As we got older, though, his resolutions began to drive me nuts. Casey’s civility dragged problems out forever, fraying them one strand at a time, while I wanted to scream, to yell, to tear and bite. I didn’t want to “come to an understanding” with the pizza delivery boy. I wanted him to go back and give me my fucking pizza the way I ordered it. I wanted action and response. Especially now.
I pulled the heavy metal lock box from the top shelf of closet. Dust shivered and clung to it. James was still in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I stepped over a wet towel, which lay in a heap, to get through the doorway. He glanced at me and spit in the sink. Pink. Black crescents with purple edges ringed his eyes at the bridge of his swollen nose. I pointed to the edge of the tub. “Sit,” I said.
“What?” He ruffled his hair, misting the mirror as he sat, then touched a finger to his split lip. He winced.
I sat next to him, the box on my lap. “I want to show you something.” I leaned across the sink to tighten the faucet.
“Is that Grandpa’s—?”
“Yup.”
“I thought Dad made you—”
“Nope.”
I clicked the code in the box. It opened with a snap. James leaned forward. I edged the top up. I could smell the oil. It made me remember sitting with my dad, at the kitchen table, oiling and cleaning his guns. “It was Grandpa’s favorite.” I said. “He wanted you to have it.”
I picked up the .44. It was heavier than I remembered. The white butt was worn and yellowing. The metal was flawless, though, shining like a new car. “I wasn’t strong enough to shoot it by myself. Still not,” I said. “I had to lean against Grandpa. You’ll be able to handle it on your own one day.”
“You want me to shoot Kevin?” He sounded irritated.
“No,” I said solemnly. “This isn’t about Kevin.” I shrugged. “Not exactly.” I shifted. I wanted James to experience a spark of power, to hold the gun, understand its potential. Even if he never shot it in his life, I wanted to embed the symbol in his mind, the knowledge, the concept, so he would never feel helpless. “I’m only going to teach you because I trust you. You’re too smart to ever do anything stupid.” I paused. “But men need to know how to use one.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Just in case.”
He nodded grimly and leaned against me. I felt his skinny frame against my arm.
“This is your first lesson,” I said. “Take it by the butt. Don’t put you’re finger on the trigger. Press this release to check for bullets.” I modeled for him and swung the wheel open. I let the bullets fall into my hand. “Always make sure it isn’t loaded before you aim.” I held it out for him. “Here, take it.”
He traced a finger across the mirrored metal. “I’m tired, Mom.”
I shrank back down, the gun going limp in my hands. I sighed. “If that little prick touches you, ball up your fist and hit him as hard as you can. Then run.”
“Mom. He’s an eighth grader.” He said it like eighth graders swung batons and guarded mini-marts after hours. He raised his eyebrows, then his battered face crumpled. He sucked in two shallow breaths.
I rested the gun on the sink. I wrapped my arms around him. He felt heavier, a lump of flesh. “We’ll fix this, honey. Your dad and I will fix it. I promise.”
After a moment he pulled away and stood up with a small stumble. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a sniff. “I’m getting a lot of exercise running.” He smacked his belly. “Finally getting rid of some of that holiday weight.” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t tell your dad about the gun.”
He made a knowing face and held up his hands. “I don’t want to hear about it either.”
I grabbed him for a quick hug, then listened to him go into his room. The bathroom was a mess. His bloody clothes in a heap in the corner. Dirty handprints on the tile. I wiped up some toothpaste and looked in the mirror. I pulled the skin under my eyes. When I was a kid, I would have taken any opportunity to examine a gun, practice my aim. Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little impressed. I chuckled. Making jokes, damn kid. I put the gun back in the box and went to James’s room to tuck him in.
I was born in ’68, six years after the Test Site’s last nuclear detonation but still a few decades before the mega-resorts would come to really alter the look of southern Nevada. Back then, Vegas really was the Wild West, with tumbleweeds blowing down the teenaged Strip. My parents both worked in the casinos. Dad bounced around a lot. Usually because he couldn’t stay at any one job too long without punching someone out.
Vegas was more visceral in those days. Now all the sharp edges have been worn down, sanded to a dull impression to make the town’s tables more accessible. Then there was no glossy exterior, nothing to hide us from the fact that we lived in the middle of a desert, miles away from judgment. Guys got murdered for counting cards. Locals could get a comp to the buffet anytime, day or night. There was no charade like there is now. No casino nannies or carnival games, no street attractions. No, in those days, Vegas was here for one thing: sin.
We lived five minutes from the Strip in a trailer park, before we finally got a house, before my little sister was born. The trailer park was the last thing between the town and open desert. Dad loved it because we just had to walk to the end of the property to shoot our guns. “I couldn’t do this back in Brooklyn,” he’d always say, his accent flaring for a moment in the dry wind. In the summertime, I’d trail behind him, my bare feet crunching the parched dirt, the rocks biting them like piranhas, the stickers hooking themselves between my toes. By fall, my feet would get so tough that I could walk across glass. The sun would scorch my neck well into October. At night, my mom would lay cold towels across it so I could sleep.
My parents traded shifts so someone could always be with me when I was young. Mom doing cocktails days and Dad dealing nights. We were lucky. Dad and I spent a lot of time watching reruns and cleaning his guns, talking and making snacks. Once, when the July heat kept us from venturing too far, Dad had given up for the couch. I stuck outside to play with some neighborhood kids. I was ten or eleven. A teenaged boy I vaguely knew coaxed me behind the dumpsters.
“Show me your panties,” he said. He was wearing blue jeans and no shirt.
“No,” I said. I dug my bare toes into the powdery dirt.
“C’mon, just show me.” He pinched me hard on the arm.
“No. Leave me alone.” I turned to go.
“If you leave, I’ll chase after you and hit you in the face.”
“You’d have to catch me,” I sneered.
“I’d catch you easy. I’m bigger. Show me your panties and I’ll let you leave.”
I turned around and took off running as fast as I could. I heard my heart beating loud in my ears, but it didn’t cover up the stomping of his sneakers inches behind me. Get to the steps, I thought. I ran as fast as I could through the parking lot and the patch of desert between the dumpsters and our trailer. Inside, my stomach flipped with the idea that I had provoked this. I’d given the boy reason to think he could look at my panties. I wanted to stop and stand up for myself, but I was too scared. He was bigger than me. Then my stomach flipped again, thinking about Dad. I wouldn’t tell him if I could just make it home. I would be in trouble for going behind the dumpster with this boy who Dad had never liked and had specifically told me to stay away from. As soon as I hit the grass at the base of our slot, the boy’s slapping footsteps died away. I kept running, hopping over the tomato plants and hitting the aluminum door with all my weight. I’m sure I shook the entire trailer.