A stream of images came pouring out of his hands. Again and again his son’s face was before him. He sat transfixed watching it rise out of his palms and come into focus. Jonathan smiled, that crooked, goofy smile he always had when he saw his dad. He smiled back. The color and lines began to blur and fade and once again he was looking at two dirty, empty hands.
To see that face, just one more time.
One more time.
That was all he asked.
His heart hardened. He took out the single bullet, holding it between his index finger and thumb, slowly rolling it back and forth, back and forth. He could see the little lines and grooves in the metal jacket as the fading sun reflected off it. He stood it upright in the palm of his left hand so that it’s tip pointed towards the sky. He stared.
The same hands that moments before had offered him his son’s face, now offered him a lone bullet. He placed his palms together, pausing briefly, hands touching as if in prayer, then transferred the bullet to his right hand.
He drew out the revolver, feeling its weight, hearing the slight sound it made as it scraped against the holster. He popped open the chamber and placed the single bullet, one step from the firing pin. He snapped it shut, its loud click audible above the chorus of crickets. He felt weak and thought he might vomit. With a surge of anger he jammed the gun back into the holster.
He felt a rush of warm summer air and lay his head back against the hard stone foundation. He looked up as the first stars pierced the fading light. He became aware of the cool rock against his back. He smelled the dry pine, the dust, and tasted the salt from sweat on his lips. He felt his chest pound with the contractions of his heart.
Shaking now he steadied his breathing. The fingers of his hand slid down over the rough handle of the pistol, now cool to the touch. He would see his son again. One more time. He would look him the eye and make things right.
The world around him began to warp and weave into meaningless patterns and colors and sounds. He began the final break from time and the obligations of the living. Only the revolver was clear, loaded with its lone bullet, awaiting a clear intention. He took a deep breath, placed it against his right temple, and paused.
Son, I am coming.
He took his last breath and squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He squeezed it harder.
Again, nothing happened.
Desperation overcame him. He put the gun in his mouth, grabbed the trigger with both hands and squeezed as hard as he could. Still the trigger would not move. Shaking so hard he nearly dropped the gun, he took the revolver out of his mouth.
He brought it slowly down into his lap. Waves of nausea and adrenaline washed over him. He looked at the pistol, seeing but not comprehending.
There, sticking out of one of the bullet chambers was a foot.
He still didn’t understand. He brought it up to his face in the fading light. There, in one of the six chambers for bullets, was a tiny red plastic leg with a lightning bolt on it, jamming the pistol. The hammer was pulled back, but the cylinder couldn’t advance with the leg jammed into it.
He stared for a full minute, and then looked down at the holster.
A small plastic figure lay in the bottom of the holster with one of its legs broken off. The remaining leg was caught in a hole in the seam of the leather in the bottom of the holster, trapping it in place. It was the action figure Jonathan called The Bolt, his favorite. He must have left it there after playing with it for the last time.
It dawned on him, slowly at first, then with a force that threatened to tear him apart- his son’s last act in life was to place his favorite plastic toy in a spot where it would hold back death from his father. A small piece of plastic, shaped like a leg, had stopped Jeremiah from killing himself. In Jeremiah’s mind the impossible had occurred.
The son had protected the father.
Something broke inside Jeremiah and he began to sob. Grief ripped through him like the storms that raged through mountains in the winter. He screamed into the night sky until he was hoarse, his cries ringing out into the vastness. The mountains accepted his grief. They stood still, unmoving, quiet and open.
He cried at the beauty, the horror, the beauty and the horror, that life is. He cried until he was empty. He collapsed back exhausted, staring at the stars. They pulsed overhead to the rhythm of the mountains, untouched by his grief.
He still had a wife and two other children who needed him. This was the end of the trail, the end of grief.
He stood up slowly, straightening his back, and looked around. The crickets had stopped. It was night now. He spoke out loud to himself.
I am only a night’s hike away from the truck, and by dawn I can be home. Home.
He said it again, carefully emphasizing each word. Speaking it out loud to make sure it was real.
He picked up the gun. In the moonlight he could still see the small foot jamming the hammer open. Grabbing the little foot with his right hand, he twisted it back and forth, easing it out of the revolver. He popped open the chamber and took the lone bullet out.
In one hand he held the little leg, in the other the bullet. He paused, understanding now what he held in each hand. He drew back his arm and threw the bullet as hard as he could off the ridge. It twinkled briefly in the sky and was gone.
He gently put the little plastic leg back into the holster, taking it off his belt at the same time. He set it down next to him. Stone by stone he built a rock cairn where it looked out over the mountains. When he was done he hung the holster over the top of it. Jonathan was ok. He knew that now.
He built a second, slightly larger rock cairn next to the first for his father. These were his mountains too. He knew now where to find them if he needed them. They would always be here, together, watching over each other.
An elk bugled in the night. Somewhere, far away in the canyons below, another called back.
He shouldered his pack.
It was time to go.
The rest of his family was waiting.
Holster Page 2
