The Becoming
Chapter 6

He went through the house methodically shutting and testing each window. He even re-did the ones that were already locked. When he finished, he double checked his work before sitting on his grandma‘s lumpy bed.

After a While of sitting and taking quick glances at the waste basket pushed underneath her nightstand, Grandma came up the steps and down the hallway. “Boy?” Her voice echoed. “

“Yeah?”

“Did you do what I asked? ”

“Yeah.”

She stopped and stood just out of view. Crickets were in full force now and somewhere an owl hooted forlornly.

“I’m going to come in there holding something that might scare you. Try your best not to be too shocked, okay?”

“Okay. Do I have to touch it?”

“Yes. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, Grandma.”

She stood in the doorway holding a shiny revolver, a cigarette stuck in the corner of her lips. She looked like something out of the black and white movies Grandma always watched. The barrel was pointed towards the floor.

“Are you okay? ”

“I’m okay,” the boy said, “you look like you need a hat when you stand like that.”

“Why would I, oh, yes, I see. I suppose a trench coat would seal the deal. I take it my fussing was in vain then.”

“I’m not scared, Grandma.”

“Do you know how it works?”

“No. Maybe.”

“Did someone show you? ”

“Uh, sort of.”

“Who on God’s-where? Who? Why?”

“School. They didn’t let me hold it and there wasn’t no bullets.“

“Thank goodness for that,” Grandma said, rolling her eyes. “Who was it?”

“Ricky Tanmire. He said his dad knew about it. He didn’t bring any bullets with him.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt that his dad knew. They came from the south and thought it was acceptable to try and bring a bit of that damn idiocy with them as well. Don’t you let me catch you hanging around him anymore of it’s your ass.”

“Okay, Grandma, sorry.”

“Now move over, I want to show you how it works.”

“Is it grandpa’s?” the boy asked.

Grandma laughed and said, “please, he wouldn’t have been caught dead with a little thing like this.” She hefted the pistol in her hand, as if testing its weight. “He called these pimp guns. Your grandfather bought me this when I used to work at that salon downtown. I don’t think you were even alive then.”

“Was he scared somebody was going to hurt you?”

“I highly doubt he was worried about my safety, the cheap bastard. I was robbed one night by a man with a knife while waiting for the bus to take me home. I tell you, boy, I’ve never been so scared in my life as I was that night. I gave him everything I had, even my anniversary watch, and was scared that it wasn’t enough. He took everything from me and shoved it all in a pocket of his big coat. Then he looked at me in a curious way. It was as if he were speaking to me without actually saying anything. He was crazy but he wasn’t going to kill me, I don’t think he wanted to kill anyone. He was more of a jackal than a lion if that makes sense. Anyway, I came home out of my mind and do you know what the first thing Henry asked? ‘How much did he get?’ I swear the man has a little bit of jew in his bloodline somewhere, has to. Anyway, when I came home the next evening from the grocery store he had this in his lap. He showed me how to load it and took me downstairs and taught me how to fire it. She lifted the pistol and pointed it at herself through the reflection of the vanity mirror. “I kept it in my purse until about ten years ago when my hands started to shake.” She returned the pistol to her lap. “It’s hard to accept how many things you’re forced to let go of when you get old, this was not one of them. No matter where I was or what I was doing, I could feel the responsibility of the gun pulling at me the way a toothache does.”

“Did you ever shoot someone?”

“God, no.”

“Where did you keep it all this time?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know. I kept it safe where you couldn’t find it an blow your head off.”

“I wouldn’t have touched it.”

“I know that, boy. I’m only giving you a hard time. There’s no man to raise you right and toughen up your skin so it’s up to me.” This last word came out at a high pitch squeak followed by a few coughs. “Take it.”

“The gun?”

“Hold it long enough for me to show you how to use it. If you feel uncomfortable still, I’ll take it back.”

“Okay.”

She handed him the pistol. The boy held it in one hand, his palm flat, fingers splayed outwards. “Why’d you get it out if you don’t like carrying it around?” the boy asked.

“Because-because it doesn’t matter. Oh don’t look at me like that. Can’t you ever leave things alone? Do you have to know everything?” She sighed. Her hands trembled in her lap. “Remember when that lady asked for me on the phone?”

