Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 4 :: Then Some Shooting

We ate steak, we talked baseball and then we went home. It was about nine thirty, but the house was dark when we pulled into the driveway. We got out and headed for the door, but Dad put his hand on my arm just before we reached it. "Go easy with Wanda and your mom about this. It was bad, David, really bad. Your mom took it personally. At first she tried to be there for Wanda, but it just drove her down. Thank God for Pamela; she was a pillar of strength."

"I'm sorry I stirred up old wounds."

He shook his head. "We all went to counselors. They told us the same thing. You can either deal with it or bury it. If you deal with it, you win. Bury it and it can come back to bite you sometime later. After a couple of years, the shrink told me, revisit what happened. If you can face it, talk about it... you've done what you can. If you can't..." Dad laughed nervously. "I still have his card if you'd like someone to talk to.

"It's like spring cleaning, Davey, something that's gotta be done."

Right then my cell phone went off. At first, we did the comic routine, whose phone was it, since mine almost never rang.

"Davey, this is Emily."

"Hello, Emily." Dad heard the name, nodded and unlocked the door. I went through it, turned toward the family room.

"I wanted to apologize for this morning."

"You don't have to apologize for anything," I told her.

"I said horrid things to you."

"Emily, you don't have to apologize. When a friend says something like that, you cut them a lot of slack. That's the way it is. I didn't understand what was going on and I said things that hurt you. I don't blame you for being upset."

"We're not friends. Not really."

"I want to be your friend," I told her. "I mean that."

"Mom says it just means you want to..." She stopped. Crying, I suspected.

"Emily, I'm a thirteen-year-old boy. Of course I want to. I just got back from dinner with my dad; they had an enormous plate of the best onion rings I've ever had. I wanted to finish them, but I knew there was steak coming. So I didn't."

"I don't think I understand," I could hear a tremble in her voice.

"Have you ever been to the store, seen something you liked, but either couldn't afford or couldn't justify buying it?"

"Yes, sure."

"And what happens? You sigh, and get on with things. There are all kinds of reasons why wanting something doesn't mean getting it. I have a brain and hormones. My brain is firmly in charge." Well, most of the time. Did I want to sleep with Emily? Honestly, I'd never thought about it. Until today she was just someone I knew.

"I can't tell if you're saying yes or no."

"I'm saying that it doesn't matter. I want to be your friend. That matters a lot to me. I want to help you, that matters. Anything else? I think the first two are the important. I am not like the guy who hurt you, Emily. I'm not."

"Then why do you want to be my friend?"

"Because you need one. And you know what, I'm thinking it would be good for me to have a friend too."

There was a long silence, then she replied, "I'd like to have a friend."

"Good, then Friday evening, would you like to see a movie?"

An even longer silence. "Mom won't let me out."

"This isn't a date," I explained patiently. "My sister's boyfriend is going to be back in town Friday after spending the summer away. We were going to a movie, with some of my sister's friends as well. Four girls counting you, two guys, counting me. It's not a date. Just a good movie with some nice people, we'd be back by 10:30 or 11:00."

"I'll ask," Emily said, "just a second." In a bit she was back. "Okay."

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Fine. I'm not sure what movie we're going to go to. Wanda, Pammie and Jack are seniors; odds are they will pick which one we see. Pammie has a cousin; Karen is her name, she's our age. She'll be coming along, too."

"That's okay." There was a brief pause, "Thanks, Davey."

"No problem. How's the hand?"

Another pause. "It's a relief to get the cast off, but now I have to do therapy or I'll lose mobility. That hurts; not a lot, but some."

"My sister broke her arm almost a year ago; she had to do therapy, too. She kinda let it slide, but when she went to a cheerleader practice, she found she couldn't lift her arm over her head. After that, well, she was motivated."

Emily giggled. "I can't even hold a pencil right now. So I'm motivated, too."

Another pause and she said, "Doctor Jacoby is nice, really nice."

I replied honestly. "Today was the first time I saw her for any length of time. I was getting a physical so I can play baseball this year." I went on about the tryout, and she giggled again at my description of how bad the guys were. Finally she had to go, and I spent a few seconds telling my phone to remember her phone number, and updating my phone book.

