van.
In the same moment, looking up, he saw the pickup truck through the shrubs backing out of the drive, fast, the rear end turning this way, brake lights popping on and now the truck was taking off in the direction they had come. Armand stepped back, opened the door. Richie was hunched over, starting the van. He glanced at Armand saying, “I got him. You get the woman.”
Armand was shaking his head no, reaching up to pull himself in, and the van jumped away from him. He heard Richie saying it again, “I
Carmen told her mom she was getting ready to fix kielbasa and cabbage for dinner, one of Wayne’s favorites. Her mom said, “Oh, is he home for a change? Let me say hello to the big guy.” Carmen told her they’d run out of beer and she’d forgotten to pick some up at the A & P, so Wayne had run out to get some. Her mom said, “Uh-huh,” and told Carmen that kielbasa and cabbage was a good last-minute kind of dinner, wasn’t it, you could throw together whenever the man of the house decided to come home. Carmen, looking out the window over the sink, said, “Mom?” Her mom was saying she fried her kielbasa first, then put it in with the cabbage to steam for about twenty minutes and served it with mustard pickles. Carmen said, “Mom, I’ll call you right back,” and hung up.
The heavyset man Wayne thought was an Indian had come up the drive and was standing opposite the porch. Carmen knew him, even in that hunting outfit, the man facing the door to the kitchen, now gazing up at the house.
Wayne had come home and run out again, leaving the door open. The shotgun he’d loaded and placed next to the door last night was still there, leaning against the wall. But the door was on the other side of the counter from where Carmen stood at the sink.
She was thinking that if she had remembered to pick up the beer, or if Wayne had come home earlier—but he wasn’t home and that’s why he’d placed the gun by the door, for a time like this, just in case, the Remington she’d fired at least a dozen times in the past five years, though never at anything living. Wayne had said she was pretty good with it. He’d throw cans in the air . . .
The heavyset man was approaching the steps, his hands in the side pockets of his hunting coat. It was too small for him. So was the cap, sitting on his forehead, the peak down close to his eyes.
She didn’t want him to come up on the porch. If he did—she didn’t think closing the door and locking it would keep him out of the house.
So Carmen walked around the counter and watched his head raise, the man seeing her now in the doorway. She picked up the Remington, pushed the safety off and let him see the shotgun too, held in her right hand pointed down, as she stepped out on the porch.
He touched the brim of his cap and seemed to smile. “You going hunting, Miss?”
Carmen didn’t answer.
“I was looking for your husband, have a talk with him.”
“He’s not home.”
“I know that. But see, I can come in and wait for him.” He shrugged, looking toward the road, then at Carmen again, his face raised with the peaked cap in his eyes. He said, “Okay?” and started to mount the steps.
Carmen half-turned, raising the shotgun in both hands, the stock under her arm.
It stopped him. He frowned and seemed surprised. “Why you pointing that at me?”
“What do you want?”
“I told you, I want to talk to your husband. Why don’t you and I go in the house, wait for him?”
“You’d better leave,” Carmen said. “I mean it. Right now.”
“Or what? You gonna shoot me? That what you do, you shoot people?”
It made her mad, the way he said it, and she didn’t answer.
She was holding a shotgun loaded with Magnum slugs, finger curled around the trigger. But the gun was only a threat if she was willing to use it. The man seemed at ease, not believing she would, and that made her mad. She was scared to death of him. She didn’t want him to move, come up the steps. But if he did she would have to shoot. He looked out at the road again and up at the house and then at her, in no hurry. It was as though he was saying, This is nothing, I’ll come up the steps if I want, do anything I want . . .
He moved to come up the steps and Carmen pulled the trigger and saw his face change, his eyes pop open, in that shattering sound of the gun firing, the shot going past his head. She pumped the gun and held it on him, the man bringing both hands up as he backed away saying, “Okay, take it easy, ’ey? Youwant me to leave? Okay, Miss, I’m going.”
He kept looking back as he moved off, not out to the road but across the drive and the side yard toward the chickenhouse, taking his time and looking back as if to see what she thought of it. Carmen didn’t like it at all. She wanted him to
Carmen raised the stock to her shoulder and put the slug-barrel sights on the slat boards of the low structure, close to the man’s head. He didn’t move, telling her again he didn’t believe she would shoot him, and for a moment she felt an awful urge to slide the barrel over, center it on him. Carmen let the moment pass. She fired, pumped the gun in that sound splitting the air, raised it to fire again and he was gone.
What Richie had in mind was to come up on the guy’s truck all of a sudden, pull out like he was going to pass, holding the shotgun with the tip of the barrel resting on the passenger-side windowsill, the window open, and as he came even with the guy squeeze one off, blow him right out of his truck. Except once he thought of it they were getting near Algonac and cars were coming the other way, so he couldn’t pull out. By the time there was a chance to, the guy put his left blinker on and turned into a 7-Eleven.
Comes home and the little woman sends him to the store.
Richie liked the idea, the guy thinking he was mean but actually was pussy-whipped. Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear. Donna asked him to go to the store one time. He’d said to her, “Hey, you start on me with that kinda shit, I’m gone.” They didn’t respect you if you did too much for them. He’d have to remember to tell Bird that, the Bird not knowing shit about women. Which was weird, a man his age. But then the Bird was Indian and they were a weird bunch anyway, believing you could get turned into a fucking owl. Donna didn’t know what kind of bird she’d be. Richie believed he’d be an eagle. Shit, be the best.
He had turned into the empty parking area in front of the store, pulled up right next to the guy’s truck facing the plateglass windows covered with bargain signs and watched him go in, the guy wearing a jacket that said ironworkers on the back. Like he was proud of it. Look at me, I’m a fucking ironworker, man. Richie’s idea was to give the ironworker something to look at when he came out, the muzzle of a pump gun. Then began to think if he needed anything. Yeah, sunglasses; he’d misplaced his shades somewhere. He wondered if he’d have time to run in and get a pair, come back out . . .
Or do the job in there, Richie thought. What’s the difference? It even gave him another idea. Do more than the job. Make it a double feature.
He walked into the store carrying the shotgun down at his side. He didn’t see the ironworker. The two checkout counters were right in front of him, a girl in there between them, chewing gum as she looked up at him and then down again, not seeming too interested. She was reading a magazine. Richie noticed her hair looked oily. He didn’t see the ironworker anywhere.
Then did see him, way down at the end of an aisle, two six-packs under his arm, picking up a bag of potato chips.
The trick now was to do both almost at once. Richie raised the shotgun high enough to aim it at the girl and saw her drop the magazine as he said, “This’s your big day, honey. Empty out that cash drawer for me in a paper bag and set it on the counter. And some gum. Gimme a few packs of that bubble gum, too.” The girl was about eighteen, not too good-looking, dark, maybe an Indian. When she didn’t move he said, “Do it,” and she jumped and got busy. He swung the shotgun at the aisle then, yelled out, “Hey!” and saw the ironworker look this way at him, which was the idea, get him looking. But shit, as he fired and pumped and fired, the buckshot blowing hell out of the potato-chip rack and the soda pop on the far wall, the ironworker disappeared. Richie stepped to the next aisle, saw him moving and fired and pumped and fired again; man, raking the shelves, cans flying, bottles busting, but no ironworker lying there. Shit, missed again. Saw him going for a door, the six-packs still under his arm, the ironworker in the doorway as Richie fired his last round and shot out the glass part of the door as it swung closed.
