Chapter Twenty-Five
Alison cranks the steering wheel and maneuvers in between two cars in the strip mall parking lot. It hosts all the usual little businesses: Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonalds, Starbucks, Super Cuts and then “Merriweather’s Guns, Hundreds of Weapons: Military Surplus, User Friendly.” She scans the area meticulously before she eases herself out of the car. She looks over her shoulder and then locks the car doors. She strides to the front. The shop has a security door. The forty-year-old storeowner, Derreck, sees Alison through the glass and buzzes her in. The door shuts and locks automatically behind her. She likes that. She liked the sound of the locks sliding into place. She used to like the sound of the swallows nesting in the eaves, now she likes the metal clank of a world-class lock.
Dust doesn’t exist in this spit-shined shop. The merchandise is polished to an eye-blinding gleam. The glass countertops are spotless. Alison feels predatory as she stands in the middle of the shop crammed from floor to ceiling with weapons: handguns, rifles, shotguns, knives, even bows and arrows. The metallic smell is so strong she can taste it. For the second time recently, she is at ease. She walks over to the counter.
“Can I help you?” Derreck asks.
“I need a gun.”
“For sport or defense?”
“What sport?” she looks at him confused.
“Hunting birds, game? Target practice?”
“Oh, defense.” She scans the handguns in the case.
“Ever handled a gun before?”
Her mind stumbles back. She shoots Gravel point blank into the stomach, over and over, his stunned look, followed by his dead eyes. She thinks dead eyes don’t really even look like eyes, they look like marbles: hard and glassy. It is the just-before-dying eyes that stick with you: Theo as he fell to certain death; Kent still alive and harpooned to the shed wall, but no eyes - dead or alive - had the icy everlasting imprint of Ben’s.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?” Confused, she looks around. Oh, yes, the gun shop. I’m in the gun shop. I need a gun.
“I said, have you handled a gun before?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. ‘Cause you know weapons can be tricky. If you don’t know what you’re doing it could be a risk.”
“Not as risky as not having a weapon.”
“True.” He smiles. “So, a little lady like you might appreciate this.” He holds up the small revolver. “It’ll fit nicely in your hand and it’s light to carry.”
“If I want a toy I’ll go to Walmart. What about that one?” She points to the menacing Ruger 357 magnum.
“That’s a really good weapon. I could hook you up with a box of Wolf hollow point ammo and you’d be set for anything. But it all kinda depends on what you want.”
“I want him dead.” She says this fast without thinking. It comes directly from her subconscious. She tries to add a smile after it to lessen the weird pause that settles between them.
Derreck’s eyes narrow, “Ah…not something you want to be saying in a gun store, lady.”
“What I mean,” she softens, smiles, exposes her most vulnerable face, “I want something that if I ever have to shoot, I hope not, but if I do, I only have to shoot once. I may only be capable of once.” Gravel’s eyes are fierce: bang, bang, bang, bang; he is on top of her and his midsection spasms up with each shot as she empties the gun into his stomach.
Derreck’s just not sure about this woman. There is something peculiar about her, but he is in the business of selling guns and really, nothing comes before business. “I’ll need to see some ID and then we’ll fill out the permit info and you can pick it up next week.”
“Next week?”
“There’s a seven day waiting period.”
“Oh. That won’t work.”
“It won’t?”
“What in here doesn’t have a waiting period?”
He looks at her long and hard. He probably should not sell this woman a weapon. Still, it’s definitely not his job to police this woman or anyone actually. He’s a salesperson, not a detective. The shop could use the income.
“You don’t want a waiting period?”
“I’m here now and I don’t want to have to drive all the way back again.”
“Uh, huh. Any of those rifles or shotguns are cash and carry.”
“So which is reliable?”
“Personally, I like the Mossberg 8 Shot, 20 inch barrel, with the pistol grip. Load her up and then just cock and shoot.” He lays the weapon on the countertop.
She runs her hand along it. She lifts it up. Not too heavy. She looks the weapon up and down. It looks powerful, intimidating. She rests it carefully back down on the counter. “I’ll take two.”
“Two?’
Forty minutes later, Alison stands in her foyer holding the two rifles and thinking strategically. Where are the best places? Obviously, one upstairs and one down. Yes, that will work best. She takes one, loads it like the gun shop owner showed her, and carries it down to the basement.
