Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 34 :: Missed Targets

The only bad thing about Mercedes leaving a little before one in the morning was getting up at a quarter to four. Not that I could have, at least not by myself, but Dad shook my shoulder and told me it was time to get up.

Pammie was still there, which was more bizarre still. I saw Dad looking at her, her breasts visible in what little light there was. I leaned down and drew the blankets up to her chin. He smiled at me, shaking his head; I was sure he was laughing. But I remembered his stare from the night before and he'd sure been staring hard just now!

When I presented myself at the front door shortly there after, he looked me over. "Jeans and boots, those are fine. Shirt is a little light, but with a jacket it should be okay. You do have a jacket?"

Of course I have a jacket... I just hadn't thought to bring it along. I fetched it from the main closet next to the front door.

"Hat?" he asked when I got back. "Gloves might be useful, too. Being out in the sun all day will give you a nice burn without a hat."

I spent a few seconds thinking, realizing that this was, in a way, a test. I looked at him. "Food and water?"

"Already in the car. Plus the shotguns, ammunition, some clay pigeons, a thrower. An empty ice chest for afterwards."

"Afterwards?"

"We'll stop on the way back, get some ice and dress the birds. You're not supposed to do it in the field. Game wardens want to make sure you're taking dove, not quail or some other game bird."

I went back to the closet for my hat and gloves from the closet. I looked around, wondering if there was anything else I needed. I couldn't see anything.

We walked out to the car to find Jack and Chuck standing next to it.

"Sorry to make you guys wait," I told them, understanding perfectly that if everything was already in the car, who had helped Dad load it.

Jack laughed. "Davey, there's always some lucky guy who is last. Today, you're it."

We all settled into the car; at least I got to ride shotgun. Thinking that brought a smile to my face. And the shotguns were riding in the trunk.

We drove for an hour and a half, before we left the paved highway, then another twenty minutes down a dirt road, through several gates and more cattle guards than I could count.

There were a couple other cars in a small parking spot next to a small hill. We got out and Dad walked up to the group. I was surprised to see Chief Ortega there. Dad shook his hand. "I didn't expect to see you here, Vic."

He shrugged. "The Rangers, the Highway Patrol, the FBI and who knows what other Federal agencies are chasing them. They don't need my help. What with one thing and another, I thought it would be better out here, taking out my frustrations on some doves."

Dad touched his friend's elbow and drew him away from the rest of us. At a guess, it was about Karen.

Then Dad was back, and pulling the shotguns from the trunk. Jack and Chuck already had theirs out and ready.

Dad handed me a shotgun. "This is a double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun," he told me. "This is about as simple a firearm as there is." He showed me the safety, the lever to break it open, and where to put the shotgun shells. He held up one of the shells.

"These are filled with what amounts to BBs," he explained. "However, all shotgun barrels aren't the same. In the case of your shotgun, the right hand barrel has what's called a full choke. A choke does just that; it chokes down the size of the shot pattern. The fuller the choke, the smaller the pattern and the longer the range the pattern is effective at. Full choke means you're able to knock down a bird about forty yards away. The left hand barrel is a modified choke, its best range is about 25 yards."

He showed me how to carry the shotgun, both walking to the shooting area with the barrel broken and the tubes empty, and walking in the field when it's held across the body, finger away from the trigger.

"The biggest adjustment you will face, Davey, is that unlike the targets you've seen up to now, these will be moving. Shotgun pellets take a while to get where they are going; bullets travel a heck of a lot faster. So, if you want to hit what you are shooting at, you're going to have to lead the target. Aim for where you think the bird will be when the pellets get there. It's like fielding a fly ball in baseball. You have to compute in your head where it's going to come down, then move there. The same is true for this. The most common mistake people make the first time they shoot a shotgun is aiming at where the target is. If you do that you will miss every single time. Lead the target!"

It sounds like a lot to learn, but really I thought it was pretty simple.

Chief Ortega and two men I didn't know, Jack and Chuck were standing, ready to go, listening patiently while Dad explained things to me.

