—I think your hair is . . . super, he said.
—Super?!
—Sorry. Was that . . . unflattering?
—Super’s not bad. But I also answer to gorgeous and glamorous.
—How about . . . gorgerous?
—That’s the ticket.
It was a bright summer day, and at Wallace’s suggestion I took a pair of tinted glasses from the glove compartment. I leaned back and watched the sunshine dappling the leaves over the parkway, feeling like a cross between an Egyptian queen and a Hollywood starlet.
—Have you heard from . . . Tinker and Eve? Wallace asked.
It was the normal sort of common grounding used by an acquaintance to fend off silence.
—I’ll tell you what, Wallace. If you don’t feel the need to talk about Tinker and Eve, I won’t feel the need to either.
Wallace laughed.
—Then how will we . . . explain knowing one another?
—We’ll tell people that you caught me picking your pocket on the observation deck of the Empire State Building.
—All right. But only if . . . we make it you who caught me.
Wallace’s hunt club was surprisingly run-down in appearance. Outside there was a low portico and slim white pillars that made it look like a sorry excuse for a Southern mansion. Inside, the pine floors were uneven, the rugs frayed, and the Audubon prints slightly askew, as if victims of a distant earthquake. But like the moth-eaten sweater, the worn aspect of the club seemed to put Wallace at relative ease.
At a diminutive desk by a sizable trophy case sat a well-groomed attendant in a polo shirt and slacks.
—Good afternoon, Mr. Wolcott, he said. We’re all set for you downstairs. We’ve laid out the Remington, the Colt and the Luger. But a Browning Automatic came in yesterday and I thought you might like to take a look at her as well.
—Terrific, John. Thanks.
Wallace led me down to the cellar where a series of narrow alleys were separated by white clapboard walls. At the end of each alley, a paper bull’s-eye was pinned to a stack of hay bales. Beside a small table, a young man was loading the firearms.
—That’s fine, Tony. I’ll . . . take care of it. We’ll see you at the . . . trout pond.
—Yes sir, Mr. Wolcott.
I took up a position at a respectful distance. Wallace looked back and smiled.
—Why don’t you . . . come a little closer.
Tony had laid out the guns with their barrels pointing in the same direction. With a polished silver finish and a bone handle, the revolver looked like a pretty fancy sidearm, but the other guns were a no-nonsense gray. Wallace pointed to the smaller of two rifles.
—That’s a . . . Remington Model 8. It’s a good target rifle. That’s a . . . Colt 45. And that’s a . . . Luger. A German officer’s pistol. My father brought it . . . home from the war.
—And this?
I picked up the big gun. It was so heavy it hurt my wrists just to balance it in the air.
—That’s the Browning. It’s a . . . machine gun. It’s the one that . . . Bonnie and Clyde used.
—Really?
—It’s also the . . . gun that killed them.
I put it down gently.
—Shall we start with the Remington? he suggested.
—Yes sir, Mr. Wolcott.
We approached one of the alleys. He broke open the breach and loaded the rifle. Then he introduced me to the various parts: the action and bolt; the barrel and muzzle; the front and rear sights. I must have been making a bewildered face.
—It sounds . . . more complicated than it is, he said. The Remington has only fourteen parts.
—An eggbeater has only four. But I can’t figure out how that works either.
—Okay, he said with a smile. Then watch me first. You rest the butt against your . . . shoulder, the way you would a . . . violin. Hold the barrel with your left hand here. Don’t grip. Just . . . balance it. Square your feet. Sight the target. Take a breath. Exhale.
Pow!
I jumped. And maybe shouted.
—I’m sorry, Wallace said. I didn’t mean to . . . startle you.
—I thought we were still in discussion mode.
Wallace laughed.
—No. Discussion mode . . . is over.
He handed me the rifle. Suddenly the alley looked much longer than before, as if the target was receding. I felt like Alice after she Drank Me, or Ate Me, or whichever ingestion made her become diminutive. I raised the rifle as if it were a salmon and tucked it in my shoulder like a watermelon. Wallace stepped closer and tried to coach, ineffectively.
—I’m sorry, he said. It’s a little like trying to teach someone to . . . tie a bow tie. It’s easier if . . . May I?
—Please!
He pulled up the sleeves of his sweater and came up behind me. He placed his right arm along my right arm, his left along my left. I could feel his breath, even and rhythmic, at the back of my ear. In a quiet voice, as if live game was grazing at the end of the alley, he gave me a few instructions and a few encouragements. We steadied the barrel. We sighted the target. We took a breath and exhaled. And when we pulled the trigger, I could feel his shoulder helping mine absorb the recoil.
He let me shoot fifteen rounds. Then the Colt. Then the Luger. Then we took a few turns with the Browning Automatic and I gave those bastards who killed Clyde Barrow something to think about.
Around four o’clock we walked through a pine glade behind the club. As we came into a clearing at the edge of a pond a woman my age came marching toward us. She was wearing jodhpurs and riding boots and had sandy hair drawn back in barrettes. She had a shotgun open at the breach hanging on the crook of her arm.
—Well hello, Hawkeye, she said with a muckraking smile. I haven’t caught you on a date, have I?
