Rise: How a House Built a Family(48)

“That’s a little polymer frame. I could give it to you for three hundred fifty.” He registered my sigh like a good salesperson. It’s practically a lost art, the weighing of the sigh. “Had a guy trade a used .38 last week. Shoots fine. Tried it out myself and cleaned it up. It’s in the back.”

“Thanks, a used one would be perfect.”

“Now it ain’t nothing to look at,” he said over his shoulder. “Been dinged up some.” He disappeared through a swinging door.

I shifted my weight and slowed my breathing. Did I really want to do this? It was a point of no return. I shouldn’t buy a gun unless I could really shoot someone with it. Could I do that?

“Like I said, not much to look at.” Bill hurried back, or hurried by his definition, and pushed a half-crushed cardboard shoebox toward me.

I lifted the lid. It looked more dangerous than the pink one had. And Bill was right: This one had been tossed around enough to earn scratches and dings. I played it cool even though I really wanted it. “Looks like it’s been rattling around in a toolbox for ten years, doesn’t it? How much?” I looked away at the wall, trying to feign disinterest.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson, and that’s a good name even if it is old. But for you, Murder Book, let’s say one-eighty.”

I dropped the lid and tried a sigh, but wasn’t loud enough to be heard over his own breathing. That was a lot less than I had expected. “I can give you a hundred fifty cash today.”

He tugged his beard, but we both knew he would hold on to this one for a long time before just the right cheapskate came along. “Just for you, little lady. Just for you. And when you’re rolling in cash over your next book, you come back and I’ll give you some trade-in on that pretty pink lady? Special gun for a special lady. Okay?”

I smiled, although I was no longer sure I had another book in me. “When I’m ready to trade up, I’ll come back by.” On the way to the front, I added a twenty-dollar lockbox and a box of ammunition to the tab.

The drive home was too fast for the slow thoughts I had hoped to sort out. I paused after I opened the car door, holding my breath until I heard Hershey barking a happy welcome. Old habits, I thought, carrying my gun cradled like a baby. I liked the way she felt in my hands, heavy, powerful, and dangerous. The very same reasons I hadn’t liked guns during my safety class. Things had changed a lot in the past few months. Not only things, though; I had changed a lot, too.

I pushed six rounds in and clicked the barrel into place, careful to point it at the floor. There was no safety on this model, and even if I liked the way the gun felt, I had a healthy respect for firearms.

“You need a name,” I told her, tucking her in tight on a high shelf. I smiled grimly, knowing I had just the right one.

“Karma.”





–13–

Rise

A Little to the Left

The kids and I had been to the house only once all week. A series of spring rains blew across the Midwest, threatening tornadoes and hail but not delivering anything more than minor floods. We fretted and fussed over how long we had spent drawing chalk lines and what might happen to our lone wall, flat in a pool of water on the slab. But whining about it got us nowhere, and we resigned ourselves to planning and watching how-to videos in the evenings.

Saturday morning I tiptoed into the kitchen and started the coffee. Either our pot was shrinking or my son had become a coffee hog. Whatever the problem, I refused to believe it had anything to do with my own consumption. A part of me—I mean a huge part—wanted to curl up and waste the morning away reading a novel. Something far removed from real life. But I wanted things to improve on a permanent basis, and hiding wouldn’t make that happen. I plugged in the waffle maker and put Hershey out before going upstairs.

Drew’s door was locked. I knew this without trying the handle, and thumped my knuckles on the door. “Sunshine in the forecast. Let’s go build a house!” My voice was barely above a whisper, but I knew he had heard. In houses like ours, being a light sleeper was a well-honed survival skill.

Hope woke with a yawn and groan. She didn’t like coffee, and hadn’t yet learned that sometimes taste was irrelevant. In the adjoining room, Jada was awake, chewing her bottom lip and poking her finger at the old phone Drew had passed down to her. “Come help me make waffles,” I said. “We’ve got a busy day.”

“Is it raining?” she asked, jumping out of bed with a grin. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, my mom would have said.

“No rain. We’re going to Inkwell!”

When we had filled up on waffles with cherry-pie filling on top and coffee with real cream, we loaded the cooler with an odd assortment of snacks and sandwich fixings and piled in the car.

The time away from the job site had everyone eager for physical work. Hershey was as happy as we were to see our mud-surrounded slab.

“I’m fishin’ for frogs and fire,” Roman said, arms up and eyes alight.

“Can I help with the walls?” Jada asked. “I want to build something.”

“We’ll take turns with Roman. Everyone gets to build.” I felt a little like I was talking them into painting a fence, but there was no sense complaining about happy helpers. I would enjoy the mood while it lasted.

Sheets of plastic had kept most of our wood piles dry, but the slab had a few dips that held puddles. Roman pulled an inverted bucket over and sat on it, setting up a prime fishing spot between the den and the bathroom. He threw a tantrum when Hope swept his puddle over the side of the slab, but snuffled the tears away when Jada caught two tiny frogs in a muddy sippy cup we had left on site a week ago.