One of the men spoke after Dad finished. "Around to the left, here, is a section of corn. The field isn't square; it's about half again as long as it is wide. We'll form up on one of the short ends and walk the length." He nodded at me.

"The dove will be feeding when we start, but that will change pretty quick, once we start shooting. Try to shoot birds directly to your front; if everybody blazes away at all the birds, we'll never be sure who hits one, and likely as not it won't be edible, anyway. It you hit a bird, stop and pick it up.

"Needless to say, don't hang back or get ahead. Try to keep even. Good luck, gents!"

So we walked about a half-mile in single file, the man who talked, leading. I was second from the end, Dad coming along behind me.

We reached the field just as it was starting to get light enough to see easily. We lined up about thirty feet apart, and the man called to us, "When I say start, we move out!"

I looked down the rows of corn I was standing between. There was enough room to walk without brushing the leaves. Visibility between rows was okay, though, and I could see Dad to my right and Chuck to my left.

The sky brightened noticeably again, and we were off.

I walked at the same pace as Dad, it wasn't terribly fast, but it was steady.

I heard a rustle ahead of me, and saw four birds in a line, walking directly away from me. I doubt if they were more the thirty feet in front of me. I promptly dropped the shotgun and pulled the left hand trigger. Almost at once, off to my left, several other people started shooting, too.

I walked up to the birds, smugly content. Piece of cake! Four of them with one shot! Was that some kind of record?

Dad appeared and looked at them. "Now you are a criminal."

"Pardon?" Not something you expect your father to say to you, first thing in the morning.

"Davey, those are quail, not doves. Do you know what a dove looks like?"

I looked at them. Well, they looked a little like doves. Except for that funny thing on top of their heads.

"Leave them," he told me. "The point of shotgunning, Davey, is to shoot them on the wing."

Oh! That's what all the talk about aiming at where they were going to be was about!

Instead of returning to his lane, he fell in beside me as we hustled to catch up. We'd gone about thirty yards, when a bird flushed in front of me. It was close, flying directly away from me. Instinctively I lifted the shotgun and pulled the left trigger. Nothing happened. So I pulled the right trigger.

It takes a whole lot longer to talk about it, than it took in real life. There was an explosion of feathers that rained down in the row ahead of us. "Got it!" I said, smug once more.

"Oh sure, sure, Davey!" Dad's voice dripped sarcasm. "Go pick up your bird."

Actually, you needed a bucket, because all that was left were small pieces.

"At least thirty feet away, Davey. Shoot them at least thirty feet away. At six feet there's not much left! At ten feet, not much more. And yes, now might be a good time to reload."

I flushed with embarrassment as I pulled the spent shells out and slid in new ones. Once again we had to hustle to catch up. There were frequent shots off to the left, so I assumed someone was having a better day than me.

After that it was unmitigated frustration for me. I saw birds, but when I fired they kept on flying as if I was throwing spit wads instead of BBs.

We reached the end of the field and all I'd done was leave a mess behind me. And Dad had hit four birds, birds he let me shoot at first. As soon as he knew I had missed, he'd take the shot and it would crumple and fall out of the sky. Humbling, humbling, humbling!

Everyone gathered together and compared what they'd shot; everyone else had at least a half dozen. Chief Ortega had a dozen, so did the man who led us. "What say we move over a couple hundred yards, and do it again?" the man said.

So that's what we did. At least this time Dad was walking in his own lane again.

Towards the end of the field I finally hit one, sort of. I could see a few feathers come away, but the bird didn't crumple. It did turn to the right, and a second later Dad knocked it down. I sighed. We were nearly at the end of the field, so instead of reloading I tossed the one spent shell and put the other back in my jacket pocket.

Then I got to observe the peculiar ritual that I would call "making the numbers come out right." There was a daily limit of a dozen birds. Dad had ten, I had none, Chuck had nine, Jack had eleven, and man who wasn't leading had nine too. The next thing I knew I had a bag of dead birds, courtesy, mostly from Chief Ortega.

It wasn't quite eight o'clock in the morning.

"I'm going to shoot some pigeons," Dad told them. "Davey needs some practice."

