Nina Revoyr by Wingshooters

Author:Wingshooters [Wingshooters]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: akashic books
Published: 2011-07-31T05:00:00+00:00

I don’t know what Ray said to Earl, but I know he said something, because the next time I saw Earl he was drawn-in and tense, even more ill-tempered than he’d been all fall. I wouldn’t have chosen to be around him, but my grandfather had taken me with him, as he always did, to run his Saturday-morning errands. After we’d picked up a rake and trash bags at Kmart and a tailpipe at the auto supplies shop, we pulled up in front of Earl’s gun store. Charlie said, “’Lo, Earl,” by way of greeting as we walked through the door, and then he sat down in one of the folding metal chairs that Earl had set up by the counter. He patted the other chair to indicate that I should sit.

“’Lo, Charlie,” Watson answered, not acknowledging me. “Hey Jake,” he yelled, “bring Charlie here some coffee!”

I’d thought Earl was alone, but after a minute or two, Jake Watson came in from the back office and handed my grandfather a Styrofoam cup. At first I wasn’t sure he had noticed me. But then his thin lips curled into a smirk, which gave me a little spasm of fear. Jake sat on a high stool behind the counter and crossed his arms, looking at me, and I thought of the times during the summer when I’d passed him and his friends out near Six Mile Creek, sitting on top of their cars and smoking pot or drinking beer. If they saw me, they’d stir themselves enough to throw rocks, and I’d bike past them as fast as I could. Although Earl didn’t know—I assumed—about the pot and the rock throwing, he had to realize that Jake got into trouble. From what I heard, he’d been suspended from the high school more than once for fighting or for arguing with his teachers. Now, looking back, it’s tempting to explain Jake’s behavior as anxiety over the war, especially since some of his older friends had been drafted; especially since one of them had come home without his legs. But the war had ended more than a year ago, and so his surliness couldn’t be blamed on the threat of the draft.

The gun shop was set up like a jewelry store, with a U-shaped glass counter and wide display cases against the two side walls. Above the cases were advertising posters for some of the store’s best sellers—Remington, Smith & Wesson, Ithaca, and Colt, even one for Italian Berettas. Earl had inherited the store from his father and then expanded the business; he also taught gun safety classes out at the firing range, including a class specifically for kids. I had taken the class myself the previous fall at Charlie’s behest, shooting round after round with a little .22-caliber single-action army revolver. The gun seemed small and insignificant compared to Charlie’s heftier pistols, but I’d liked the feel of it, the warmth of the metal, the sense of contained power. From there I’d graduated to a .

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