Alison likes to collect up things and box them so she can drive them to Goodwill twice a year. She’s never been able to throw anything useful away. There are too many people who need things and her heart won’t allow it. Consequently, the basement resembles a thrift shop with hanging racks and old furniture. She walks past the washer and dryer sees the job half done with a washer tub full of water and soaking sheets. She feels a pang of regret about Polly. She climbs over an old set of folding chairs to get to the chest of drawers against the wall. This is where she keeps all of Jimmy’s baby clothes. There is no reason for anyone to go into these drawers. She pulls open the second drawer and is sidetracked by the sight of the one-piece green and black Batman pajama. She remembers the two-year-old who loved that footsie, oh, that sunny grubby pot-bellied little boy. She misses him with such an intense pang she feels it like a little bursting in all the cells of her body. She misses hearing him stumble around with his words, and she misses the way he would hold her hand extra tight whenever they were in a crowd. Why is motherhood all about saying good-bye? She pulls out the pajama and holds it up seeing that more than half of the cartoon Batman has flaked away. Jimmy insisted on wearing it to bed every night. He loved it. He felt safe in it. It will take more than Batman pajamas for him to feel safe now, she thinks. The fabric is limp and soft from so many washings. The colors have faded and there’s a hole in the knee, and when she sees that she feels his little hand on her heart. She rubs the pajama against her cheek. It still smells like baby after all these years. Why does that feel like a lifetime ago? She carefully lays the rifle down in the drawer. It fits perfectly. She replaces the pajama on top and tucks in around the sides, six pairs of baby socks with the rubber no-slip strips on the bottom. She closes the drawer. She takes a step back and stares at the chest: life and death - all in the drawer of her basement.
She takes the second Mossberg upstairs to the bedroom. Not a lot of options. It is too long for her chest of drawers, or her little desk. She drops to her knees and shoves the weapon under her side of the bed. She admonishes, that won’t do at all, but it’s okay while I search for another spot. The novel she was reading had slipped behind the bed board and is jammed into the corner. She reaches for the book and pulls it out. She isn’t reading anymore. Why is that? She sits down cross-legged on the carpet and looks at the book. Reading was her joy, her escape. She used to say that to friends. I love to escape into a book. From what, she now wondered. What was she escaping from? Her nice job, her beautiful family, her healthy body, her life, which she thought was stressful? What an unappreciative woman I was. Unconscious. Stupid. When this is over, I will ask for different things from life. I will ask for mornings so quiet I can hear my husband shave and evenings loud with laughter and love and music.
* * *
At Pump Up The Volume, Hank sits staring into space. He has not moved since Polly left. Newt and Scottie tried to get him to eat some lunch, but he couldn’t. He is frozen and thoughtless. He just feels completely blank as he waits for the clock to hit two-thirty, so he can go pick up Jimmy, and then drive home to deal with whatever he finds there and confront Alison about Polly. Maybe, he thinks, it wasn’t as bad as Polly said. Crazy as Newt can be with the whole butter knife concept, maybe he has it right and it was a misunderstanding. Polly could have overreacted because she knows how Alison has been.
Scottie yells, “Hank, phone.”
Hank picks up the call in the front. “Hello, this is Hank.”
“Hi, Hank, it’s Denise at school.”
“Hey, Denise,” he hears the fake cheer in his tone and hopes she doesn’t.
“Um…Hank,” she pauses.
“Yeah?”
“I know what you’re going through, and I hate to give you more bad news, but I thought you could use some warning.”
His stomach cramps. Not something else, please, not something else. “Okay, what’s up?”
“The School Board voted to lay off Alison.”
“No! It is the only positive thing. Working will help her.”
“I know, but she’s acting really strange. She’s scaring people.”
“Oh.”
“A lot of the parents are complaining.”
Crestfallen, “Complaining?” He jumps to defend her, “They should be giving her a medal. Don’t they know what she has done? I think the police department really is thinking about giving her a medal.” This is not true but he likes the sound of it.
“I’m really sorry, Hank. Listen if I can do anything…” she trails off.
“I know. I know. You’ve been great.” He stands and starts pacing in really small circles as anxiety floods him. “And thanks for everything, Denise. My other line is ringing. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay, tell Alison I love her.”
“Will do.” Hank is almost yelling as he picks up the second line. “Pump Up the Volume.”
“Is Mr. Kraft available?”
“Speaking.”
“Hello, this is the fraud department from Citibank regarding some charges on your credit card.”
“I’m too busy now. I need...”
“Yes, sir, but there are charges today that are out of the ordinary and so for your protection -”
“What is it? What charge?”
“A charge to Merriweather Guns and Military Surplus on Bloom Street.”
Hank slams down the receiver. “That’s it!” Hank grabs his keys. “Scottie!”
“Yes!” Scott looks in, “What?”
“Pick up Jimmy for me now at school so I can get home first.”
“You got it.”
And Hank is gone.
