by William Hicklin

I played sick today. I wish I hadn’t. Nobody else here but Gram, who can’t even pee without someone helping her, and Nattie, the old hag. It smells like a nursing home in here. Like stuff’s been hocked up and spit in tissues and left to dry. Nattie’s got so much wood on the fire it feels like a furnace and her cigarette smoke’s so thick you have to lay on the floor to get a breath of air. I gotta get outta here. I’m feeling better, I tell Nattie. I bet you is, she says, looking at the TV screen, now the bus gone. She flicks her cigarette at the ashtray and scratches her scalp through the rag tied on her head. Yeah, shut up, I say under my breath. She’s got her nose in everything like she owns the place, like she doesn’t get paid to sit there and smoke on the couch and watch re-runs of I Love Lucy.

Where you going, boy? Nattie says. None of your business, I say, stepping into the cool dark hallway and pulling the door closed. I sneak down to the other end of the hall and open the door to my parents’ room, real quiet. Goose bumps rise up on my arms. The heat doesn’t reach back this far. I creep over to the closet and open it. The revolver’s on the top shelf.

I run my fingers over the carvings in the handle. It’s a Smith and Wesson .357 so black it shines blue where the light touches it. I turn it over in my hand and slow light slides blue down the barrel. It’s so pretty I can hardly breathe.

I empty the rounds out the gun and aim at a nail hole. Click, it goes when I pull the trigger. I point the gun at the mirror. A show down. I look down the barrel, then cock the gun and stick it to my head, looking in the mirror. I dare myself to squeeze the trigger. I’m just about to squeeze it when Nattie calls from the living room and makes me jump.

My heart’s beating in my ears. I hate you, I whisper. She’s always messing with me. Everyone is.

Nattie yells from the living room again and I jump up. Shut up, I say out loud. I stick the gun down my pants and pull my shirt over it. Dad keeps his bullets in the top drawer of the dresser with his socks. Some are in boxes and some are loose, thrown in like spare change. I fill both pockets with the loose ones.

Gram’s on the couch, drooling. Her eyes rove up to me, a washed out watery blue, but they don’t fix on me. Her hair sticks out in greasy clumps. Nattie’s put a pink sweater on her, powdered her face, painted her lips. Playing dress-up doll. Her back’s hunched nearly double and her head sticks out from the hump. She looks for all the world like a pink turtle. Her eyes lock on mine. I want to go home, she says. Loony. She’s lived here more than fifty years. Don’t count on it, I say. Nattie says, hush up, why you want to treat her like that? You hush, I say. Why do you always want to mess in my business? I grab a coat from the rack by the door and Nattie says, where you going? What’d I just say? Mind your own damn business. You chillens is growing wild, says Nattie, arms crossed over her belly, looking at the TV. If I was your mama, I’d beat the wild outta you. I cut her mouth off with the door.

The November air cuts through my pants. A few leaves still hang on the branches of the trees, rattling against the low gray sky. By the time I get to the fence my hands are red from the cold. I strike out across the field, back towards the hunting camp in the woods on the far side.

The wind stings my ears, spits drizzle, shakes the grass. The tree line on the far end of the field stands black against the heavy clouds. Four pale flowers, small as snowflakes, huddle together by a cow pie. The pond reflects the dead light of the sky. Two pine trees stand together, holding each other in the middle of the field. I pull my arms inside the jacket and hunch my shoulders up to my ears and hug myself, heading for them. They draw apart as I pass, shaking their needles at me. There’s a road worn into the field by pickups headed back for the camp. I walk in the center of one of the ruts. Red clay clings to my boots, weighting my steps. It’s like walking in a dream—I’m getting nowhere.

When I get to the tree line, I push the aluminum gate and it swings open with complaint, a long whining groan, until it hits a pine tree with a smack and shudder.

I light the stove and the fire throws light licking the three walls of the lean-to. Something against a far corner throws light back at me. It’s a bottle of Old Grand Dad, tucked behind a board, three-quarters full. I feel up over the crossbeam and find a pack of Lucky Strikes with three cigarettes left. Lucky me. I light one up, grab the whiskey, and pull a chair over to the stove.

The first swallow of whiskey burns my throat and almost chokes me. But when it hits my stomach warmth spreads out to my toes and fingers and up to my eyes. I take a drag off the cigarette and let it hang in the corner of my mouth, squinting for the smoke. I pull the gun out of my pants and turn it over in my hand. Dad’s gonna kill me but there’s nothing I can do about that now. He’ll know I touched it from the smudges on the metal. I open the chamber and slide six rounds in. The hairs on the nape of my neck stand up. I take a final drag off the cigarette and flick the butt out the lean-to. My next sip of whiskey doesn’t choke me. When I step out the lean-to I don’t feel the wind. I have a stove in me.

I grab five Schaeffer Light cans from the pile and line them up on a log. I name each of them: number one, Mrs. Fell, the old witch English teacher who makes me look stupid in class; the next one, Mr. Simpson, the P.E. teacher who mocks how I hold the baseball bat; the third, Tanner Reid, the stupid jock-boy who flicks my ears in the hall; the fourth, Michelle Beasley, who got everyone in class to sign a letter saying they all hated me and then handed it to me; the last one, Adam Corey, the pathetic dope.