It was, I thought, pretty sad. Until I added Emily's number all my phone book had was our home phone, Mom and Dad's cell phone numbers, Wanda's phone and Pamela's home phone. And that was all of them. Pretty puny.

I was sitting on the couch in the family room and once again I wandered into the corridors of my own thoughts. Something was tickling my mind; I wasn't entirely sure what it was. I was missing something, I wasn't sure what.

It wasn't exactly a lightning bolt, but it was a surprise. Just why had Dr. Jacoby taken me into that room and asked me to talk to Emily? When Wanda had been raped, Mom and Pammie had rallied to help; Dad and I had been exiled. I'd heard some before about how women rallied to support someone who'd been attacked. So why me?

If I was a betting person, I'd bet it was because Doctor Jacoby thought I knew about Wanda. And that she'd made a quick judgment and decided I was a nice guy who just might help. I made a mental note to thank her.

I got up and went into my room. There was a dark shape in my bed.

I'd made enough noise so that Wanda woke up. "I thought you were never going to come to bed," she said, a little grumpily.

It was then it hit me. Ten thousand very tiny clues, very, very tiny clues. A little here, a little there. Earlier I was thinking one thing, talking about what really was on my mind now. Jack the Ripper had been gone for weeks. Wanda had said she had gotten so horny, that she'd come to me. Just how long had it taken her to get horny? Weeks? Or maybe just since Pammie's cousin had gotten here? There had been an easy familiarity that afternoon in the family room. Was some of Pammie's hostility based not on my to-be-faked relationship with Karen, but my having sex with Wanda? Jealous hostility?

I stripped out of my clothes, and then stood at the side of the bed, looking down on my nude sister. "Still sore?" I asked quietly.

"Not very much," she whispered, "I was hoping you'd kiss it and make it better."

I chuckled, "I thought that's why you were sore in the first place?"

"Come to bed, Davey; for God's sake, little brother don't change the subject now!"

I climbed in bed, crawled between her legs and started kissing her inner thighs. Odd, I thought as I got going, this is a big turn on for me, too. I liked to watch Wanda squirm and sigh. When she comes, I feel something like exhilaration, not like an orgasm, just a big thrill, like the instant an elevator starts down.

After Wanda's third orgasm, where I was fingering that special spot inside her, she laughed, "Enough, Davey! Enough! God, I love your tongue almost as much as your cock!"

I considered this and that, decided it was something I wanted to know. "Am I as good as Pammie?"

She lifted her head up and giggled. "Figured that out, did you?"

"Eventually, yes."

She reached down, pulled me up to her, moved so my erection slid inside her. "I like sex, Davey, no two ways about it. You know the sad thing about Brian? I kind of half thought it might be fun, to do it again with him. But I never got a chance; he was too quick."

She ran her hands over my bottom, pulled me tightly into her, lifted up her pussy, pressing against me. God it felt good! To be buried to the hilt in a warm, willing pussy! Feeling her warm skin against mine, feel the play of her muscles under her skin, the soft heaviness of her breasts. The hard tips of her nipples against my palms.

I came, she came, both of us gasping and sighing in pleasure.

When my breathing had returned to something like normal, I looked into her eyes; soft, loving eyes. Gone was my cynical, hard as nails, driven sister. Instead there was a beautiful young woman, glowing in the dimness of the room. She smiled at me, and then her eyes closed. Her breathing changed from easy to relaxed. She was asleep.

I giggled to myself. Ah, Wanda, I'm still hard. I'm still inside you. Are you sure you want to sleep like this? The answer to that was lying beneath me -- she did. I could move, pull out and roll over. Or, like a cad, leave it in. Actually, I wasn't sure which was worse, leaving or staying.

I contemplated rape and not rolling over; somehow the two seemed different. If Wanda wants this, who am I to say no? Worst case is that she'll wake up later and be upset; I can just tell her I fell asleep, too.

Nature is odd that way; the conundrum resolved itself because I did fall asleep.

Much later I was having an erotic dream to end all erotic dreams; Wanda was sucking my dick, Emily was sitting on my face, the two of them kissing each other at the same time.