The boy nodded.

“I heard something that didn’t sound right. That and how strange Mr. Harris has been acting. You can’t trust anyone in this day and age.”

“Are you scared of something?”

“I don’t quite know, boy. Something isn’t right and I think we’re on our own for the moment. I wish I understood it but I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“Are you all right? Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Put the gun down sweetie. On the floor is okay. Come here, shh. It’s all right.” She took the boy into her frail arms. The boy put his head against her chest and listened to the deep, rhythmic wheeze that came from somewhere deep inside. Her heartbeat was strong though, so he focused on that. Tears surfaced without warning. The boy found it odd how the first time he felt safe all day long was when he had to cry.

Grandma shushed him. “Everything will be all right. What do you say I make us a late dinner and we see what’s on the television. How’s that sound?”

The boy sniffled and said, “good.”

“Can you do me a favor first?”

“M-m-m-yeah.”

“First, take a deep breath. In and out, that’s it. Can you pick up the gun? Do you remember how to hold it?”

“I think,” the boy said, his voice still a little shaky.

“Grab it by the curved part here, and keep your finger off the trigger. Now hold it up and aim like you wanna shoot the lamp.”

The boy lifted the gun and turned towards the lamp on the bedside table. His index finger was sticking out so far from the trigger it was pointing towards the wall.

“It’s not a teacup, boy,” Grandma said, laughing. Put your finger on the side, right here. Does it feel comfortable now, how you’re holding it I mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try holding it just like that but in the other hand.”

“It feels funny but I don’t know why.”

“It’s because you shoot right handed. Switch it back and hold it so the barrel-this end-is pointing down, like you want to shoot the ground, not your toes, the ground. See this pin here, pull on it.”

The gun broke open, revealing six brass circles with gray pupils.

“That’s how you empty and load it. Now close it up, carefully though. Did you hear the double click? That means it’s locked in place and you’re ready to fire. The trigger takes a lot of pressure so if you have to use it, squeeze hard.”

“Will I have to use it, Grandma?”

“No, no. I don’t think so. You need to know these things is all. Do you want me to put it back?”

“I think I’m okay. I’ll hold onto it, Grandma,” the boy said, squinting and pointing the gun towards various objects in the cluttered room.

“You must be Henry’s grandson. You took to that thing like a duck to water. Does it make you feel safe?”

“A little.”

“Okay. Carry it around if you want, but don’t take it outside. God knows Mrs. Faringer is just waiting to see me turn you into a mongrel-nosy bitch. Excuse my language.”

The boy giggled.

“Don’t you go around calling anyone by that name, you hear? That’s an adult word.”

“Okay, Grandma,” he said, still smiling.

“Let’s go see what we’ve got to make. Help me up?”

The boy jumped up from the bed and looked confused for a moment before tucking the pistol in the seam of his pants. He gave Grandma a wild grin.

“A regular thug if I’ve ever seen one. Next thing I know you’ll be asking me for all the money in my wallet. Here, take my hand.” The boy reached for her and she came up with a groan. “What a pair we make,” she said, swaying slightly. “A regular Starsky and Hutch. Let go of me, I can do it from here, thank you.”

“Can I turn on the T.V.?”

“Sure, sure. All I ask is you stay out of my hair and leave me be in the kitchen. I need time to think. And boy…”

“Yeah?”

She held his gaze for a long time. Her mouth opened enough to reveal that blackness that lay beyond her dentures. She blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t play any MTV crap. I can’t stand that racket.”

The boy tried five different stations but they were all the same. Grandma came in with a platter of wedge cut sandwiches. She set them on the coffee table with a soft clack.

“What’s wrong with the T.V.?” she asked.

“I don’t know. All the channels look like this.”

“Did you smack it?”

“No.”

“Smack it.”

“Where?”

“You see where that antenna goes in? Smack it good, right there.”

The boy hit the top of the television lightly. He turned quickly to Grandma, ready to be chastised for hitting it too hard.

No, boy. Smack it like you’re swatting a fly.”

THUD.

“Harder.”

THUD.

“Give it your all.”

