Sweet Talk by Stephanie Vaughn

Author:Stephanie Vaughn [Vaughn, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-59051-517-4
Publisher: Other Press
Published: 2012-02-27T16:00:00+00:00

Kid MacArthur

I grew up in the Army. About the only kind of dove I ever saw was a dead dove resting small-boned upon a dinner plate. Even though we were Protestants and Bible readers, no one regarded the dove sentimentally as a symbol of peace—the bird who had flown back to Noah carrying the olive branch, as if to say, “The land is green again, come back to the land.” When I was thirteen, my family moved to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, only a few weeks before the dove-hunting season opened. My father, who liked to tinker with guns on weekends, sat down at the dining-room table one Saturday and unwrapped a metal device called the Lombreglia Self-Loader. The Self-Loader was a crimping mechanism that enabled a person to assemble shotgun ammunition at home. “Save Money and Earn Pleasure,” the box label said. “For the Self-Reliant Sportsman Who Wants to Do the Job Right!”

“If you can learn to handle this,” my father said, “you can load my shells for me when the hunting season arrives.” He was addressing my brother, MacArthur, who was ten years old. We pulled up chairs to the table, while my mother and grandmother remained near the light of the kitchen door. My father delivered a little lecture on the percussive action of the firing pin as he set out the rest of the loading equipment—empty red cartridges, cardboard wads, brass caps, a bowl of gunpowder, and several bowls of lead shot. He spoke in his officer’s briefing-room voice—a voice that seemed to say, “This will be a difficult mission, soldier, but I know you are up to the mark.” MacArthur seemed to grow taller listening to that voice, his spine perfectly erect as he helped align the equipment in the center of the table. My father finished the lecture by explaining that the smallest-size shot was best for dove or quail, the medium size was best for duck or rabbit, and the largest size was best for goose or wild turkey.

“And which size shot is best for humans?” my grandmother said. She did not disapprove of guns, but she could rarely pass up a chance to say something sharp to my father. My grandmother was a member of the WCTU, and he was conducting this lesson in between sips of a scotch-and-soda.

“It depends,” my father said. “It depends on whether you want to eat the person afterward.”

“Well, ha, ha,” my grandmother said.

“It is a lot of work trying to prize small shot out of a large body,” my father said.

“Very funny,” my grandmother said.

My father turned to MacArthur and grew serious. “Never forget that a gun is always loaded.”

MacArthur nodded.

“And what else?” my father said to MacArthur.

“Never point a gun at someone unless you mean to kill him,” MacArthur said.

“Excuse me,” my mother said, moving near the table. “Are you sure all of this is quite safe?” Her hands wavered above the bowl of gunpowder.

“That’s right,” my grandmother said. “Couldn’t something blow up here?”

My father and MacArthur seemed to have been hoping for this question.

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