I woke and realized the dream had it all wrong; I was buried inside Wanda and she was moving her hips, lifting them softly against me. I grinned to myself; well, my question was answered: Wanda didn't mind. And now she was trying to get off without waking me. I moved against her and I heard something very much like a cat purr. For some time there was only the sounds of our growing passion; she peaked ahead of me, but when she tightened her vaginal muscles around my shaft, I came too.

I drifted for a few seconds, not as breathless as before, feeling wonderful and relaxed.

Without warning, Wanda began to cry, softly but obviously not tears of joy.

"What?" I asked softly. "Is it something I did?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Nothing. Everything." She laughed, bitter. "I had this dream, Davey. I was walking down the street, doing it with people. Young guys, old guys, girls, women. Good, it was good! And then it was Jack and..." She sighed. "It was Jack, what can I say? Davey, it wasn't any good with Jack."

She was silent for a minute. "Brian and I learned together. Jack had a couple of girl friends before me, but none for very long. When we're together, it's good."

She bit her lip, sighed again. "But not as good as those people I did it with, not nearly anywhere close to this." She bumped her hips against mine; I was still hard. I'd had boners that lasted all night; this looked to be one of those times.

"I don't want to come between you and your friends," I told her. "No matter who they are."

"It's not you, Davey. It's me. And Jack and Brian and..." She sighed.

"Pammie came on really strong, the weekend after Jack left. 'Give it a try,' she told me, 'you never know if you're going to like something until you try it.'" Wanda laughed. "Well, I'm here to tell you, even that first time was better than anything I'd had before you.

"At first I thought it was because it was like forbidden fruit. In San Angelo, we're not like a big city; there is no tolerance for gays at all. Zero. I thought it was exciting because of that, and maybe because Pammie is a girl, too, and knows the right buttons to push."

She stroked my face. "You, Davey, you're not a girl. But golly! Do you know how to push my buttons!"

I laughed, shaking my head. I couldn't be that good, only in my dreams, maybe.

"No, what I've decided is that Brian was lousy in bed, not to mention a chicken-shit-eating-bastard. Jack is a better lover, but that's not saying much. He's a narrow-minded bigot without two pennies to rub together."

We started moving together again; I wasn't sure who started things, because it was me wanting her, and she seemed to want me. Wanda was frantic, digging her fingernails into my back, trying to drag me deeper and deeper into her. I wanted her and did my best to meet her thrusts; finally I gasped and shot another load deep inside my sister; she hung onto me tightly, and then started milking my dick with her vagina. I nearly came again.

"You got me so close, so wound up!" Wanda murmured. "Roll over, Beethoven!"

I tried to roll over so she could be on top without pulling out; that didn't work. But a second later she was sitting astraddle my hips, and I was in her again. She took my hard cock and started rubbing it across the front of her vagina, particularly her clit. My hands went to her breasts, massaging them both at once. She came, came again a few seconds later, and then I shot my wad, coming all over her abdomen.

Wanda chuckled, "There is a lot to be said for spending the night with your lover. Of course, getting up in a few hours isn't going to be easy."

"Oh yeah."

"Sleep, Davy, sleep. We need to get some tonight."

"Wanda?" I asked, as she rolled alongside me in the bed.

"What, Davey?"

"Haven't you spent the night with Jack?"

She shook her head. "Oh, I suppose you could count last year's prom, but we didn't get to bed until after two, and we only did it once. When we woke up, it was the maid banging on the door to let us know we had to check out."

I mentally wiped my brow; Wanda had been having sex for six years now and this was the first time she'd spent a real night in bed with someone else? And it was me, not her boyfriend?

Still we were snuggled together, her head pillowed on my shoulder, her arm lying across my chest; I had an arm wrapped around her, too.

The slam of car doors outside woke us; it was after seven already and both our parents were heading out. I grinned at Wanda and she grinned at me.

"You know, little brother I think I'm putting too much store in not being all sore and used up when Jack gets back."

"Don't go pushing the limits," I told her. "Jack isn't my idea of someone I'd like to piss off. Dump him the first night he's back and he's going to wonder why. And who's cutting in on his time."

"Davey, my dear sweet not-so-little-where-it-counts brother, I see you've still got it up. As for the rest, little brother, that comes under the heading of none of your fucking business."

I stuck out my tongue at her. "Now that's the Wanda I remember!"