"Not much point of going out in the field again," the one man agreed. "We're a little over the limit now."

So we walked back to the cars. Everyone else was laughing and talking, having a good time. Me, I was really bugged at missing every single shot, except for the ones I shouldn't have taken. Dad saw my expression when we got to the cars. Everyone else was getting something to drink, having a snack.

"A month ago, Davey, if you'd done this badly, what would you have thought?"

I looked at him, then realized what he was trying to say. A month ago, I'd have assumed I'd get it wrong and would have been content and unsurprised that I had. Now, it rankled; I knew it did. I thought I should have done better. What had Mercedes and I talked about last night? Fulfilling dreams? Before Mercedes I didn't have dreams, not really. I just went along, day-to-day, and if I wasn't content, I wasn't really that dissatisfied with things. At least not dissatisfied enough to want to change anything.

It was sobering to realize that the two reasons Dad kept suggesting I go out for football was that he thought I could do well at it and there was a chance I'd change my mind and actually agree.

I looked at him. "How do you know where the shotgun pellets go? It seems to me you have to sort of hit or miss, until you can figure it out."

"Shortly, we'll shoot some clay pigeons. I'll have you stand just behind me. Watch carefully, and you'll find that you can actually see the pellets in the air."

"Okay."

He got up and went to the others. "Vic, I know you've been in a shotgun pattern before, Jeff, you too. Anyone else?"

"What do you mean, Mr. Harper?" Jack asked.

"Just what I said, Jack. Have you ever stood where the pellets end up after being fired?"

Jack looked at Chuck, and they both shook their heads.

"In a bit, when we go over to the gully," Dad told them, "we'll show you what it's like. It's educational."

"Shooting at us is educational?" Jack asked, startled.

"More so for you, than for us," Chief Ortega said, with a barely contained grin.

A little while later Dad had us in a small clump, all together. A short distance away, the ground dropped away in a steep bank, but it was only about an eight foot deep cut.

"Load up carefully, then point your weapon straight up. When I say shoot, pull your triggers. Then bring your eyes down level, and don't look up until it stops raining." Dad said.

In a little clump like we were, the sound of the shotguns going off at once was unpleasantly loud. Still, it wasn't hard to do.

I waited and waited; it seemed like a long time. Maybe ten or fifteen seconds. Then it started: a soft whisper of sound. I looked down and could see small things hitting the ground and bouncing. I held out my hand, but by the time I'd thought to do it, the "rain" had stopped. I'd even felt a few bounce off my hat.

"That was kind of anti-climactic," Chuck said. "I caught one and it's not even hot."

"Don't try that at a grenade range," Chief Ortega cautioned. "Grenade shrapnel is hot, but it sounds a lot like this."

"I thought a grenade... you're toast," Jack said.

Jeff shook his head. "In the Marines, they put you down in a trench, and set one off a few feet from your ear. Aside from the fact you can't hear squat for an hour or two, it's not that bad. The Gunny would wrap one up in a flak jacket and set it off, too. It surely messed up the jacket, but the shrapnel didn't go through."

"I have an ex-Marine colonel teaching my Geography class," I told him. "He's pretty good."

Jeff laughed. "I was a buck sergeant; pretty much stayed away from colonels and majors. Never did see a general, except once from a long ways away."

I saw it, but I didn't really understand until later. Chief Ortega looked at Dad. A simple, fixed stare that lasted a few seconds; Dad had no expression on his face at all.

Then it was clay pigeon time. I spent a half hour standing behind Dad, while he and the others fired at clay targets, launched from a little thrower device that Chief Ortega had brought along.

Dad was right, once you knew what to look for, you could watch the pellets fly. And when he'd shoot, they would fly like they were magnetized and smack down the clay target. Jeff was good; Chief Ortega was good, the man with Jeff wasn't very good, Chuck wasn't any better and Jack was good, but not up in the top tier.

Finally I had a chance to shoot at a few. At first, I was frustrated because I kept missing. Chief Ortega spoke to me, not something he usually did.

"Davey, where are you missing?"

"Down and behind."