He breaks every speed limit driving home. I can’t believe she did this. His mind reels. This is a complete break of our trust. This is truly crazy, scary paranoid. How could she do this? How could she! Damn it! He screeches into the driveway. He throws open the front door to his home and yells, “Alison!” She is catapulted by the sound of his angry voice. She rushes in from the living room where she was trying to read. By the time she gets into the foyer, Hank is already wrenching open every drawer. Then, he moves into the living room where he begins a serious search under the sofa cushions.
“Hank?”
“Where!”
“Hank?”
“Where is it, Alison?”
“What? Where’s what?”
“Where’s the gun!” Surprised, she doesn’t answer. He throws the books off the bookcase. “Tell me now. Where’s the gun?”
“Are you following me?”
“No. Although I guess I should. The credit card company called. They thought it was kind of odd your expensive purchase at Merriweather’s Military Surplus.” He moves toward the stairs. She follows him. “Where is the gun, Alison?”
“In a safe place.”
“Give it to me right now.”
They stand face-to-face in conflict. She answers with her eyes firm but her voice shaking, “No.”
“Alison,” he turns on her with force, “Give it to me or I’ll tear this house apart.” She has never seen this kind of fury from him. It is so out of character and she is unnerved and frantic.
“I need it, Hank. I have to have it.”
He takes the stairs three at a time and blasts into their bedroom. She follows and stops at the doorway. He starts in the far corner of the room, opens her little desk and empties the contents on the rug. He moves to the next drawer and then the next, throwing everything onto the floor.
“Okay,” she says. “Stop.”
He slows and turns to her. “Where?”
“Under my side of the bed.”
Hank walks over, bends down and pulls out the rifle. “Oh my god, it’s huge.”
“There was a waiting period for a smaller one.”
He turns away disgusted, “Is it loaded?”
“Of course it’s loaded. Not much use if it’s not loaded.”
The door slams downstairs.
“Mom? Dad?”
Alison answers with a forced calm, “Upstairs, honey.”
Hank shoves the gun in the hidden area behind the opened door to the bedroom as Jimmy appears in the doorway. He looks at them. Clearly, something is up.
“Um…hi?” Jimmy says leery.
“Hi, how was school?” Alison asks. Her voice sounds high-pitched and strained.
“Kinda normal. Why did Scottie pick me up?”
Hank turns away from Alison and speaks to his son with a bare-knuckle calm because now he is finally absolutely certain of what he must do. “Jimmy, please go into your room and pack a suitcase.”
“What?” Alison whips her head to him.
“Why?” Jimmy asks worried.
“Hank, we need to talk.”
Ignoring her, Hank continues speaking directly to Jimmy, “Make sure you have clothes for school, a toothbrush, and all your books.”
“But, Dad, I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Hank!” Alison tries not to further upset Jimmy but it is no use. Her son’s brow is furrowed and his eyes alarmed.
Hank says, “Bring a couple of video games, too. Now go.”
Troubled, Jimmy backs out of the volatile room. “But where are we going?”
“We’re driving to Grandma’s”
Jimmy asks tenuously, “All of us?”
Hanks replies, “Just you and me. Your mom has some things she needs to do.”
Jimmy stands for a moment. He looks at his mom. She holds her words but the quivering of her face is undeniable. His dad nods his head at him and Jimmy crosses the little hallway and enters his bedroom. Alison turns urgently to Hank and speaks in a nearly hysterical whisper.
“You can’t do this.”
“I can.”
“No.”
“I have to.” Hank walks to the closest and takes out a suitcase. He packs aggressively throwing clothing into the suitcase while Alison pleads.
“Hank, please, don’t do this.”
“You need help, Alison.”
“I need a bazooka.”
“Your judgment has gone to shit.”
“I have good judgment.” She feels panic rising - alarm soaks her.
“You’re seeing things, you’re hearing things, and you refuse to help yourself.”
“I am helping myself. I’m helping us all.”
“You won’t take your medication.”
“It makes me feel sick and groggy!”
“You refuse to go to therapy.”
“I don’t need to talk about it. I need to be prepared.”
“You’re going to shoot me or Jimmy on our way to the bathroom some night.”
“No! I won’t. I wouldn’t make that mistake. Never!”
“You pulled a knife on Polly.”
“She was sneaking up from the basement!”
“Sneaking?”
“Okay, maybe not sneaking. But I didn’t imagine it. I really heard something. She was in the basement!”
“Doing our laundry.”
“So maybe I overreacted.”
“Maybe? Maybe you overreacted by pulling a knife on our sixty-year-old housekeeper?”
“Please stop packing.”
“It’s no wonder they are laying you off work.”
“They’re laying me off?” Alison feels like she’s been physically struck.