She reached out, stroking my boner. "You are, like crusty, little brother. But I'm horny enough not to care. Once more, little brother, then we're going to shower and pretend nothing's changed."

Right then, my cell phone rang.

I considered not picking it up, but then I almost never got calls; like as not it was Mom or Dad, having forgotten something. Odd though, normally they would have called Wanda, since she could drive. Unless they knew where she was and couldn't hear her phone. That was another sobering thought.

I picked it up.

"It's me, Emily," she said in a small voice.

"Good morning, Emily," I said, as much as to let Wanda know who it was.

"Mom says either I schedule an abortion today or tomorrow I'll be homeless. I don't know what to do, David." Her voice was brittle, like she was close to the edge of something really bad.

"Emily, would you like me to come over? I can talk to you, maybe to her." I was grasping at straws and Emily knew it.

"If Mom saw another boy, I'd probably be homeless today."

I knew Wanda was listening; now she pointed to herself.

"Emily, how about if my sister was to come over?"

"Your sister?" I could hear the puzzle in her voice.

"Yes, Wanda. I know I don't understand what you're going through, Emily. But Wanda does."

"Oh sure, just because she's a girl?"

"Because she was beaten and raped, too. It was a while ago and they kept it quiet. But if you like, I'll ask her."

There was silence at the other end, then a sob. "Oh, David! I'm sorry, really sorry! I keep messing up... I don't know what to do... Sometimes I..."

She stopped talking and I completed her sentence in my head assuming the worst-case scenario. "Emily, you didn't mess up. Some guy beat you up and then he raped you and got you pregnant. You didn't ask for that, you didn't deserve that, and you don't deserve what's happening now with your parents. Please, I know she'll talk to you."

"Why would the most popular girl in school talk to an ugly freshman?"

"Emily, you're not ugly. Please, Emily, Wanda knows what you're going through a whole lot better than me, please talk to her."

"I guess."

"Half an hour?" I almost added that we had to take a shower and get dressed; decided that was maybe too much information.

"Yes. Do you know where I live?"

"Yes," I didn't mention how I knew.

Wanda had heard the affirmative and was off the bed and out the door. Later, just before she left, she hugged me. "I was lucky, I had Pammie around for me, like Emily has you. It kept me from falling all to pieces." She was nearly in tears. "I don't know how much I'll be able to talk about it when I get back, but the high points, for sure."

She was gone then, and I was alone in an empty house. I went into the shower, wondering what it would have been like to shower with Wanda -- exciting came to mind. And not only to my mind, I had an enormous erection. I stroked it a few times, shot off in no time.

I figured that Wanda was going to take her time, so I didn't expect her back soon. Still, by lunch I was getting a little antsy. Then after lunch, Pammie called, wanting to know if I knew where Wanda was, because she wasn't answering her cell phone.

"Yes, I know where she is, Pammie. She's going to have to tell you herself."

"Oh ho, Mister Mysterious! Just so long as she's not out with another girl!"

"And like you're not?" I said, and then wanted to hit myself on my forehead. Like I needed to point fingers at Pammie?

"That's different. Like you and Wanda are different. So, she's off with another girl."

"I'll tell her you called," I told Pammie.

"You and me, Davey boy, we're never going to be friends. But the other day, I saw you and Wanda. You had your cock in her, and the expression on Wanda's face was... well, she sure looked like you were hitting the spot. Wanda, Davey, is my best friend, and one thing best friends do for each other is try to make them happy. If you can do it as good or better than me, that's cool. But I'm her girl, Davey."

"It's nothing romantic, anything but," I told her.

Pammie might not be the brightest bulb in the universe, but she'd had some experience of her own. "Anything but, eh? Well, considering that I'll wait until I hear from her."

With that she hung up.

I'd like to say I stayed bright-eyed and busy-tailed, but the fact was that I'd spent the night with Wanda most pleasantly, or to put it another way, around one in the afternoon I fell asleep.

I woke up with my cell phone going off; for a second I expected Emily on the line, was surprised it was actually Mom, who was really my most frequent caller. "David, I want you to do something for me."

"Sure, Mom," I replied, clearing sleep cobwebs out of my brain and expecting to be assigned some mundane task toward making dinner. Well, it was certainly mundane...

