A Shot in the Arm

Teddy Thurston lifted a rectangular white stone and fit it into place. The pile of bricks he transformed into a straight wall along the concrete driveway. His tan and leathery skin glistened in the sunlight, and the little valleys in his arms bore blonde hairs that arced into the humid summer air. His fingers were calloused and muscular. He wore a bright green shirt and he lifted, heaved, and fixed each stone into position.
The neighborhood was quiet and still save a breeze that caressed the trees that bent and bobbed soberly. A singular bird cut across the blue sky.
Teddy had been arguing with his wife that morning. He reeled the conversation through his mind and occasionally mumbled with his dry lips a sound equally distressed and dismissive. His wife proposed to repaint the house. She said that she would hire painters, and that he wouldn't have to "lift a finger," as she put it, but wouldn't he split the bill with her.
Teddy's eyelids raised and his bright blue irises shown in the morning light. Teddy did not think the house needed repainted. He did not want the house repainted. He said it was a foolish investment and that weren't they hard up enough as it was. His wife raised her arms and walked into the kitchen where she lifted a glass of lukewarm tea. She looked around the room at the walls. She pointed to a stain on the ceiling.

See that, she said, see that stain? It's been there for ten years.

Okay, okay, so there's a stain, he said. I'll patch it up. But that's no reason to paint the whole damned house.

His wife breathed deeply and said that it was fine if he didn't want it because she would pay to have it done. Teddy's eyes looked as if they may burst forth from their sockets. He looked at his wife as if trying to spot an imperfection. He squinted his eyes and then stiffened and crossed his arms.

Fine, he said, paint the house. Paint the damned thing like a peacock.

. . .

The firing pin pushed back, held under tension, the trigger was squeezed. The pin released and struck the primer, causing an explosion. A spark ignited the gunpowder and the gas from the burning powder expanded in the cartridge. The gas forced the bullet out of the cartridge and down the black, steel barrel. The bullet spun out of the barrel and in seconds flew over the green lawn and over the retaining wall and sandbags. The chrome bullet reflected the blue summer sky and a few slowly rolling clouds. It swiftly burst through a row of trees picking at the edges of a few leaves and traveled between two homes and passed ten feet from a young girl who tossed around in a sand pit and was halted with a thud by the flesh and bone of Teddy Thurston's right forearm.

Teddy thought he'd been stung - he slapped his forearm as if swatting a bee. But he saw the blood and felt dizzy and fell to the ground. He clenched his arm and his blood seeped between his fingers. He yelled for help and gripped his wrist tightly. The old woman who lived at the house came to the door. When she saw him on the ground she made her way to the driveway, but when she saw him bleeding she made her way back inside and lifted the phone and spoke in nervous, broken starts.

. . .

Teddy lay on the white hospital bed. His eyes opened to the room and he could make no sense of the machines around him or the odd, naked feeling of his body in a paper gown. His arm was wrapped and he listened to the singular, measured note of his heart beat on the monitor. A nurse walked in the room - a large woman with bright red lipstick. She asked him how he felt and asked her how she thought he felt. She nodded her head and poured him a glass of water.

He felt the gauze wrappings on his forearm and asked if his wife had been called. She said his wife had been called and was in the waiting room. Teddy thought of his wife and did and did not want to see her. The nurse handed him a paper cup of water and handed him two, large pills. He gulped them down without questioning and watched the nurse as she reeled about the small, hermetic room. He noted the pink, floral wallpaper.

Should I send her in? the nurse asked.

Sure, send her in.

Teddy's wife walked in carrying a bouquet of flowers.

Why the hell did you get me flowers? he said.

They had them on sale in the lobby, and I thought they'd look nice in the kitchen.

Oh, okay, Teddy said.

She sat next to the bed and put her hand on his arm and shook her head. She asked him who shot him.

How the hell am I supposed to know? he said.

I don't know.

I was packing stones into a wall when out of nowhere I had this feeling like I'd been stung by a bee. But I saw the blood and I knew it wasn't any bee. So here I am.

I wonder who would shoot you, Teddy's wife said.

I can only think of one person, he looked at her, smiling.

She chuckled then crossed her legs.

. . .

Two men in camoflague fatigues walked up the hill towards the entrance to the Montezuma County firing range. A thick blanket of grey, unmoving clouds spread across the sky. The air was moist and the taller of the two was met with a nostalgic reverie - a day just like this, he thought. He was sixteen, he remembered walking to school. Nothing occured, but it was a day, he thought, a day just like this.

The two men approached the door and the shorter of the two reached for the handle. His pull was resisted. He made a low, inquisitive noise with his throat. He noticed a sign on the door.

Due to a recent event, the Montezuma Country firing range will be closed for the week. Sorry for the inconvenience.

That's strange, the taller man said, I guess we didn't get the memo.





For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Jen O challenged me with "Did you get the gun club memo?" and I challenged seeking ELEVATION with "Write a story about an argument between a parent an child."