while Jennifer cried every mile of the way, a kidnapping by a neighbor’s dog, with Dad then spending two days prowling the woods looking for him. He was patched, worn smooth in places, and though she was twelve today, Rabs was still her buddy and John suspected always would be… until finally there might be a day when, left behind as a young lady went off to college, Rabs would then rest on her father’s desk to remind him of the precious times before.
The dogs had finished up chomping down their dinner and he let them out for their evening run. Ginger was a bit nervous going out, since usually he’d throw on the spotlights for them. At this time of year bears with their newborn cubs were wandering about, raccoons were out, and the sight of either would nearly trigger a heart attack. She did her business quickly and darted back in, settling down at Jennifer’s feet.
“No school tomorrow?” Jennifer asked hopefully.
“Well, if the lights come on during the night, you’ll know there’s school. If not, no school.”
“Hope it stays pitch-black all night.”
“You want me in the guest room?” Jen asked, carrying the Coleman lantern.
“In with us, Grandma,” Jennifer announced.
“That puts me in the middle,” Elizabeth complained, “and Brat here kicks when she’s asleep.”
“All right, ladies, I’ll be out in my office. Now get to sleep.” Jen smiled and went into the bathroom, carrying the lantern.
“Night, girls.”
“Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you, too.”
He closed the door and went into his office. He sat down for a moment at his desk, setting the flashlight on end so that the beam pointed to the ceiling, filling the room with a reflected glow.
The office had always driven Mary crazy. She expected “better” of a military man to which his retort always was that she had also married a professor. Stacks of paper were piled up on either side of his desk, filed, he used to say, by “geological strata.” A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf to his left held books two rows deep, the references for whatever he was working on at the moment, or what interested him, on the nearest shelf. The other walls were lined with photos, his framed degrees, Mary’s degree, pictures of the kids.
He stood gazing at the bookshelf for a moment, pulled several books from the outer layer aside, found what he wanted, and fished the volume out. He had not opened it in years, not since leaving the war college.
Sitting down and propping the book on his knees, he held the flashlight with one hand, checked the chapter headings of the work, a mid-1990s dot-matrix computer printout, then sat back and read for half an hour. He finally put the report down on his desk.
Behind him was a locked cabinet, and opening his desk, he pulled out a single key, unlocked the cabinet, and swung the door open. He reached in, hesitated for a second, deciding which one, then pulled out his pump 20-gauge bird gun. From the ammunition rack he opened up a box of bird shot, and slipped three rounds in. The bird shot was not a killing load, except at very close range, but definitely a deterrent.
Next was the pistol. It was, he knew, an eccentric touch. A cap-and-ball Colt Dragoon. A big, heavy mother of a gun, the sight of it enough to scare the crap out of most drunks.
John had actually been forced to use it once for real, back in his undergraduate days, before he met Mary. He was living off campus, in a farmhouse shared with half a dozen other guys, all of them rather hippieish that year, long haired, the year he definitely smoked a little too much dope… something that Mary had made clear would stop on day one if they were to date.
Some local good old boys had taken a distinct dislike to “long-haired faggots” living nearby and one night did a “drive-by,” blowing out the kitchen door with a load of buckshot, yelling for the faggots to come out and get what they deserved.
His roommates were freaked, one of them cried that they were in the middle of
“Next shot’s for real,” John said calmly.
The rednecks piled into their truck and disappeared in one helluva hurry, his buddies standing on the porch, in awe as he walked back, feeling more than a little like Gary Cooper in
“Peace through superior firepower,” he said calmly, then went inside and poured himself one helluva vodka to calm down while his roommates chattered away, reenacting the drama for half the night.
What had truly scared him? The realization that he was ready to kill one of the bastards if they had tried to venture another shot. Reflecting on it later, he didn’t like that feeling at all, and hoped he’d never have it again… though he would, years later in Iraq, but at least then he was not pulling the trigger just ordering others to do so.
The following morning, a Saturday, the landlord had come over with a case of beer, asked to see this now- legendary gun, and said that “you boys got some respect now.”
A month later, stopping in a roadside bar with a couple of friends to get a beer, John had run into one of the four who had been his harassers. John recognized him, there was a tense moment, and the redneck broke out laughing, brought John a beer, and told everyone the story, concluding with “this Yankee boy’s ok,” and they shook hands.
Damn, even then he did love the South.
The revolver was already loaded, and he put it on his desk.
He suddenly realized someone was in the room and looked up. It was Jen in the doorway.
“This is serious, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Go to sleep.” He hesitated. “Mom.”
She stood silent for a moment, nodded, then disappeared.
Without taking his shoes off, John stretched out on the sofa in his office, laying the shotgun down on the floor by his side.
It was a long couple of hours before he finally drifted to sleep. As he began to fall asleep, Zach disengaged himself from Jennifer’s embrace, came out to the office, and with a sigh settled down by John’s side.
CHAPTER THREE
The scream woke him up. He fumbled for the shotgun, got half to his feet, and heard Elizabeth cursing. “There’s no hot water, damn it!”
Putting the gun down, he walked into the bedroom as Elizabeth stormed out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. “Dad, there’s no hot water!”
“What in hell did you expect?” he grumbled, heart still racing a bit.
Jennifer was sitting up, Rabs tucked under her arm, smiling.
“No school, Dad?”
“Nope.”
“Great!”
“Dad, how am I going to take a shower?”
“Take it cold; it won’t kill you,” he muttered, and then wandered into the kitchen.
Coffee, damn it, coffee.
He pulled the foil bag down, the paper filter, made the coffee extra strong, filled the pot up, poured it in, and flicked the switch.
He stood there like an idiot for a good minute before the realization hit. “Ah, shit.”
He pulled a small pot out from under the cabinet, filled it with water and walked out onto the porch, flicked on the grill, and set the pot on it. Fumbling in his pocket, he got out a cigarette and lit it.
Though he was watching the pot, it finally did come to a boil, and a minute later he had a cup, doing it the