"David, I want you to go to the guest room. Put clean sheets on the bed, vacuum and dust. Put clean linens in the bathroom."

I chuckled, a clueless thirteen-year-old who really did spend too much time thinking with his erection. "Sure, Mom. Who's coming?"

"David, right now, I'm not sure if anyone's coming. Wanda and I are still working on that."

She paused and I reflected where Wanda was, or at least where I thought she was. What was Mom doing there? Wanda had spent the entire day with Emily?

"Just get it done, David. I'll call back in an hour or so."

I remembered Pammie's call. "Is Wanda there?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Pammie's been trying to call her," I said mildly. What was Mom doing there? Those words suddenly became a drumbeat litany, over and over again in my head. What was Mom doing at Emily's?

"Call her back. Tell her to keep her britches on, this is important." Mom was silent again. "David, you did not just a little good this time, you did real good! Now, please, just be cool. Do what I asked."

Then there was nothing on the line.

So I called Pammie; I admit to having a grin on my face. For the first time in my life I was calling her. That was the same week that I'd made love for the first time in my life; I wasn't sure what, if any, connection there was between all the firsts in my life just now, but it was certainly interesting.

Pammie picked right up. "Well little brother, where's your big sister?"

"With Mom," I told her. "Mom told me that..." I realized that there was no way in hell I was going to talk to her about britches, panties or any other such thing. "She asked you to be patient."

"Anything but with a vengeance," she said with a laugh.

"She's with Mom," I reminded her.

She laughed even harder.

Oh, I realized, having Mom there probably meant Wanda wasn't getting it on with someone.

Pammie settled down and said, "Davey, Wanda told me the other day she'd been low-balling you for a long time. Davey, I think we all have. Thanks, you've been sweet." Then she was gone as well.

Around six, Mom called up again. "David, please take out two packages of chicken, get them thawing. Wanda and I will be there shortly. We're going to have a house guest for a spell."

"Emily?" I asked.

"Yes. Now please, this isn't the time or place to talk about it."

I walked into the garage, popped open our freezer, got dinner out and stuck it in the microwave to defrost.

So, it was true. Emily's parents were going to kick her out for wanting to have a baby, and I strongly suspected they had made that clear to Mom. Mom is a person of strong opinions, just like Dad. What were the odds that we would have an extended houseguest without her checking with him first?

As had been made clear over and over again, while I'd been growing up: Mom and Dad talked to each other frequently. It was certain that having Emily as a houseguest wasn't going to surprise him.

A while later I was sitting in my room, trying unsuccessfully to read my book when I heard a car door slam.

It was odd, that. I'd been hearing car doors slam outside my room for years. This was the first day I realized I'd never once heard a car drive up. I got up and looked out the window and saw Wanda get out of Mom's car. She opened the back door and Emily got out. Mom and Wanda grabbed suitcases, Wanda handed Emily a small bag and the three of them headed for the back door.

I was up like a jack-in-the-box. I popped open the door and asked, "Anyone need a hand?"

Mom nodded and handed me the suitcase. "Take this to the guest room."

I took the bag and followed along. This time Wanda was leading, Emily behind her, me a ways further behind, then Mom. We went into the guest room and Wanda set the suitcase on the bed and started unpacking. She got to a bra, saw me and decided I didn't need to be there for this.

"Thanks, Davey. We can deal with this now."

I turned away and went back to my room, sat down and started to read.

I was certain that at least for the foreseeable future, Wanda and I weren't going to be lovers. Wanda's room was at the far end of house from where I was and Emily was next to Wanda's room.

I was surprised when Mom came in my room a little later, pushed the door closed and sat on the bed next to me.

"Your Dad, Davey, bless his heart, is a straight-up guy. He doesn't understand much about women but what me or one of my sisters have pounded into his head over the years. But, that said, he's pretty decent, not to mention damn understanding of the woman's point of view."

I nodded, not really following her thought. "You did the right thing today: you told Wanda; Wanda made the right choice to involve me. Emily is wound up tighter than a drum and was very, very close to the edge." Mom sighed, looking into the distance. "Your dad wasn't exactly upset that we have a house guest, but he's made sarcastic comments about bringing home stray kittens."

