Frozen Stiff

the spot, making it sting. But it’s the only shirt Hurley had in his bag so it will have to do. After debating on how to brush my teeth, I borrow some of Hurley’s toothpaste and scrub them with a washcloth, following it up with a mouthwash gargle.

I’d like to wash my hair, too, but I decide I can let it slide for another day. I’m curious about what Hurley’s up to since he headed outside with a hammer, a couple of nails, some paper, and a Magic Marker. I’m not a hunter and have no desire to become one, but I know enough about it to know that the supplies Hurley took aren’t the usual tools of the trade.

I put on my jacket and my Frankenstein shoe and hobble outside. The day has dawned cool but sunny and I take a moment to close my eyes and tip my face toward the sky. I can hear the sounds of the woods around me: tree limbs knocking together in the breeze, birds chirping, the occasional rustle of ground leaves . . . and hammering.

This last sound makes me look around in confusion. I follow it toward the back of the house until I see the source of the noise. There is a small clearing behind the house and along the edge of the woods on the other side of it, about fifteen feet from the house, I see Hurley hammering something onto a tree. When he steps away I see that it’s the piece of paper he took from the cabin and he’s drawn a turkey in the center of it.

He comes back to me and says, “Ever shoot a gun?”

“Nope, never. I don’t much like guns. As a nurse I’ve seen what they do to people.”

“Well, you’re going to learn how to shoot one today.”

I shake my head and back away from him. “I don’t think so.”

“You dislike guns because you don’t understand them. I’m going to teach you what you need to know to handle them safely.”

“Why?”

“Because you may need to know it someday,” he says, handing me a gun. “And because I may need you to know it someday.”

“I don’t know, Hurley,” I say, looking at the gun he’s offering. I realize it’s a second one because he’s wearing his usual gun in his shoulder holster. “I think I’d rather just leave the gun stuff up to you.”

“Trust me on this, Mattie, would you? Please?”

Damn it. The man sure knows how to get past my best defenses: those big blue eyes, that sexy, pleading voice, and as a final touch, a hand set gently on my shoulder. “Fine,” I say in a way that lets him know how annoyed I am. “But don’t expect me to shoot at anything other than that tree.”

“Hopefully you’ll never have to.”

For the next half hour, Hurley goes over the basics of the handgun, which I learn is a Glock 9mm. First he tells me that every gun is assumed to be loaded until proven otherwise and should be handled based on that assumption.

“Never, ever point a gun at anyone unless you want to shoot them,” he says. “And for heaven’s sake, ignore all that crap you see on TV when it comes to holding a gun. You hold it in front of you with the barrel pointed down to the ground or straight ahead if there’s nothing there. Never hold it with the barrel pointed up.” He holds it in both hands under his chin, fairly close to his chest with the barrel pointed toward the sky. “Hold it like this and you run the risk of turning yourself into a jack-o’-lantern.”

Having seen someone who did just that, I shudder and freeze the image in my mind to remind me.

Next he points out the various parts of the gun and tells me what they’re called: the sights, the barrel, the slide, the hammer, the tang, the magazine release button, the slide stop, the trigger and trigger guard, and the disassembly latch. As he does this, he shows me how to remove the ammo clip, how to open the slide, and how to check to see if there is a bullet in the chamber.

Then he takes the gun apart, removing the slide, the recoil spring, and the barrel. Once he has it all put back together with the exception of the clip, he hands it to me with the slide open and helps me position my hand properly, with my palm on the grip and my index finger down the side of the barrel, taking care not to touch the trigger. Though I’m reluctant to take ahold of the gun, once I have it in hand it feels heavier than I thought it would, but also strangely reassuring.

Or maybe it’s Hurley’s hand touching mine that I find reassuring.

He lectures me on barrel and bullet sizes and the importance of using the right size bullet for any gun. “This number here,” he says, pointing to the side of the barrel, “tells you the size of the gun. And bullets all have their size stamped on the rim around the primer here.” He pops a bullet out of the clip and shows me the stamped number on the rim surrounding the primer. Then he proceeds to remove all the other bullets.

“Now I’m going to show you how to load the clip,” he says. “You slide the bullets in this way, one at a time.” He demonstrates by doing the first one, and then he hands me the clip and a bullet. “You try it.”

I do so, and manage to drop the bullet four times before I finally get it in place. Several bullets and drops later, I finally load the last one in on the first try.

“Okay,” Hurley says. “Hang on to that a second.”

I hold the clip while he removes his other gun from his shoulder holster. “Watch closely,” he says, “because there will be a test.”

He drops the clip out, opens the slide, and checks to see if there is a bullet in the chamber. There is one, and he shows me how to pump the slide to eject it.

“Now I want you to follow me. Pick up the gun the way I showed you.”

I do as instructed, holding it in my right hand with the grip in my palm and my index finger down the length of the barrel.

“Next I want you to pop the clip in.” He inserts his and I mimic his actions on my gun. “Now I want you to grab the slide, pull it back, and let it go so it snaps into position like this.”

Again I follow his lead, startling when the slide snaps into place with a rapid, loud snick.

“Okay,” he says, “your gun is now ready to shoot. Normally you should wear eye and ear protection but since I don’t have anything, we’ll have to do without.”

Hurley then shows me how to line up my sights and take a proper stance with my feet spread apart and my arms extended. “Now breathe in, then out and squeeze the trigger when you exhale.”

“But what if I miss and the bullet goes flying off into the woods, hitting something . . . or someone else?”

“Don’t worry. This is private land and there’s about forty acres of it. Plus there’s a high ridge back behind these trees that will stop any strays.”

Dubious, I close one eye and line the sights up with the turkey target, breathe the way he told me, and pull the trigger. The loud explosion nearly deafens me and it startles me so much that I yelp. I hear the bullet thunk as it hits a tree and just when I’m starting to feel pleased, thinking I might have hit the target, I see bark disintegrate two trees over.

“Okay, not a bad start,” Hurley lies. “Let’s try it again.”

“I suck.”

Hurley laughs. “Most people suck the first time. You’ll get better with practice.”

For the next hour we aim and shoot, aim and shoot, aim and shoot. Hurley takes a turn at it to show me how it’s supposed to be done and obliterates the turkey’s head with a series of six shots.

“Show-off,” I mutter.

He smiles and says, “I know you’re competitive by nature. So beat me.”

“You mean with a stick?”

He gives me a warning look but there’s amusement behind it.

“Okay,” I say, resigned to my humiliation. And humiliating it is. Over the course of the hour I slaughter every tree surrounding the one with the target but manage to miss the tree with the paper on it every time. My shots go left, right, high, and low. By the time we’re done, my shoulders ache, my ears are ringing, and the woods are begging for mercy.

“I guess I need more practice,” I say, unloading the clip. I then open the slide, check to make sure the chamber is empty, and set the gun down. I may not be able to hit the broad side of a barn but I am much more comfortable just handling the gun.

I help Hurley take the guns apart and he shows me how to clean them. Then we put them back together