I aim for Tanner first, lining up the sights real careful, and squeeze the trigger slow. I miss. Of course. Next I aim for Michelle and squeeze off. The shot makes my ears ring. Missed again. I squeeze the trigger four times real quick and actually knock Adam off the log. I dump the shells in the bucket by the lean-to and slide six more rounds in. I aim at Mr. Simpson and squeeze real slow, trying not to even breathe, not to think, squeezing so slow that there’s no way I’ll know when the gun’s gonna go off. I open my eyes and the can’s still there.

I go up to the cans and shoot them, one after the other, point blank and then stomp them into the ground. I take a couple more gulps of the Old Grand Dad and put it back behind the board and then stick the gun in my coat pocket.

The house looks small and cozy from a distance, like a place you’d want to live. One of the windows is lit and smoke rises blue from the chimney and turns black against the sky. The field’s moving beneath me like something breathing.

Something bright flits through the trees on the highway side of the field. When it hits an open space I realize it’s Nattie’s head rag. And her right under it. She’s leaving early, probably sneaking home to get another pack of cigarettes or something, which means she left Gram alone. I pull out the gun and point it at her. The rag disappears behind some trees and flickers through the branches. I follow it with the gun until it comes back into a clearing. I wonder who would know if I shot her.

I don’t know why I have these thoughts, sometimes I think about things like that is all. Like, I wonder if I killed myself, who would be sad, and how long. Or if my parents never married, would I be someone else, or would I not exist at all? Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I could change places with someone else. If you were in someone else’s body, then if you sinned would it be you, or the other person? Or if you got in a girls body and kissed a boy would you be queer? Or I wonder about my body, how it can move without hardly even thinking about it. How you can just decide to blink or bite your lip. How you don’t have to say, I’m going to move my finger. You just move it and it moves.

The sound comes from everywhere at once. I’m standing in the middle of a roar, like many waters, like the voice of God. My knees give out and I sink to the ground as the trees shout the sound back to me. Everything’s ringing. The ground heaves up and I get sick and everything’s ringing. My heart beats my throat, hard as a punch. Nattie’s looking this way but I’m in a little hollow and I don’t think she can see me. She stares in my direction for a minute then scurries off.

If she saw me she’s gonna blab. Maybe if I clean and reload the gun and put it back how I found it Dad won’t believe her. I’ll tell him I took a walk in the field and heard the gunshot too. Maybe it was a hunter or something. I dump the shells out. It takes me a while to reload because my hands are shaking. I finally get the last round in and stick the gun in my pocket. I’ll wipe it off when I get home.

By the time I get back to the house the drizzle’s changed over to snow. Gram’s on the couch, staring at the TV. I smell her from the door. Did you mess yourself? I ask her. Yes, sir, she says. I’m sorry. She’s sorry, she says. I cuss Nattie under my breath.

Come on. Lets get you cleaned up. Nattie left Gram’s portable toilet right next to her, maybe thinking she would use it if she needed. I pull Gram to her feet and set her on it. What a mess. Wait right here, I say. I’ll be right back. I go to the bathroom and run warm water into a pan. I grab some soap and a cloth to clean Gram with and then I decide to run a bath for her.

I set the pan and the rag and the soap at Gram’s feet. Let’s get this off of you, I say, and throw her clothes in a pile. Nattie can take care of the mess when she gets back. Here, stand up, I say. I pull her to her feet and sponge her off so she won’t foul the bathwater. I throw the dirty rag on top of her clothes. I’m going to put you in the bath, I say. Okay, she says.

When I lift her up she’s as light as a child. I carry her to the tub and lower her into the bath. I’m going to clean your face off, I say. I smear cold cream on her face and wipe it with the cloth, and most of the make up comes off. I put some more cold cream on and wipe it off again, so no make up’s left. Lean your head back, I say. I pour some water over her head and wash her hair. I rinse her head off and wash her hair again. I lather up the cloth and soap up her back and chest and pour water over her. Then I lift each of her legs and scrub them down. When I’m done the water’s gray. I pull the plug and lift her out the tub and set her on the commode. I dry her off and put a towel around her. I’ll be right back, I say.

I go back to her room and get a clean white gown for her and get her wheelchair. I take the towel off her and dry her hair with it, then put the gown over her head. When I’ve got it on her I lift her off the toilet and put her in her chair. I wheel her back to her bedroom and over to the window. It’s cold back here, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Look at the snow, I say. Isn’t it pretty? Who’d have thought we’d have snow in November? She nods. It’s not really sticking to the ground, but it’s coming down nice and soft. I kneel down beside her. The gun jabs my side.

Do you know who Jesus is? I ask. Do you remember? Gram doesn’t answer. She’s looking at the snow. I pull the gun out my pocket and hold it in my lap. Do you want me to sing for you? I ask. The light’s falling on her soft as the snow. Her hair’s falling soft and white on her shoulders. She looks wise and childlike and beautiful. I sing “Have Thine Own Way, Lord.” She used to sing it to me when she put me to sleep. She’d sit on the foot of my bed and I’d make her promise not to leave until I was asleep and I’d keep peeking out to make sure she was still there. She’d sit on the bed and sing it to me till I fell asleep.

I want her to start humming or singing or something, but she’s just looking out the window at the snow. The light’s falling on her so softly and she’s glowing just like Jesus in a painting. She turns her head to me and searches me out with those pale blue eyes. They’re so pale they’re almost white. Her hair’s falling around her face like a halo. I want to go home, she says. Okay, I whisper. Okay.

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Editor’s Note: For all ya’ll who think you can’t meet the 2500 word limit, Mr. Hicklin here is a fine example of just how nicely it can be done. His original story was almost twice the length of the final version…