"Emily isn't a kitten," I said with as much dignity as I could gather to myself.

Mom nodded, "I reminded him. So, for the time being, Emily is going to stay with us. You be careful, Davey. Don't go doing anything rash or foolish. She's this close to killing herself." Mom held her fingers a fraction of an inch apart.

"I was worried," I said, terrified for Emily.

"Right now Wanda's with her; I swear Davey, I've met some pig-headed stupid people in my life, but Emily's mother is in a class by herself. She knows her attitude is killing her daughter, but what does she care about that? Why, if it happens, good riddance!

"I'm not sure why it's happened, but Wanda has gotten close to Emily in a very short period of time. Very close. Right now she's cuddling Emily. I thought we could give them some time to relax."

What had I said to Pammie? Anything but? Pammie was going to kill me deader than a doornail. Mom turned to look at me directly. "Wanda says you're not at all like we thought, that we've not been paying attention to the fact that the biggest tree can grow just about anywhere it feels like.

"I was concerned the other day, but Wanda and I talked. Wanda told me that it was okay with you; she'd been in the mood and you'd been in the mood, and she'd let you know how she felt and nature had taken it's course."

Her eyes were on me; I didn't know what to say.

"You're thinking about this, aren't you?" Her voice was soft, a little surprised. "About what happened to Wanda, about what happened to Emily."

"I think it's something that needs thinking about. I can't imagine myself ever doing something like that; I don't understand how someone could.

"Then there's Wanda and me." I let my voice trail away. "We really need to think about that."

She nodded. "One fact of life we never bothered to tell you about was that people in our family, particularly the women, are horny. Over-sexed. And we surely do need to think about it, each and every time."

"I don't want to do something stupid if I can help it. Not with Wanda, not with Emily, not with anyone."

She leaned close and kissed me on the top of my head. "Good for you!" She got up and walked toward the door. "You understand, that for the time being you won't be seeing much of Wanda or Emily?"

I figured that she meant the metaphorical sense. "Yes, Pammie might be a problem, there."

Mom looked at me, and then glanced in the direction of the guest room. After a second, she chuckled. "That daughter of mine! A chip off the old block!"

She turned back to me. "The question to you, Davey, is this going to be a problem for you?"

"No."

She nodded, and left.

A while later, Dad came in. "I hope you like eating out."

I nearly fell off my chair. He saw my expression and laughed. "Jeez, your mother doesn't feel up to fixing dinner again. She's put the chicken you got out earlier on to boil; it will appear later in the week as chicken salad. I told her once was fine, twice is okay and three times won't be charming at all."

Hannigan's is a small pub not far from the Air Force base. They serve hamburgers and chips, fish and chips, salad and chips and the occasional plate of french fries. This time dinner wasn't accompanied by pithy comments about how to live my life, just the sound of the two of us masticating our food.

I wasn't sure where we were going afterward, though. We drove away from town, south of the base. It was a gun club, I saw, as we went through the gates. Dad led the way inside, into a locker room. He put a key in a locker and pulled out a pistol.

"My father gave this to me on my sixteenth birthday," he said, pulling the slide back. "It's a classic .45 semi-auto pistol. It was developed a century ago to kill Moros in the Philippines, although this particular one he stole from the Army when he left Korea."

He put it in a holster, and carried it from the room, then talked to one of the men at a counter. There were whispered nods, and Dad waved for me to go sit. After a bit, the man came back and handed Dad a rifle, with the bolt open and pulled back.

After a while a dozen Boy Scouts, in full regalia, came in. Most of them were my age or a little older. There were two who were older than the rest and who seemed to be in charge.

The man who looked to be in charge stood next to Dad, facing the rest of us in the room. He held up a small brass object. "This is a .30-06 round. What was used in World War I and II and Korea. Take it and pass it around."

He gave it to the closest scout, who glanced at it, and passed it to the next person. The man held up another brass cartridge, not very much different from the first. "This a 7.62 millimeter NATO round. It was used in Vietnam and Europe in the M-14 rifle to hold off the Russians. Slightly longer than the cartridge used in the AK-47." He was silent a long second. "The preferred weapon of our enemies. All of them."