"The pellets are slowed faster by the air than bullets, and fly slower to begin with. Gravity has more time to pull on them. Another alternative is hitting your forehead with the palm of your hand, saying 'Duh!' and aiming further ahead and higher."

Dad thought that was a howler. When Chuck sent the next target flying, I aimed higher and further ahead. Yep! There was no getting around it. No matter what else I had to eat; humble pie was the main course of the day!

At two, we were headed back. Chuck and Jack promptly dropped off to sleep. "Can I ask you," I said to my dad, "when you learned to shoot?"

"Well, I did some before I started high school; less and less during those four years. After college my knees were shot, my left shoulder was shot. I can't run; I can't jump. If we'd ever played catch you'd have quickly picked up that I can throw okay... but not for very long, because even though my right shoulder isn't shot, it's still a long ways from good.

"So, I can still hold a rifle and a shotgun. I can walk still, although I'm starting to get arthritis. It's about the closest I can get these days to something athletic. Oh, and I'm good at it, which helps boost the incentives."

"Can I ask another question?"

"Davey," he sounded exasperated, "the only question I don't want to hear from you is that you have a question. If I can't or won't answer one, I'll tell you."

"Not so long ago, you told me Mom would freak if you kept guns at home."

"We'll talk more about that when we get home," he said. He jerked his eyes to the rearview mirror, and Jack and Chuck. "Having people listening to us is bad enough. I don't enjoy deceiving your mother, Davey, but I'm not going to be standing there when some nutcase like Fesselhof shows up with nothing but my dick in my hand. Just not going to happen. And if your mother gets upset, she's entitled and I'll accept whatever she decides to deliver. If you're going to be hanged for stealing a loaf of bread, you might as well take the whole damn bread truck."

"Do you know where Karen is?"

"Yes and no. You figure it out, I gave you a small clue last night."

I sat lost in thought for more than a half hour. I came up empty. Finally I turned to him again. "What was the clue?"

"What I said about why I invited the Amalings to play poker. And believe me, Davey, last night was a personal best for me with them. I did not lose my shirt and pants; I still had money on the table when they left. You were dead right about how they start to shear sheep. Let you win, then clean you out."

I tried to connect the first and second sentence. When that didn't work, I went to work on the first. He'd told them that he knew who he'd go to if he wanted someone to vanish. Obviously, from what followed, that would be the Amalings.

Who would Karen know at school, which was about the only place she would meet people who might help, who would be sympathetic?

It took maybe a good two seconds once I'd thought about who Karen could turn to for help, to realize who Karen had most likely gone to. Who was the third person?

Dad said out of the blue, "Birds of a feather, flock together."

There was another gay teacher at school? I racked my brain, trying to think who it could be.

Again, it was like a non sequitur when he spoke a few minutes later. "In this case, the new kids on the block.

"Davey, I don't know anything for a fact, do you understand? I'm just thinking the same things you are thinking. I don't think it would be a good idea to actually find Karen at this point."

We stopped at a little town called Tankersly, about ten miles from San Angelo. Dad spread out a tarp and showed me how to dress the birds. It was a little surprising just how little meat there was on a dove. A little gross to look for the holes shot pellets made, then squeeze them out. Not to mention, a little messy.

Still, we finished, then washed our hands in water from a five-gallon container Dad had in the back. We rinsed the birds and put them in sandwich bags, swept up the wings and the rest and put it in a trash bag. Jack and Chuck went to a small market and got some ice, while Dad and I folded up the tarp after shaking it off.

As soon as we got home Jack and Chuck left right away.

I was pretty tired myself, and I crashed on my bed after a quick shower. At least I was alone -- a good thing since I was just a bit horny and I needed the sleep.

Mom shook me awake around six, not half enough sleep. "Dinner's nearly ready."

I splashed more water in my face, glanced out at the pool and considered what Pammie had suggested. A swim in the evening. Later, I thought, later...

Dad had fixed the doves, including the ones that had once been Chief Ortega's. I didn't think eating the birds he shot was fair, but Dad was firm. They didn't much taste like chicken; they had their own taste. Or at least, I thought so. Dad cooked them in an orange sauce, with hints of other spices.

