He grabbed her elbow and moved her to the steps. They went up them, she holding onto his arm till she was able to grab the edge of one of the folded-up cellar doors. When they reached the top, a bird swooped down on them. “Duck,” he said, pushing her head down till she was on her knees with him. The bird came a few inches from hitting them. “That crow was aiming at us,” he said. “Where’s my gun?” “You have no gun,” she said. “I don’t, huh?” He pointed his finger at the crow, which was circling about fifty feet up, followed its movements with his finger for a while, then said “Bang-bang, you’re dead, you bum.” The crow’s wings collapsed, and it dropped to the ground some twenty feet from them. “I don’t believe it. Did you see that?” “I saw it,” she said, “and I don’t believe it either.” “With this gun,” holding up his finger. “Do you think if I pointed it your way and said bang-bang, I’d knock you off too?” “Why, you want to? Anyway, don’t try.” “But it’s ridiculous. Just by going bang-bang, I killed that bird. And I had a bead on him too. ‘Bead’ is the word they use for it — out West or in criminal or law-enforcement circles — right?” “You’re asking me?” “Bead, a bead, or maybe it’s ‘draw a bead,’ but like you’re aiming.” “The beads I know are little stones and ornaments around the neck and droplets and so on. Of sweat. I still can’t believe what you did though.” “Neither can I. I aimed my finger at it — like this,” and he pointed his finger at her, “and then when it seemed to be closest to me and my hand wasn’t shaking so much, I fired. Bang-bang. I didn’t pull any trigger, though, meaning, use another finger as if I were pulling one.” He still had his finger on her. “Maybe I should move it away from you just to be safe.” “Don’t be silly. We both are. It was a coincidence. The crow died of a heart attack, but not one brought on by you, or something like that when you pretended to shoot it. Pull it if you want. Shoot it. Go bang-bang, even bang-bang-bang. Three shots for the price of two. Suddenly today I’m feeling very brave.” “Bang-bang,” he said. Her face got distorted, hands sort of stiffened into claws, and she fell to the ground. “Darling,” he said and got on his knees. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, and he put his ear to her chest, moved it around above her breasts, her back about where he thought her heart would be behind, then her nose and mouth. He didn’t hear or feel anything. He did it again: chest, back, nose and mouth, and then put his mouth on hers, kept her mouth open with his hands, and breathed into it, took his mouth away, took in a mouthful of air, breathed into her again, pulled away. “Oh Christ, what have I done? What have I done, goddamnit?” he screamed out. He stood, forced his fist into his palm, screamed “What the hell have I done? I’ve killed my wife. It can’t be so.” Got on the ground, listened to her chest, mouth, put his hand on her neck where he thought her pulse might be, was none, felt around her neck and temples, didn’t try her wrist because he was never able to find it there, turned her over on her stomach, straddled her, did what he thought was the thing to do to get someone breathing again. Pushed down with his hands, sat up, pushed, sat up. Lay down next to her and put his ear to her mouth; turned her over and put his ear where he thought her heart was. Nothing. He pointed his finger and pressed it into his forehead. “Bang-bang,” he said. “Bang-bang. Bang-bang.” I’m not shot, he thought. Not even hurt. “Come on, sweetheart, you got to be kidding.” He sat her up, held her while he listened to where he thought her heart was. Thought he heard something. Touched her neck. He felt something. Forced her eyes open. They looked alive. She smiled. “You,” he said, “you nearly gave me a heart attack there.” “You’d kill yourself for me? I peeked. Oh my dearest,” and she hugged him. “Yes I would,” he said. “I was so full of guilt and everything else. Sadness. I suddenly believed…well, who wouldn’t after he shot that bird down? The bird,” and he stood up, helped her up and ran to where the crow had landed.
It was still there. “I don’t want to put my head near its heart or beak, for those things can bite. No wonder I hit it. Look at its size.” “Kick it,” she said, walking over. “You mean nudge it with my foot. Okay. But if it jumps it’s going to startle me.” He touched it with the tip of his shoe, then jabbed it. The crow moved but didn’t seem alive. “Think it’s alive but just pretending?” he said. “I wouldn’t doubt it — Seriously,” she said, “I don’t think so. I think it got that heart attack or the cerebral equal of one — a flying stroke or something winged animals get only when they’re flying, and not particularly when people below are shooting their fingers at them, but that’s all. Your bang-bang and its fatal heart failure or stroke are only coincidental, one chance in a million, and it came up today.” “I hope so. Because I wouldn’t want to personally kill anything living like that. But come on, crow,” he said to the bird, “move, move, get up, fly or walk away. Do your messy garbage-bag biting and picking, your squawking, keeping us up when we want to take afternoon naps or sleep late. Do what the hell you’re supposed to and don’t make me feel bad, because the one-in-a-million coincidence I can’t prove.”
The crow began fidgeting, stood up — they backed away — flapped its wings, seemed to be testing its feet out on the ground, flapped some more, tried to fly, looked at them, walked backward away from them a few feet, flapped harder while it walked frontward even farther away from them and took off, flew a few inches off the ground several yards, then up to the sky. He pointed his finger at it, held his wrist while he got a bead on it. She said “Don’t chance it; not today. Maybe you did kill it and then your little entreaty before brought it back to life, and you won’t be so fortunate the next time.” He said “Just a test to prove my supernatural or whatever-you-want-to-call-them powers — powers I never had that I know of but am now naturally curious to see if I do — Hold it. Steady, steady. I’ve got it. Bang-bang. And bang, just in case.” The crow flew on, settled in a tree. “Maybe I missed.” “Or you wounded it,” she said. “Well, I’m not going to find out. In fact, no more games or tests like that. In fact, I’m throwing away my gun,” and flicked his hand to the side. They heard a clump in the grass about ten feet away in the direction he’d flicked to. “You believe that?” “It must be a rabbit or squirrel,” she said, “or a mouse.” “Probably a mouse.” “But then again, who knows? Though we should try to find out.”
She went over to where they’d heard the clump. Nothing moved. “Maybe it’s already gone,” she said. “Or it could have been something that just went down a hole, didn’t need to go through the grass. But we won’t tell anybody about all this, okay?” “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s a good story to tell, raises lots of interesting questions, puts what you didn’t think you thought right out there, right? And we’re having dinner with the Chamberlains later and they’re so dull that they’re wonderful to shock, so why not?” “It might be somewhat off-putting to them. They’ll think we’re getting loony and they’ll tell people, and then everyone will think we’ve become peculiar.” “Let them,” he said. “If they don’t like it, let them ostracize us too. Then we won’t have to return the dinner invitation to the Chamberlains and all our other dull neighbors who sort of force us to socialize more than we like. Let the whole town know, for all I care. It’ll give us more time to ourselves and what we really like to do. Like reading, for God’s sake. I’m going in to read. Like a good cup of hot tea, or a drink?” “I’ll make it for you,” she said. “No, it was my suggestion, and what I want to do, and you put up and will probably still have to put up with all my antics today, so I’ll make it for you.”