He held up another cartridge, differing from the first two only in that the tip was significantly smaller than the other two. "This is from Mr. Harper's rifle, a .243; a high velocity round that he uses to shoot the eyes out of prairie dogs out at about a thousand yards." Another cartridge, very much smaller. "A .45 caliber ACP. That's a pistol that's been around for a hundred years."

I was last; I ended up with all of the cartridges in my hands. I ran my finger over the bullet on the first. In my mind I saw a gun shoot, saw the bullet strike someone and they fell over, just like in the movies.

"Mr. Harper, your demonstration."

My dad just waved at the door. "Gentlemen, I will see you on the range in two minutes."

I followed along, not sure what I was supposed to do. Dad wasn't giving me any guidance. In fact, all I got was his open palm when I was leaving the room; I dropped the cartridges into it and continued on.

I've seen pictures in movies of rifle ranges, targets and the like. The half dozen plastic gallon milk jugs sitting on plastic milk crates weren't on my list of expectations.

My dad hefted the pistol he'd pulled from his locker, and then looked at the jugs.

The sound was deafening, and the roll of the shots continued on for almost a half minute. The first of the plastic jugs twitched and jerked; a myriad holes had appeared on both sides. It was emptying rapidly.

An older rifle was passed to Dad. "A .30-06 is the standard cartridge of the M-1 used in World War Two. It was used in the Springfield in World War One and most deer rifles when I was growing up," Dad said. Another cascade of sound followed, eight shots as fast as the mind could imagine, much quicker than the first group.

The second jug had sprouted holes, as had the first; water was flowing out, spreading on the concrete floor of the range.

Another rifle, this one we were told was an M-14. He fired another clip of eight bullets and there was another leaking jug.

My father hefted the next rifle. "This is my .243. I hunt with it. I'm not a sportsman; I hunt to put something on the table or kill a varmint. When I shoot something, I intend to kill it."

There was a single shot; he'd fired from the hip with the briefest attempt to aim.

I was soaked; simply soaked. Everyone in the room was soaked, including my father and the other adult. I was well cued. No one was laughing; no one was anything other than serious and intent.

My father pulled the bolt back on the rifle, did something and the bolt slid into his hand. "All those other weapons, in spite of their martial attributes are pussy guns. They make nice, neat little holes in the target, in one side, out the other."

He lofted the .243. "This weapon fires a round that goes so fast, that if it hits anything close, the bullet stops. A round that goes in one side and out the other, wastes energy. Up close, a high velocity round doesn't. We switched to something like this in Vietnam, and have used them a great deal since."

He pointed a finger at me. "Davey, what's a gallon of water weigh?"

I blinked, shrugged. I didn't have a clue.

"Anyone?"

There was a stir among the scouts, someone finally said, "Eight pounds."

"That's right. If this was a physics class, I'd have you calculating the maximum amount of force that could be delivered by a bullet that doesn't move one of the milk jugs."

I wasn't the only one in the room who went a little cross-eyed, trying to think about the problem.

"If you look close, you'll find the jugs shot through and through have moved; just not much. Eight pounds," he said, waving at the jugs again. "Military rifles from the last hundred years; there are people who will tell you that the .45 is the best handgun ever made. Yet, think about the context. The bullets didn't even knock the jugs off the crates. You weigh, all of you, a bit more than eight pounds."

There were nervous chuckles; I lifted an eyebrow. A bullet from one of those guns wouldn't kill you unless it hit something vital. My dad's rifle though, that was something else.

"Thank you for you attention. The Scouts, Mr. Ricardo will run over the gun safety lecture. Later, you'll have a chance to shoot."

He came over to me, and waved for me to get up. I was mildly disappointed; it would have been fun to be able to shoot a gun.

He led me down the hallway, into another room. There were more people around, people shooting, people looking at targets.

He walked up to a position and handed me a set of ear protectors. "Davey, please."

I put them on. I could still hear him well. He put the .45 on a bench, took an empty magazine from a pocket and started to thumb bullets into it. A minute later, he fed the magazine into the pistol.

"A .45 is about the safest gun ever made, although the common wisdom says exactly the opposite." He pointed the pistol down range. "There is the hammer, it has to be cocked in order to be able to fire." He pulled it back. "There is a safety, that has to be off as well." I saw him flip that. He squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. "There is a grip safety as well." He pulled his hand back, showing the area where the web of his hand went.

