can’t change that. Like my bubbie used to say—if she had balls she’d be my grandfather.”

  “You’ve got more balls than a lot of guys,” Alec said. “Most people are assholes.” And he meant it, though she laughed, unabashedly shaking with it, cheeks dimpled, eyes nearly shut.

  “But not us,” she said.

  “Of course not us,” Ingrid echoed, finally laughing, too.

  Their laughter was contagious, even to him, Ingrid swinging her duffle bag and Eleanor in her plus-sized velour and matching scarf. Alec’s mirrored sunglasses reflected the street light as it changed, red turning off and green turning on. Behind him Sharon knew that she hadn’t remembered the summer with Uncle Frank. She hadn’t remembered ever handling a gun. But she could still feel the steadiness of Alec’s hands on the rifle and it rattled her. She was appalled; she was proud.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  After his mother and father both died in a train derailment, Rick Edwards was raised by his grandparents. His grandfather had been a police officer, his grandmother a piano teacher who had squirrelled away everything she earned so that her grandson could go to college and graduate school. That was their story, one of hard work and achievement, which Rick had recounted to his own children many times. (In fact it was his grandmother’s inheritance that had paid for his education, but that was beside the point.) His whole life had been about instilling values—it was why he’d done a Ph.D. in business ethics. The reason he’d founded the Learn About the World program. And now the Committee for Youth. His first marriage had been with a woman who taught English every summer as a volunteer in third world countries. One year she just didn’t come back. It was a simple divorce—no kids—and he met Debra Dawson in the simplest way, through friends. When they looked at each other, it was love at first sight, for they saw the mirror image of themselves, male and female, blonde beard and blonde hair, his eyes a paler blue, her eyes darker blue, like water and wet stone.

  Debra had wanted a son, but not enough to keep trying after their second daughter was born. There were compensations. A son is a son till he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter all of her life. Debra had never considered that it might be short or what she might do about that. Her father had been the last doctor to stop doing house calls, her mother had been among the first people to be diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. Debra could have had a fellowship in surgery, but she chose pediatric medicine instead. She had tried the neighbourhood book club and moms’ nights and was bored, but stuck with the breakfast club because it was right below her office. She didn’t want people to think she was a snob, even though she was, but she didn’t mind that people thought she was the boss of her house because she was bossy.

  Rick and Debra had invited Dan and Sharon and a few other people for drinks and dessert on the last Saturday of March. The living room was full but not crowded with Rick’s cousin Mitch and his wife, Yvonne; Dan and Sharon; the chair of Rick’s department, Harry Cooper; and the doctors that shared Debra’s practice. Dr. Nash had come on his own. Dr. Kim had brought her boyfriend, who was a judge in a northern township and visited her on weekends.

  After everyone had arrived, Rick clinked a spoon against his glass. “Thank you all for coming,” he said. “Everyone here has gone beyond the call of duty and I cou
ld think of no better way to express our appreciation than to bring you together. A death in the family lets you know who your friends are. And although Debra and I couldn’t have hoped for a more supportive community, there are some people who really stepped up. If there’s one thing I’ve learned lately, it’s that one shouldn’t take anything for granted. So it’s my hope that you’ll get to know each other a bit better tonight and enjoy the simple pleasures we have on offer.”

  “Can I give anyone a slice of this delicious-looking cake?” Debra asked.

  Sharon had brought a complicated dessert that involved numerous ingredients and liqueur in the chocolate sauce. The house was warm and she took off the sweater she’d thrown over her dress. “Just a drink for me,” Sharon said, uncertain if she could balance both a glass and a plate, even the small ones stacked beside the desserts.

  “I’ll have some,” Harry said. His hair was grey, his beard white, and he was still tanned from his vacation down south. It wouldn’t be long until he retired, and there was a good chance that Rick would take over as chair when he did.

  “Rick, I have to tell you about the new patient I had last week,” Mitch said. He didn’t look like his cousin, for he was taller, broader, darker, running to fat since he didn’t get the workout he had when he was younger, swearing to cut back on office hours so he’d have time for the gym, but he was a psychiatrist and there was a waiting list of people who needed him. “I about jumped out of my chair, he reminded me so much of Grandpa Amos.”

  His third wife, Yvonne, wearing ropes of gold chain, refilled his glass with red wine. Her surface was lacquered with sprays and patted with powders, her blouse a stiff satin, her skirt an overturned bowl. Her children were all teenagers, diagnosed with ADHD and various other letters, for which prescriptions had been provided. She herself had a fabulous prescription, which didn’t prohibit drinking and didn’t make her fat. In fact quite the opposite. She had no appetite.