He was, I thought, a pretty remarkable man.

I yawned and Mom shook her finger at me. "You have a date tonight, remember?"

"A date? On a school night?" Ah! Chris! I really was getting stupid! If I wasn't stupid already.

So, for dessert, I got a trip to the hospital with Mom.

As we drove she asked me a question, one that I needed to answer. "Davey, what do you think I do during the day?"

I thought about it. "You have lunch a lot at the club."

That was what I heard about most often, anyway. Who she had lunch with was the frequent topic of dinner table conversations.

"Monday through Friday, I volunteer at Memorial. Mostly with the kids, but now and then for others as well. Rape victims."

I was aware that for the last few weeks my regard for my father had steadily grown. I think his regard for me was growing as well. Never once had I thought much about Mom and mutual respect. Humble pie was still the main course!

"The Lions Club, and other civic groups help out from time to time with this and that. There are ten of us who regularly volunteer. Mostly it's not much. I'm there early in the morning, where mostly I help kids get ready for tests and things. Talk to the ones scared silly. Occasionally I talk to the parents as well, but that's not as common.

"I didn't know," I said, not knowing what to say, either.

"I know. There are some things we brag about and some things we are quietly proud of. I don't volunteer to make myself feel good, it's to offer what help I can."

She was silent for a bit, and then we parked in the hospital parking lot. Instead of getting right out she touched my arm. "Phil said it the other day; we've been too casual about how we treat you. You are quiet and content, and if you didn't share our interests, you were still a good boy, quiet and studious. A lot of parents I know would love to have a son like you.

"Like Phil, I think it's time we started including you in things. For the last two summers, Wanda has volunteered at the hospital during the summer." She made a disgusted sound. "Pammie couldn't, her father wouldn't let her. Too many sick people, he said."

"I'm here to help, okay? Like I said. I'm willing to help Emily, I'd have done whatever I could to help Karen, including keeping my mouth shut about where she is. Chris is the same thing, Mom. I don't know if I can help, but I'll try."

We walked into the hospital. It wasn't my first time there, but it was my first time through the front door. We took an elevator up to the third floor and down a corridor lined with empty rooms, to a well-lighted nurse's station. She greeted the nurses, and then led me down another hallway, with more empty rooms, but now some of the rooms were occupied. She stopped in front of one and turned to me.

"A few words first. I said some things the other day. I hope you haven't forgotten them."

"I haven't."

"Good. Some other rules. Sometimes, not often, it might be necessary for an exam or treatment. When that happens the nurse will draw the curtain closed around the patient. That's your cue to get up and leave, until they open the curtain again. They would just as soon not have to remind you, because it distresses the patient."

"I won't have to be reminded," I told her.

"There are a million things more, but they'll wait for another time. Here," she handed me a paperback book.

I took it and looked at it. It was titled "Circle of Magic -- Sandry's Book." It was written by someone named Tamora Pierce, someone I'd never heard of before. The picture on the front of the book was that of a teenage girl sitting on a wall talking to a younger boy, a clock tower in the background.

She led me inside, where Chris was sitting up in bed, watching cartoons on the TV. "Hi, Chris," I said.

She smiled at me, smiled at Mom.

"Davey's going to read to you, okay?" Mom asked her.

She brightened. Mom smiled at me and said, "Back in an hour, Davey."

I pulled up a chair. "How are you tonight, Chris?"

She waved at the door. "They treat me like a baby. Could I ask you a big favor, Davey?"

"Sure."

"I know how to read. What I can't do very well is hold a book. My hand starts to shake and I drop it. Then I have to find my place again and that's a real pain. I get frustrated. Could you just hold the book up in front of me, and let me read it?"

"Sure, Chris. It's not a problem."

"What book?"

I showed it to her. She frowned. "I never heard of that one."

"Me either," I turned the book around and held it out in front of Chris so she could read the jacket blurb. She reached out her hand and lightly touched mine, steadying me, I thought, and then moving my hand so the book was the right distance away.

