Writing Toward Healing
“So, what are you studying?” Jeff asked me. “I’ll probably major in psychology, but I’m not sure yet. I’m taking a criminal justice class now.” “Be able to tell us all what we’re thinking before we say it?” Jeff joked and squinted his eye as the smoke rose into it from the joint. I waved it past. Mary just ignored it. Jeff shrugged and took another toke. Carol Beth handed us two glasses with ice and opened the whiskey and poured hers straight into a Solo cup. I took a little whiskey and so did Mary. “I’m going to get my CPR certification at the firehouse this next winter. I want to be an EMT. They make good money,” Carol Beth said and smiled at Mary. Mary’s smile seemed a little frozen; her major was British literature. I hadn’t seen her shy before and I felt bad. We shouldn’t have come. “Hey, my Mom’s waiting up for us. She’s wanting to quiz Mary here, don’t you know.” I sat up smiling and grabbed Mary’s hand. “Sorry, but I just thought of it. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow.” Mary and I stood up together. “But you just got here,” Jeff protested but he didn’t get up. “I’ll catch you later.” I said and backed Mary toward the door. We pulled our coats off the coat COURTESY OF THE ARTIST
Out of Reach (mixed media on panel, 40x40) by Robert Boyd
N C L R ONLINE
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rack and something heavy fell hard on the floor. Jeff hopped up quick and lifted a gun. He tucked it back into a holster on the coat rack and pulled his coat back under it. All I could tell was that it was a little gun, a pistol. “Just a little protection,” Jeff bobbed his head, “you know, bears.” He smirked at Mary who looked confused at his joke. On the couch Carol Beth took a hit and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You all come back and hang out.” Carol Beth was being friendly but not willing to go out of her way. Smoke was filling up the tight cabin. Mary had her arms in her coat and her hand on the door. “Yeah, sure.” I opened the door. We went out quickly and shut the door. Outside, pulling our coats together against the cool air, we looked at each other and laughed. Without talking, Mary and I both knew we would not go back. That’s how it was getting to be between us. I liked that. “The coat rack was not where I’d keep a gun,” Mary said. “Yep, me neither.” After a bit of thought I asked her, “You shoot?’ Her face turned up at me and her eyes were puzzled. “I guess I’m just a townie. Does it matter?” “We could go shoot tomorrow, if you want.” I thought of Dad’s .22. I’d need to clean it, and it would be fun to hit some cans. It was a lovely rifle, a Ruger 10/22 Carbine Standard with a walnut stock that still smelled of the lemon oil my dad used to polish the stock. I remember when that rifle felt big to me. Mary could handle it. “I thought you were going to take me fishing.” Mary took my hand and we walked toward the car. “But it doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.” She wasn’t pushing me either way. I thought about the boys at the dock. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea either. Holding her arm close in mine, we walked to the car. She smelled of lavender. We didn’t go home, however. We parked at Doe Ridge until the moon got over the hill. That summer while I was back home from college, Mom and I were watching Unsolved True Crime. Well, I was watching, and she was reading. The show showed a scene of a gunshot to the head. Not thinking at all I said, “It doesn’t look like that.” Mom took off the little readers she uses now and said, very quietly, “What?” “It doesn’t look like that when someone blows their head off. These guys on this show need to get