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“I told you Ruth was a bad influence,” Lily said.
The words drew a firm line in time. It was something she never would’ve said back then.
“Come on, Lil,” Silas said. “It was harmless kid stuff. I mean, don’t get me wrong—” He paused for a sip. “I was furious, and I let them have it. But Mick is the happiest I’ve seen her in a long time, and Sean’s even using more than one syllable a day. Plus, Ruth talked to me today and apologized. I think she’s a little troubled, a little unhappy, maybe. But she’s a good kid. She helped me with the new firepit.”
“Why? Where was Mickey?”
“Sleeping, probably. It was early. Can you just trust me on this one? Believe it or not, I’m a pretty decent parent.”
“I know you are.” She said it sincerely, and somehow that made it sound sad.
“I had an idea,” he said, his hand on the handle of the screen door. “A way to blow off some of this parenting-teens steam.”
“What’s that?”
Silas leaned out the door and reappeared with Evan’s rifle.
“Target practice.”
* * *
—
LILY HAD NEVER BEEN a gun person. Up until she met the Harrisons, she believed her mother when she said guns were brutish. But it was Rose, not Evan or even Silas, who first taught Lily how to shoot.
It was a couple of weeks before Sarah died. Lily was up at the New Hampshire house for the night; her mother was expecting her back the next day at noon. If Sean existed yet, he was a cell inside her—maybe two—and as unimagined as green skies.
At first, Lily was adorably reluctant. She sat on the lawn, smiling as she watched Silas race Philip to set up the cans along the wood board nailed between two trees.
“No glass!” Rose yelled as Silas slipped a Coke bottle into the lineup.
“Mom, come on,” he pleaded. “They make the best sound!”
“You can wear shoes to protect yourself,” she said. “The foxes can’t.”
“What if he makes a shoe line for wildlife?” Philip asked. “If he can put a thousand foxes in shoes, will you allow it?”
Lily laughed. “Kicks for Kits,” she said, and Philip beamed.
She could still remember the way that felt: her boyfriend’s older brother smiling like the two of them were in on something above everyone else’s pay grade. Phil’s smile, those few times when he really went for it, was enough to make evening feel like noon.
“Sure,” Rose said, turning the cans on the ledge so the labels were straight. “If your brother creates one thousand shoes for foxes, he can shoot a glass bottle on the lawn.”
“I’ll get right on that,” Silas said.
“Okay,” Rose said, and clapped her hands and swung the rifle strap over her shoulder once every can was lined up just right. “Ladies first.”
“Lily won’t, Ma,” Silas said.
Lily’s face got hot. “Oh, no, it’s fine. I just haven’t ever—”
“Shh!” Rose hissed. “Come on, sweet. It’ll be good for you.”
Before she knew it, she was on her feet.
“Right,” Rose said from behind Lily, locking her elbows. “Like that. Straight back, squared shoulders. It would help if you had a little more meat on you, but this will do.”
“If they’d rather shoot, I really don’t mind just watching.”
“You know that worried feeling?” Rose responded straight into Lily’s ear—not a whisper, but not loud enough for anyone else. “That feeling in your gut all the time, no matter the quality or intention of your company, like your safety is a gift from the men around you, not a right?”
It was the first time a woman had ever spoken to Lily like that. As though the play they were all in allowed intermissions.
“This right here,” Rose said, patting the gun affectionately. “For a minute, this will make that feeling go away.”
* * *
—
LILY TOOK A STEP toward Silas and ran her finger along the slick wood of the rifle’s stock. Up until that moment with Rose all those years ago, Lily had spent her young life assuming that her fear was a defect. She thought if she could just be wanted right, by the right man, that she herself would be righted, and the fear would go away. But even the best man comes with the strength and stature to remind a woman that every time he doesn’t hurt her is a favor.
And Rose was right. Lily had never found anything else to relieve the pressure of inferiority quite like a gun.
* * *
—
“SURE,” SHE SAID, AND threw back the last of her drink. “Let’s do it.”
“Love that enthusiasm!” Silas said. “Now you just have to tell me where you hid the damn bullets.”
PEYOTE
TREY MADE A BIG deal out of the necessary preparations for memory retrieval, which he insisted Cal watch so she could learn “what it looked like to crush skulls, mindfully.” He didn’t seem to require my presence, however, so I took the chance to check up on my marks. Granted, it was only noon, but I always went to Mickey after a long day. The tread in her—the track she alone laid, again and again—I found to be the perfect size. I could slip into her life with the least turbulence.