"Cool," she said. "Okay, let's start!"

It took a few minutes to work out a position that worked for both of us. It was not lost on me that the best position would have been the one I remembered best: her sitting on my lap, my arms wrapped around her, holding the book for her to read. Both Mom and Dad had read to me like that! I did remember that!

Still, what finally worked was my simply sitting next to her, reaching across her to hold the book the right distance. She kept her hand in light contact with mine, as she had before. The light contact, I realized, was so that when her hand began to shake, my hand would act to steady her. It seemed really important to Chris and was no trouble at all to do.

She would ask me to turn the page, and also to move the book slightly when she reached the bottom of a left hand page. It was easy to do, and even more interesting, I found that if I shifted a bit, I could read the story too. I was a slightly faster reader than Chris, but not much.

The chapters were a little long, and the end of the third, Chris pushed my hand away slightly, so my hand was resting on her stomach. "Thanks, that's enough for now."

"Sure, Chris." I looked around for something to mark the place, and saw a bookmark on a nightstand. I fetched it and used it.

"Just put the book on the nightstand," she told me. "If I want to, I'll read some more later. It's slower, it's frustrating but after a while you get sick of playing games and watching cartoons."

I was tongue-tied. I'd start to say something and realize that yet another conventional conversational gambit didn't work when you want to talk to someone who's staring death in the face. It's a hell of a thing, to find someone a lot worse off than you are, no matter how bad you thought your own problems were.

"What grade are you in?" I asked. "Do they make you go to school here?"

"I'm in seventh grade at Robert E. Lee. But I haven't gone but two days this year. They said I was too distracting for the other kids in the class."

I kicked myself. Just what didn't lead to a place I'd rather the conversation not go?

"Davey, please."

I looked at her.

"I wish they knew what's happening to me. I wish they could fix it. I hope they can. But it's happening, okay? I can't even walk in and go pee by myself anymore. I can't ignore it, and after a while, it's really a pain when someone sits there, afraid to talk because it might remind me of what's happening. Davey, I'm reminded every time I start to shake. Every ten or fifteen seconds."

"I don't want to make it worse," I said quietly.

"Davey, you're not making it worse. I'm not making it worse. It's doing its thing all by itself."

"I still don't know what to say."

"Talk to me like you would talk to anyone else. Please, Davey."

"Okay."

"Your mom says you have two girlfriends."

"I do. Mercedes is smart, really smart. She wants to be an oceanographer, studying the sea. I'm really interested in that, too. Shellie is an artist, a really good artist. She can read and write Japanese, speak it, too." I didn't think I was breaking any trusts telling Chris. Lord knows, Mercedes talked enough for ten people.

"I like Sailor Moon," she said, "it's Japanese. Something called anime."

"Yes! That's what Shellie likes. She's a really good artist. And she helps with the voices on some of the anime. The fans take stuff from Japanese TV, translate it, and they do the voices, only in English."

"That's nice," Chris said. She glanced at the door to the room, and then lowered her voice. "Can I be your girlfriend, too?"

"Sure, Chris."

"I won't, not if it will make them jealous."

"We made a vow, Chris. We aren't going to be jealous of each other. We love each other, we really do. It's not pretend; it's real. But we also each have our own friends, and some of those friends are pretty special."

I waved at the door. "Do you ever get time off for good behavior?"

"You mean like Friday?"

"Yes, like that."

"It's pretty hard. Your parents have to agree, the doctors have to agree, and you have to be up to it... it's a pain. Worth it, though!"

"Well, I'll talk to my Mom and see if we can get you to come with us some night for a triple date."

Her eyes literally bugged out. "Really?"

"Really," I promised. "I will see what I can do. I promise I'm going to try."

"I don't know, Davey. This week, they are going to decide about surgery or not. I won't know for sure what's going to happen until after that."

"We'll work something out, if there's any way on earth. I promise," I told her.

I heard footsteps and turned around, expecting to see Mom. Instead, it took me a second to recognize Dr. Jacoby, who I had last seen the day I met Emily.

"Evening, Davey. Visiting my patient?"

