The back door to the garage was open as Mike ran in. Marie stood between the Ford camper and the long work bench. She had evidently surprised someone sleeping on top of the workbench. A thuggish-looking white kid wearing a hooded sweat shirt zipped halfway down, tattoos up to his jawline, slid off the bench as Mike came up.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Mike demanded. For a moment he thought he saw cunning in the youth’s eyes, then hurt. The smoky grey eyes slid smoothly from Mike’s face to Marie’s.
“Sorry, man. I just needed a place to rest. I’ll be going, okay?”
“He didn’t do anything,” said Marie. “I was looking for Charley and when I thought I saw something behind the trash bin, I pulled it out to get a closer look.” She looked at Mike. “And he sat up and that’s what scared me.”
Mike stared at the teen. He had a sparse fuzzy beard and acne on his cheeks. He didn’t seem particularly strong or threatening, but there had been reports of teen thugs travelling in gangs. Mike recalled the squatters around their fire inside the Atlas Hardware. This one probably had friends around somewhere.
“Yeah,” said Mike, “well, he can’t stay in here. I’ll see him to the gate.”
The teen straightened up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He was a couple inches taller than Mike. His pants were, of course, sagging. He was lean, but muscled. He rubbed the slight hollow of his stomach lazily. “Y’all got any food? I ain’t had nothin’ to eat in a day.”
Mike wanted to trust him, but nowadays you couldn’t trust anybody you didn’t know, and he wanted him gone. “Look,” he said. “There’s a food bank down at the Court House. They’ll feed you. But you can’t hang around here.”
Marie’s voice was tinged with concern. “Mike, we can at least give him something to take with him. I’ll go put some food in a plastic bag.”
Mike didn’t like the idea, but shrugged. “All right.”
Marie hurried back to the house.
Mike looked at the teen. “You can wait out by the gate. We’ll get you something to take with you.”
The teen blinked and nodded eagerly. “Thanks, man. That’s cool. I just wanna eat, you understand. Then I’m outta here.”
Mike left the teen at the gate. He went back inside the house, shut the front door and locked it. He quickly went upstairs to the bedroom and opened the safe, taking out the thirty-eight police special. He didn’t particularly like guns. In fact, he’d long believed there should be more legal restrictions against them. But when the country’s political problems began to escalate to street violence, he decided he’d better have one to protect his family. He had only fired the thing once at an indoor range. Marie didn’t like him having it in the house and so he had bought the safe for it. He never intended to carry it around and didn’t have a holster for it. He’d hoped he could just leave it in the safe forever. But now he couldn’t shake a premonition of vulnerability. He opened the cylinder; five brass shell casings shone in the dull light. He closed it carefully and put it in his pocket.
Mike started down the stairs. Before he could shout, he watched in disbelief as Elly opened the front door to the teen thug and stepped back. Marie was approaching and the teen grabbed her, putting her in a head lock; she dropped the sack of food. The teen pulled out a stiletto knife and held it to her throat. Elly whimpered and ran into the living room. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” she called out repeatedly.
The teen saw Mike hurrying down the stairs and shielded himself with Marie. He pushed further into the house and kicked the door closed behind him, keeping the knife pressed to Marie’s throat. He glared up at Mike, “Listen, motherfucker, all I want is the keys to the camper. Gimme the fuckin’ keys and I’m gone, you understand?”
Mike stepped onto the landing; he was only seven or eight feet away. He knew there could be no negotiating, no backing down. Now it was the keys to the camper he wanted. Then what? Mike took the revolver from his pocket and aimed it at the teen’s head. “Let her go,” he said. “Do it or I’ll kill you.”
Marie’s face was a mask of fear. She closed her eyes and said nothing. The thug tried to scrunch down, making himself less of a target, but ended up pulling Marie lower. He straightened up a bit. “Oh, shit!” he said with mock bravado, “You ain’t kidding, are you?”
Mike didn’t say anything, trying instead to slow his breathing. He steadied his right wrist with his left hand, sighting along the little barrel at the thug’s head. His vision blurred slightly. His glasses had moved, but he didn’t dare touch them. He continued to sight along the barrel. He was only five or so feet away. He couldn’t miss, he kept telling himself.
“All right, man, okay. Don’t shoot.” The thug lowered the knife and slipped it into his pocket, backing away from Marie who appeared ready to faint.
“Marie,” said Mike, “go in the other room.”
Marie hurried into the living room and Mike moved closer to the thug. “Now get out.”
Mike was behind him when he spun backward, throwing Mike off balance. One of his hands was on the revolver, the other gripped Mike’s shirt. Mike pushed him back and in the process, squeezed the trigger. The revolver exploded percussively. Mike felt the recoil. He couldn’t hear. He saw movement and turned—Elly racing up the stairs in panic. His hearing came back in a burst—Marie to his left, screaming at him, the thug leaning against the door, moaning as he held his hand aloft, blood dripping down his arm.
Mike pushed him sideways and jerked the door open. He gave him a shove. The thug stood on the stoop, his eyes half-open in pain and disbelief. Mike aimed the revolver at his face. “Get out! Get the fuck out of here!”
“I’m going, man, don’t shoot.” The thug held his bloody hand aloft. He turned to stare angrily at Mike as he walked down the walkway. Mike followed at a distance. A black man wearing a navy blue jacket and hoody walked up to the gate. He looked at the thug, then at Mike. “What the fuck?” he said.
The teen thug waved his bleeding hand, glaring at Mike. “We’ll get your ass, motherfucker. We’ll be back.”
Mike brought the weapon up again and sighted carefully along the snub barrel. “Get out of here.”
“Shit!” hissed the black. They turned and went down the street.
Mike waited on his walkway for a few minutes. He walked to the gate and looked around. They had disappeared somewhere. He pocketed the revolver and went back into the house. He locked the door and proceeded into the living room. Marie sat on the couch, her face wet with tears.
Mike sat next to her, one ear attuned to the doors and windows. “Marie…”
She said nothing, not turning to him.
“I’m sorry, Honey. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You shot him!”
“Yeah!” Mike sighed in frustration. “The gun went off. He was trying to take it from me.”
She turned to him angrily. “You could’ve shot me!”
The vehemence in her voice shocked him. “Damn it, Marie, I wouldn’t do that! I had to get him out of here, okay? I had to scare him away.”
They heard Elly crying upstairs. She always ran away when they fought, racing to her room, slamming the door and throwing herself across her bed. This time she had good cause.
Marie buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “I was so scared. No one’s ever pointed a gun at me. Ever!”
Mike was flailing desperately for the right words, like a drowning man grabbing at water. “C’mon, Marie, what the hell could I do? If I had given him the keys to the camper you think he would have just left?”
Marie said nothing, continuing to sob.
“If I hadn’t done what I did he’d be in here now, maybe with his friends. Don’t you understand? One of his friends met him at the gate.” Mike shook his head in frustration. Marie just didn’t understand how bad things had become. She didn’t have the big picture of what was happening all around them, what was coming. Society was in a slow-motion collapse. They had to be pro-active now.