THACK.

The screen flickered black, then continued it’s snow of static. The speakers hissed. “Did I hit it too hard?”

“No. Must be a cloudy night. Grab a VHS, we’ll watch a movie and then head off to bed.”

“What do you want to watch?”

“Oh, something humorous. I need a good laugh.”

“How about the Little Rascals.”

“Fine, fine,” Grandma said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. “Go get it.”

The boy stood up and went over to the bookshelf filled with VHS tapes. He found the case easy enough but something kept him where he was. The living room had two windows: the large bay that overlooked the neighborhood and a standard, blind covered one on the wall that faced the small alcove of grass between them and the Harris house. He knew he couldn’t stand there for much longer because Grandma would start to ask questions, but he had to make sure of what he was seeing. In the small gap between the blinds and plexiglass he could make out a person standing along the divide of the two homes, lighted a bone gray by the distant street lamp. In the dark grass lay a black thread that ran up and stopped at their head.

“What’s wrong, boy. Why are you standing there like that?”

“I was reading the back of the box. I never read it before.” The boy pulled open the plastic case and pried out the tape. He put the empty case back in the bookshelf, hoping to steal one more glance at whoever was out there, but when he checked, he saw nothing except the dark windows and a brick wall.

“Why do you keep looking out that damn window. Who’s out there?”

“No. I thought I saw a deer. I’ve never seen one up close.”

“Probably heading off to eat my hydrangeas. I can’t stand those animals. Nothing but dogs with dead trees growing out of their heads.”

This made the boy laugh and let go of whatever he had seen. Maybe it was his eyes, or his own reflection shone at a weird angle, or that he was trying to see things that weren’t there. He pushed the tape into the slot on the bottom shelf of the entertainment stand and sat next to Grandma. She gestured towards the sliced sandwiches and made a raspy grunt. The boy leaned over and took one of the sandwiches, they were ham and cheese.

The movie started. The music was loud and bright. “Do you want one?” the boy asked.

“No, I’m fine. Eat them all if you want,” she said, her attention fixed on the television. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, but that seemed like a dumb thing to do. He loved the Little Rascals but he couldn’t concentrate on the story. “I’m a doctor, that’s why I don’t smoke.” He had hardly known Mr. Harris, but in all of their few interactions, he’d never spoken that way. Mr. Harris had a slow, collected way of talking, the way teachers do when explaining a particularly troublesome lesson. The voice he heard today, “if you let me in it won’t be so bad” that was not his neighbor. Even the gripping about the window was out of place. Although the boy would have been the last person to smash someone’s window with a stray baseball, he did enjoy the occasional covert ops mission, and had used The Harris front yard shrubbery as his steak out base. And on two occasions he had accidentally kicked up Mrs. Harris’s flower bed without knowing he did so. And on those instances Mr. Harris had come over with a set of rubber gloves and a garden trowel asking Grandma if he could borrow the boys youth to come and plant some fresh flowers in order to surprise his wife.

They’d spend the late afternoon digging up the front yards garden. Mr. Harris would ask the boy a great many questions, all unrelated to each other and when the boy would answer, Mr. Harris would smile and say, “is that so.” When they were finished and Mr. Harris’s pretty wife was pulling into the driveway, he’d step away from their work and say, “close one” to the boy very quietly before turning around to greet his ecstatic wife. Mr. Harris did not deal with problems through accusations but through solutions, ignoring the source almost completely.

And as strange as he had been a few hours ago, he was right about something.

Grandma was getting worse.

It was only a matter of time before she ended up in the hospital, or worse. And then what? Where would he go? What would he do without her? He had memories before Grandma but they were fuzzy and he could only remember fragments of what felt like important moments: sitting in the back seat of a car and looking at the Velcro straps of his shoes, his shadow against white sidewalk, plastic chairs and rough carpet. He had tried to knit these things together into some sort of patchwork time line but it never made any sense. His mind held no landmarks. If she left him, would he exist in a slideshow of nonsensical moments once more? He felt for the note in his pocket. Since receiving the note he had made it his quiet duty to decipher what it was supposed to mean.

If Grandma left he had the note, and that would be enough, had to be enough.

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