"Hello, Dr. Jacoby. Yes, I came to read to Chris."

Dr. Jacoby nodded. "Thanks, Davey, that's nice. I imagine, though, she just made you hold the book still."

"Yes, Doctor."

"How's the baseball?"

"Okay, we don't start playing real games until next year. Right now we're just practicing."

Dr. Jacoby walked past me, and she smiled at Chris, before she turned back to me. "I detect a whiff of cordite."

"Pardon?"

"Gun smoke," she said.

"We went dove hunting this morning. My dad and some friends.

She smiled. "I know it's a strange hobby for a doctor, but there is something wonderful about going walking on a crisp dawn, smelling the fresh earth of a field. Then hitting what you shoot it."

"I didn't do too well at that," I admitted. A doctor who hunted? "It was my first time."

"My dad taught me when I was nine. The first time I fired a shotgun, it knocked me on my bottom. I hurt more from that than from any ten spankings."

"Your dad spanked you?" Chris said, obviously surprised.

"My dad's a doctor. too," Dr. Jacoby told Chris. "A doctor's office is a dangerous place for an inquisitive young girl who wanted to know what everything was and what it did. He made it quite clear from the start that I was to ask questions, and any experiments were to be done under supervision."

"I wish I could be a doctor if I grow up," Chris said. Then sighed heavily. Me? I was nearly in tears. If? If? What kind of person talks about "If I grow up?" Dead girl walking.

Dr. Jacoby read me well enough. "How's Emily, Davey? It's about time for her next appointment."

"Who's Emily?" Chris asked, and then stopped. "Oh! The girl the other day who was helping us. I wondered about that." She looked up at me and smiled. "Is she a girlfriend, too, Davey?"

"Not like that. It's not easy to talk about her, Chris."

She held up her hand. After a few seconds, it started to shake. Point taken.

"Emily is pregnant, Chris. She was raped," I just said it flat out. "Her parents are divorced, her mom told her to have an abortion or leave. So she left. Emily's staying with us. She's a friend and she's a girl, but she's not a girlfriend like Mercedes or Shellie."

I saw Dr. Jacoby look at me and smile. I contemplated drooling again. There had to be a better look!

"Are you okay, Davey?" Chris asked. "You look sick."

"Too much sun this morning, I guess," I said, hating myself for even the smallest white lie.

Mom arrived. "Sorry, Chris. For some people, it's a school night, Davey's got to go."

Mom nodded to Dr. Jacoby. "Good evening, Lynn."

"Good evening to you, Linda. I appreciate your help. Davey's too. I reminded Davey, I'll remind you: it's about time for Emily's next checkup."

"She doesn't have an appointment?" Mom asked.

"Her mother wouldn't make one."

"I'll call your office tomorrow and make one," Mom said. "I'm sorry, it just slipped my mind."

"I understand. Thanks again!"

Mom led the way and I followed.

When we got home Dad, Wanda, Emily and Pammie were playing Scrabble. Pammie was wearing my robe, the top spread wide apart, showing an amazing amount of cleavage.

Mom walked up to Pammie, laughing. "Pammie, one last time: don't tease the animals. After this, I won't say anything."

"Oh, just a girl having fun!"

"Well, I speak from personal experience, girl. When he starts whispering in your ear, you're in big trouble unless you say no, quick. Phil understands "no," but like he said last night, you're a big girl now and you make your own choices. You keep playing with him and he's going to knock on the rosy gates."

"And what would you do if he did, eh?" Pammie asked.

"Pammie, by now you should know just how relaxed we are in this family about such things. I'd have a problem if Phil didn't stop, but I know Phil. It won't happen. I'm telling you, if that's what you want, keep right on."

"Pammie," Wanda said. Pammie looked at Wanda. Wanda held her hands up, about eight inches apart, and then made a circle with the thumb and index fingers. "So by so."

Pammie looked at Dad in surprise. "You're shitting me!"

Emily figured it out, and joined me in the enormous blush department.

"Nope, no shit. That big or more."

Mom laughed. "Look at it as a life experience, Pammie. After Phil, I didn't have any trouble having Wanda or Davey."