"You have to push it as you shoot." He lifted the pistol, and like earlier, a raft of shots rolled off. A few seconds later he put the pistol down, the barrel toward the targets, and pushed a switch, bringing the target back.

The target had been about fifty feet away; there were eight bulls-eyes on it. Each of the round black spots about two inches in diameter had a hole in it.

He put the target down in front of me. "This isn't a regular target, but it'll do. The point in the center, that's a ten. If the bullet hole cuts it at all, that's your score. Same thing with the rings, 9, 8, 7, 6 and 5. Cut the ring, that's your score. How did I do?"

I lost track half way through, he laughed, and took a pencil from his pocket. In a second we had written down the scores next to each bulls-eye. Two tens, five nines and an eight. "Seventy-three," he said with satisfaction. "Not too shabby for an old man!"

He popped the magazine out and filled it with more bullets taken from his pocket. "Your turn, Davey." He showed me how to stand, how to hold the pistol, how to aim. All without loading the magazine into the pistol.

I could tell he was about to load it up; I asked a question. "Aren't you going to tell me about safety?"

"You're a smart boy, Davey. You figure it out."

"I know you have to be careful."

"Then be careful."

I grimaced. He chuckled.

"Davey, you saw the demonstration. What is the first rule of shooting?"

"No surprises?" I said, thinking to be facetious.

"No surprises," he agreed. "Davey, the bullet comes out the barrel. Until it hits something, it goes in a straight line. After it hits something, it's less predictable. If you are holding a gun, don't point it where you don't want to poke a hole. Guns go off, Davey, for the damndest reasons. Never assume, Davey. A dozen people are killed every year because someone just 'knew' a weapon was unloaded."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, I want you to fire one shot at the target. Pick up the .45, aim and fire."

A second before my dad had said I was smart. It was a farce, a real farce. Nothing happened. I squeezed the trigger and nothing happened.

"Cock it," he offered.

I pulled the hammer back, being careful to keep pointing the pistol at the targets. I remembered the grip safety, but nothing happened again. I was totally humiliated when he showed me the other safety.

For the first time he spoke again, "Make sure you have a good grip, Davey. You look like a fool, losing your grip."

I gripped firmly, aimed and fired. With the ear protectors, the noise wasn't scary. What was scary was that the gun was now over my head, pointing straight up.

"It takes a strong wrist to hold it down," he told me. "It takes a while to develop that. Put the gun down, Davey."

I wasn't sure if that was good or bad; turned out it was just part of the exercise. "Now, Davey," he told me when I did, "where did your bullet go?"

I almost said I had no idea, then I realized that this was real. And important. "I aimed at the bulls-eye on the top left," I told him.

He nodded and asked, "That's not what I asked though, Davey."

I had earlier contemplated lying to him about things. Poking adults in the eye. I found that I'd never developed a taste or ability to lie. "I don't know where the bullet went."

"You closed your eyes," he agreed, nodding. "The technical term for that is a flinch. You were about an inch high, and two inches to the left. It's something that takes training, Davey. Veteran rifle and pistol shooters know pretty much where the round goes. Even if something happens, they know where it goes. It's not something you can do without practice.

"Now again, aim carefully and fire another round."

One after another, I fired off the rest of the shots in the magazine. In a heroic story, by the second or third shot, I'd have been scoring tens. My dad told me it was my eighth shot; I have to take his word for it. I wasn't flinching any more, but except for that shot, I didn't put one of them on the paper. And that shot? A half moon cut out of the edge of the target, six inches from where I was aiming.

We put things away and Dad and I walked out to his car. He started it up, and turned to me. "One of the disadvantages of not being an athlete is you've never bought a scrapbook. We have one we started for you after you were born, but I think it's not only time to start a new page, but a new book as well."

He paused, as if searching for a word. "I think it would be best, Davey, if you were to go down to the Office Depot and buy your own. Circle the shot on the target; write on the back the date, and what you recollect about tonight. Today. Whatever."

I shrugged. Was this a backdoor attempt to give me pride, a desire to exceed athletically? I had no idea; it didn't matter though, not really. I was going to succeed.