Primal (22 page)

Scott tries to shut up Newt. “I do not think the kind of
knife matters, Newt.”

Hank looks up at them, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Man,” Newt says sympathetically. “I cannot imagine”

“How do I make her better?”

“You will,” Scott’s voice doesn’t sound as sure as Hank
would like.

“And what if Polly’s right? What about Jimmy?”

Scottie rests his hand on Hank’s shoulder, “She just needs
more time, that’s all. I mean, come on, Hank, the woman is so delicate she gets
faint passing the meat case at the supermarket. Then she kills three men…cut
her some slack.”

“Didn’t the therapist want to put her on some kind of meds?
Maybe that would help,” Newt says. “Meds always help me.”

“She refuses to take anything because she needs to stay
alert. The therapist said she was paranoid. Alison says no one who wasn’t there
can understand and that’s true. All I want in the world is to put it behind us
and take our lives back and she just keeps bringing it up, reliving it, looking
for boogey men, keeping it all alive.”

Newt says, “Go home, man.”

“Really, Hank, we’ve got you covered here,” Scottie assures
him. “Go on home.”

Hank thinks about it and then admits to his friends the sad
truth, “It’s not good to show up unexpectedly.” And Hank faces what he has
known: Alison is dangerous, dangerous to him, to Jimmy, to herself. He has to
make the right choice here. He needs to think it calmly through and do the
right thing for everyone. This must be the moment Doctor Cartwell was preparing
him for. Yes, this is it. He must think very clearly, very carefully.

* * *

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.