I walked over and picked up the phone and headed for my bedroom, my face burning worse than any sunburn, ever.

I calmed myself and then called Mercedes. "Hi!" I said.

"It's a little late, Davey. I'm not supposed to talk on the phone this late on a school night."

I glanced at the clock; it was a little after nine. "Sorry, I'll be quick. Look, you know me, I get focused and forget things."

"I do. I also know I tried to call you earlier and your father laughed and then told me you were out on a date."

I realized she was pissed.

"That's his idea of a joke. It wasn't a joke, Mercedes and it wasn't a date."

"Were you with a girl?"

"Yes, and she wasn't wearing much and she was in bed. Of course, the bed is in a room at Memorial hospital. Maybe that might count for something."

"One of the kids from Friday? The one who barfed on you?"

"She didn't barf on me, she choked and spit some coke in my direction. No biggie. Yeah, her. Her name is Chris Luna. Mercedes, she's going to die."

"We're all going to die."

"Not next week; there's a real chance of that for her."

There was dead silence on the other end. "I'm being stupid, aren't I?"

"For someone who said we weren't going to be jealous, yes, you are. I was telling Chris how you and Shellie would be cool with this. I went to read to her."

"What's the point if she's going to die?"

"Maybe she will, maybe she won't." I explained to her, then, at the end, I added the kicker. "She wants me to be her boyfriend, Mercedes. She knows we aren't really going to be boyfriend/girlfriend. She's only twelve, anyway."

"I really am sorry, Davey. I'm so stupid!"

"No you're not," I told her. "I'm the one who can't remember to talk about things like this. Tomorrow, we need to tell Shellie about Corpus Christi and see if there's anything we can do to help her get permission to come along."

"Davey, you forget some things, but I don't. You run off and shoot some birds all day, then go off, doing whatever in the evening. Not to worry, I talked to Shellie this morning, and then Mom and I went over to visit her this afternoon. Shellie was in the doghouse because she refused to go to church this morning. Davey, Shellie's dad told her afterwards that the church was half empty. Reverend Grissom was spitting with rage; he did an impromptu sermon on Moses coming down from Mt. Sinai with the Ten Commandments and finding everyone worshipping Baal. Moses got pissed; the Reverend is pissed. And the story about Karen being involved in the shooting... that's all over town. A couple of people got up and left during the sermon. Shellie's parents are confused and don't know what to think."

She laughed. "Oh, yeah. Shellie's coming along with us for the Columbus Day weekend. And next weekend, she's going to come over here and stay after the game Friday night. It's another away game, and Mom said it would be easier if Shellie just stayed with us and came home after baseball practice Saturday."

"I love you," I told her. "Really, truly, a lot."

"Well, don't forget tomorrow is Monday, and Dad says I can come over there and study."

"I'm not forgetting that tomorrow is Monday and I'm certainly looking forward to studying with you guys."

"Now, I have to go, or my father's going to ground me again."

She hung up and I felt much better. Much, much better.

How many times had I heard jokes about Mondays?

I read for a while, I surfed the net, looking into how to keep a salt water aquarium, particularly a big one. I made a lot of notes. I finally fell asleep a little after eleven.

Much later, Pammie woke me up as she crawled into bed. I changed sides, rolling away from her. I felt her move, and then her lips were next to my ear. "He really is that big!"

She went back to her side of the bed and I simply shrugged and hoped that wasn't a train wreck. Pammie had a death wish, it seemed to me. She'd told her father the gospel truth on Saturday night about where she'd been and how she was dressed. I was pretty sure her father hadn't believed her. Now, if Pammie wasn't bullshitting me, she had another stone to throw at her father. One I was sure she would throw, at the worst possible time. At some point, someone was going to ask a few questions. I didn't think those would be good questions to have to answer.

Stupid Dad! Why was it I could sleep with Pammie and not even get an erection? Was it any of my business? I was afraid it wasn't at the moment, but would be later. I made a mental note: talk to Dad about Pammie's death wish. It would, I thought, make for a lively and interesting discussion.