We have a gun. I wondered if the kidnappers knew that. I acted as if they knew everything. Our mortgage broker, anniversary, the amount due on our electric bill. My social security number, pant size, the date of my last dental appointment.
A Smith and Wesson Ladysmith. We keep it on the top shelf in the bedroom closet, pushed to the back. Sort of an out of the way place to keep it, very inconvenient in an emergency, I thought. It’s not like children were going to stumble on. But Adam insisted that the closet was the most prudent place to keep it. Don’t ask me to explain his logic.
I’ve never fired the thing. Adam once demonstrated how to use it: flick this, pull that, squeeze here. The only gun I’ve held in my entire life had been in my hands for all of one minute.
I got it out. It really is a simple device. I flicked the safety switch back and forth, checked the chamber, all that. No mystery how ten year olds can fire them off without a problem. Ours had a sturdy, solid weight, but it wasn’t heavy. Nice stainless steel plating, no flourishes. Spare and minimal. Beautiful but cold, like a Modernist sculpture.
I searched the house for a good place to hide the thing. In the back of my mind--no. Closer to the front, I hoped the kidnappers saw what I was doing and were pleased. The thing needed to be accessible but not in the open. I needed to whip it and fire it out before Zeke could respond. I’m sure the desk drawer in the living room would’ve been fine, but for some reason I ended up hiding it in the salad crisper under some carrots. Brilliant.
What if Melody had shown up just then? I must’ve looked deranged. Well, I was.
The phone rang. I thought it was Dwight Powell calling to applaud my clever hiding spot. I saw my dad’s name on the caller ID. As much as I love my dad, my hand hesitated over the phone. Strings of hair wove through my fingers.
My greeting was terse. I held my lips together so I wouldn’t blurt out anything else. He asked if Adam was home. What an insane question. He said he had called Adam earlier and couldn’t get through. Then Adam hadn’t shown up at the site. He was worried. I said Adam had a cold. What a useful, all-purpose excuse. My dad said it was too bad, Adam cleared from IA then coming down with a bug and isn’t it funny how things happen. He hoped we could still get together on Sunday. At that point I must’ve believed everything would work out because I said we would and I meant it. He promised to bring over some chicken soup. I told him not to bother. Of course he said, “It’s no bother.” I told him I really meant it, and of course he meant it too. We could have gone back and forth like that for hours. God, it hurt to hang up.
I had a fuzzy premonition of what was going to happen unless I could squeeze an alternative from my brain. Or better, if a way out fell from the sky. Zeke would arrive. I’d be pleasant and offer him a cup of coffee. He’d say yeah and I’d go to the kitchen and come back blazing. Adam would come home. On Sunday, we’d have dinner with my parents. Then we’d move somewhere nice and warm and live happily ever after.
So I called Zeke. I forgot to tell you I knew Zeke beforehand, so inviting him over wasn’t difficult. I forget what I told him. Adam wanted him over for brunch or something.
Waiting for him to arrive was the hardest part so far. No. Every step was hard. Why rank the events? To kill time, I vacuumed. Just the living room and the bedroom. I took some vitamins. I lit a candle and set it on the kitchen counter. I tried a meditation exercise I read about. You relax your eyes and stare into a flame until you zone out and all your cares drift away. It didn’t work. I still had cares.
Also, I was craving a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked one in years. So I inserted a new scene into the forthcoming act: Zeke would arrive. I’d bum a smoke, finish it, ask if he wanted any coffee, and so on.