“Yes, what did you think? You think you can run around fleeing from ghosts and acting crazy and no one will care that you’re around their children?” He slams shut the suitcase. “I can’t trust you.”
She begins to cry protesting, “You can.”
“You’re buying weapons behind my back. You’ve turned away from everyone in your life who has tried to help you. But this is where I draw the line. Jimmy comes first. I know that now. I need to protect my son.”
“Our son. And how can you protect him when you won’t even face that there’s a threat?”
“Oh,” he levels his eyes at her deadly serious, “I know there’s a threat.”
“It’s not me, Hank.”
“We will be at my mother’s. We’ll come back after you return the gun, when you have gone back to therapy, when you are on the medications that have been prescribed, and when it is safe to bring Jimmy back into his home.” Hank spins around with his small suitcase and meets Jimmy in the hallway.
“Let’s go, son,” he says.
“What about Mom?”
“Mom has some stuff she needs to do first.”
Alison cannot tolerate the worry on her little boy’s face. It pains her to see the distraught look in his eyes. This reaches right through the wall of her fears and into the very heart of who she is as a mother. She knows at this moment that she cannot stop Hank. She has to help Jimmy. She must do what she can to lessen this blow, to make it okay for him. She clears her face, manages a half-grin, bends down and hugs him tightly.
“Hey, my little man, it’s okay. Just temporary. It’s better if you go on with your dad. I actually do have a few things to take care of and then I’ll come over. Don’t let Dad drive Grandma nuts with his music all the time, okay?”
“Okay.” Jimmy looks down at his shoes trying to mentally organize his feelings.
And even through the betrayal and all the fury, Hank loves her for this. He knows how this must feel to her. Somewhere inside, beyond all the paranoia at the core of her, she is still the selfless caring woman he fell in love with. Hank and Jimmy load into the car in the driveway. Jimmy looks back at his mother standing in the doorway. His anxiety reaches her and feeling it, she quickly smiles to reassure him. She watches them back out. She has no idea how to stop them, whether to stop them. She has doubts. Of course, she has doubts. Standing in the front doorway, she attempts to bring some semblance of order to her deteriorating world. What is best? She does not know. She waves weakly to Jimmy who sits next to his dad in the front seat. Jimmy places his opened hand on the window as they drive away. He cranes his neck and watches until he can no longer see his mom. He feels somehow that he is letting her down.
She says quietly, “Love you.”
And they are gone around the corner. Gone. She has killed to save her family and now they’ve left her because she’s a killer, because she thinks like a killer, and acts like a killer, and because she buys weapons like a killer. She did pull a knife on Polly. I did that, she thinks. I did do that, but, no, no buts…I did that. What if I am confused? What if the fear I’m feeling isn’t about the return of Ben Burne at all, maybe it’s transference, and what I’m afraid of is who I’ve become. Maybe I’m running from myself, running from looking at what this all says about me. Am I keeping the fear of a dead man alive so I don’t have to confront the truth? What if the trouble is that it is too hard to accept that the line between me and a mass murderer is so thin that it can be crossed in one night? If what you’ve done in life is the true gauge of who you are as a person, what does that make me? I guess as long as I’m still running, still fighting, I don’t have time to examine my own behavior, or to face the blood on my hands. I don’t need to think about what happened, because for me it is still happening, and so there is no time to think. Perhaps the ghost I’m running from is the apparition of me: of the me that died that night, the me who was kind and incapable of harm. So, then, am I running from the old me or the new me?
Once Jimmy can’t see his mom any longer, he starts to fidget in his seat. He tries to keep his mouth shut because he can see the conflict and pain on his father’s face. But he can’t keep his mouth shut. It’s his mom.
“Dad, we can’t leave mom alone.”
“Right now we have to. It may be the only way we can shock her into helping herself.”
“We have to go back, Dad.”
“Jimmy, you need to trust me here.”
“But we’re letting her down.”
“It’s only for tonight. I’m going to bring the doctor over tomorrow and we will get her the help she needs no matter what it takes.”
Jimmy is straining, working hard to hold his emotions in like a man. Hank can see this. It only adds more emotion, which he is already barely controlling.
“I don’t want to leave her, Dad.”
“Me either, buddy, me either.”
Jimmy slumps down in his seat. Hank looks over sadly. They have tried so hard to keep Jimmy on the outside of what’s happening to his mother, but of course, he sees it all. He knows this is a big step. Hank runs a series of well-known platitudes through his brain searching for something to say that will ease Jimmy’s mind. Nothing. There doesn’t seem to be anything that can make this easier. He rests his hand for a moment on Jimmy’s hand lying on the seat next to him. He squeezes. Jimmy squeezes back. Exactly the way Alison would and Hank aches for her.
* * *