Abandoned

Tommy sits back. His jaw is slack. “I’m going to be a father?”

There is wonder in his voice, only wonder, and I know then that it’s all going to be okay. Terror flees, replaced by a relief that exhausts me, the bottom of the adrenal bell curve. Bonnie stands up and comes over to me. She hugs me, wordless. She clings to me, not letting go, and I worry for a moment what it means. Is she scared? Jealous? Sad?

She pulls away and wipes tears from her face.

“What is it, honey?” I ask.

“That’s just … so cool,” she says, choking a little. I laugh and she laughs as well, and then I’m crying too, so now we’re both crying and laughing, as Tommy watches and repeats: “I’m going to be a father? Holy shit.” We stare at him in shock.

“Tommy,” I say. “Did you just use profanity?”

His eyes swim toward me, here yet not here, happy and disbelieving at the same time. “Did I?” he asks. He stands up, the chair sliding back on the wood floor. He walks over to us and he takes us both in his arms, Bonnie and me, equally.

“I love you both very much.” His voice is rough, like unsanded wood. He hugs us to him with certainty and tenderness, that mix of sorrowful strength all good men seem to carry around with them.

“This is great news.”

Tommy, my man of few words. Sometimes shorter is not just better. Sometimes it’s the best of all.

“Listen to me, honey,” I tell Bonnie. “This is important.”

“Okay.”

“The first thing you need to know is, the moment you stop really listening to me, the moment you put your attention on automatic or start acting like you know everything or get impatient with my direction in the slightest way, we pack up and leave. Got that?”

“Yes.”

Bonnie and I are at the shooting range. Raymond, Kirby’s undertaker friend, sits outside in the parking lot, watching and waiting. He reminds me of a frog. Perched, quiet and harmless, until a fly buzzes by, then the fly is consumed and quiet harmlessness resumes.

We’d gotten past our tears and happiness. Well, maybe not past the happiness, but at least the giddy side of it. Tommy is at home, searching the Internet for a book on pregnancy and childbirth. I considered trying to dissuade him but gave it up in the end because, in truth, I like that he’s doing it. This isn’t going to be the walk in the park it was when I was in my twenties. The thought of Tommy boning up on the subject brings me comfort.

Bonnie and I had already made our appointment for the range tonight, and there’s no way I’m breaking it because of my announcement. I’ve never had to juggle two kids, but something tells me it would be a bad precedent to set.

I’ve been shooting at this range in the Valley since I can remember. Its owner, Jazz, is an ex-marine sniper with eyes that are warm up front but cold in the back. He doesn’t have to let me bring Bonnie here, but he’s made no bones about it. I guess he approves of her teething on gunmetal.

Bonnie has big hands for her age, and they’re strong, so I’ve decided to start her with a 9mm. We’ll work our way down from there as needed. Jazz rents guns at his range, and I chose the Sig Sauer P226 for her to begin with. It’s a 9mm that’s somehow always felt light and comfortable to me, and it’s an accurate weapon. I prefer the Glock, but mostly because it’s the gun that found me first. Jazz set us up with a ten-round-capacity mag, one hundred rounds of ammunition, some paper targets, and our eye protection and earmuffs.

“Earmuffs go on before we enter the range,” I continue. “They never come off while we’re on the range. You could go deaf, no joke. Protective lenses stay on at all times while you’re on the range, without exception.”

She nods, and I’m mollified by the rapt seriousness on her face. It’s apropos. I pick up the gun.

“This is a double-action weapon. What that means is that you don’t have to pull back the hammer prior to firing. Just pulling the trigger will cause it to fire. Not only for that reason but especially because of it, you are never—and I mean never—to have the weapon pointed anywhere but down the firing range when it is loaded. You are never—and I mean never—to point the weapon at anyone, including your own foot, regardless of whether you think it’s loaded or not. Do you understand so far?”

“Yes.”

“You are to eject the mag and place the weapon down each time you finish firing.”

“How do I put in and eject the mag?”

I look at Jazz and raise my eyebrows, asking permission. It’s a firm rule that you never walk off the range with a mag in your weapon. I was here when someone forgot this rule, and I watched as Jazz held a .357 on them and asked them to lie down on the floor. No one got shot, but it made an impression on me.

“Go ahead,” he says, watching it all with a passive interest.

I show her, sliding the empty mag home and then releasing it. “Got it?”

“Can I try?”

I hand her the weapon and watch as she examines it carefully, along with the mag. She takes her time, not putting on a show of pretending to understand how it all works. “What’s this?” she asks, pointing at the decocking lever.

“Kind of like a safety.”

“No,” Jazz says. “It’s a decocking lever. Not a safety. Apples and oranges.”

He’s right, of course. I’d been trying to dumb it down for Bonnie, to keep it simple, but the old rule is always the best rule when it comes to guns: If you’re not smart enough to understand your weapon, you’re not smart enough to use it safely.

“Many handguns have what’s called a safety, honey, that you can put on manually. The P226 has a decocking lever, which lowers the hammer of the gun safely. That way, when you travel, you don’t have to worry about the hammer coming down by accident for any reason. But,” I continue, emphasizing this last, “it also means that this gun is basically always ready to fire.”

“Decocking lever,” she repeats, nodding. “How do I engage it?”

Jazz raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Engage. Good word.”

I show her. She practices it a few times. “I got it.”

“Okay, so load the magazine.”

It takes her a moment, as she’s going slow and is observing everything as she does it.

“Good. Now, use your thumb to pull down on the slide catch lever. Here, honey,” I say, pointing it out to her.

She does, and the slide snaps forward into the battery. “Like that?”

“Yep. There you go. If the magazine was full, your weapon would be loaded and ready to fire.”

Bonnie pulls the trigger back, and I hear the click as the hammer hits home. I grab the gun away from her.

“Never fire a weapon off the range, loaded or not!” I snap at her.

She’s surprised at my anger but doesn’t quail the way I’d like. Jazz sees this and walks from behind the counter. He comes over to Bonnie and stands above her, looking down at her. Jazz is not a big man, but he personifies intimidation. There is a calm and quiet coldness that surrounds him. Bonnie’s mouth falls open as she looks up into his dead-fish eyes.

“You ever do that again in my shop and you’re going to be in a lot of trouble,” he says, full of patient threat. “You understand?” She gulps, swallows. “Yes,” she manages. “Yes, what?” he asks. “Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Good.” He ambles back over to his side of the counter. “Now, the two of you get on the range and leave me alone.”

Bonnie and I put on our protective lenses and head toward the double doors that lead to the indoor range.

“Put your earmuffs on,” I tell her before opening the first door. She hesitates. “He’s scary.”

“A little, yes.”

She glances back at Jazz, who’s writing something on a stack of receipts. “He’s killed people,” she says. “I can tell.” She slips on her earmuffs and gives me a beaming smile before I can think of anything pithy to say to this. “Can we go and shoot now?”