Wallace blushed a little.
—Bitsy Houghton, she said to me with her hand extended—more stating the fact of her existence than clearing up the matter of her name.
—Katey Kontent, I said straightening my posture.
—Is . . . Jack here? Wallace asked after giving her an awkward kiss.
—No. He’s in town. I was just riding over at The Stables and figured it was a good chance to swing by and hammer out a few. Keep myself in form. Not all of us are born to it like you are.
Wallace blushed again, though Bitsy didn’t seem to notice. She turned back to me.
—You look like a beginner.
—Is it that obvious?
—Of course. But you’ll have a good go of it with this old Indian. And it’s a crackerjack day to shoot. Anyway. I’m off. Nice to meet you Kate. See you round Wally.
She gave Wallace a teasing wink and then barreled on.
—Wow, I said.
—Yes, said Wallace watching her go.
—Is she an old friend?
—Her brother and I have . . . been friends since we were boys. She was a . . . bit of a hanger-on.
—Not anymore, I suspect.
—No, said Wallace with something of a laugh. Not . . . for a long time.
The pond was about half the size of a city block and surrounded by trees. Patches of algae drifted here and there like continents on the surface of the globe. Passing a little dock where a rowboat was tethered, we followed a path to a small wooden pulpit hidden by the trees. Tony greeted us, exchanged a few words with Wallace and then disappeared into the woods. On a bench a new gun lay on its canvas case.
—This is a shotgun, Wallace said. It’s a hunting gun. It carries a bigger charge. You’re going to . . . feel it more.
The gun had elaborate tooling on the barrel, like a piece of Victorian silver. And the stock looked as fine as the leg of a Chippendale. Wallace picked up the shotgun and explained where the skeet would come from and how one should track it with the bead at the end of the barrel, aiming just ahead of its trajectory. Then he raised the gun to his shoulder.
—Pull.
The skeet materialized from the brush and
hovered for an instant over the surface of the pond.
BOOM!
The pigeon shattered and the pieces rained down over the water like the fireworks at Whileaway.
I missed the first three pigeons, but then I began to get the hang of it. I hit four of the next six.
In the shooting range, the sound of the Remington had seemed somehow constrained, clipped, confined, and it got a little under your skin like the sound of someone biting on the blade of a knife. But here on the trout pond, the shotgun was resonant. It boomed like a ship’s cannon and the sound lingered for a full beat. It seemed to give shape to the open air, or rather to reveal the hidden architecture that was there all along—the invisible cathedral that vaulted over the surface of the pond—known to sparrows and dragonflies but invisible to the human eye.
Relative to the rifle, the shotgun also felt more like an extension of yourself. When the bullet from the Remington flitted through the bull’s-eye at the far end of the shooting range, the sound seemed independent of your finger pulling the trigger. But when the skeet shattered there was no question that you had commanded it so. Standing at the pulpit, peering down the barrel into the open air, you suddenly had the power of a Gorgon—the ability to influence matter at a distance merely by meeting it with your gaze. And the feeling didn’t dissipate with the sound of the shot. It lingered. It permeated your limbs and sharpened your senses—adding a certain self-possession to your swagger, or a swagger to your self-possession. Either way, for a minute or so, it made you feel like a Bitsy Houghton.
If only someone had told me about the confidence-boosting nature of guns, I’d have been shooting them all my life.
Dinner consisted of club sandwiches at six on a bluestone patio overlooking a salt marsh. But for a few men scattered among the cast-iron tables, the patio was empty. It was decidedly unglamorous, but not without its charms.
—Will you be having anything to drink with your sandwiches, Mr. Wolcott? the young waiter was asking.
—Just some iced tea for me, Wilbur. But feel free to . . . have a cocktail, Katey.
—Iced tea sounds perfect.
The waiter navigated the tangle of tables back toward the clubhouse.
—So, do you know everyone’s first name? I asked.
—Everyone’s first name?
—The front desk guy, the gun guy, the waiter. . . .
—Is that unusual?
—My postman comes twice a day and I don’t know his name.
Wallace looked bashful.
—Mine’s . . . Thomas.
—I’ve obviously got to pay more attention.
—I suspect you pay plenty.
Wallace was absently polishing his spoon with his napkin and looking around the patio. He had a serene gaze. He put the spoon back in its proper place.
—You don’t mind, do you? That . . . we’re having dinner here?
—Not at all.
—It’s part of the fun for me. It’s like when I . . . was a kid and we spent Christmas at our camp in the Adirondacks. When the lake was frozen, we’d skate all afternoon; and then the caretaker, an old Dubliner, would serve us cocoa from a zinc canister. My sisters would sit in the main room with their feet by the fire. But my grandfather and I, we’d sit in these big green rockers on the porch and watch the day draw to a close.
He paused and looked out on the salt marsh, pinning down a detail in his memory.
—The cocoa was so hot that when you got outside in the cold air a skin would form on its surface. It floated there a shade darker than the cocoa and it would come up in a single piece at the touch of your finger....
He gestured toward the whole patio.
—The cocoa was sort of like this.
—A little reward that you’ve earned?
—Yes. Does that seem silly?
—Not to me.
The sandwiches came and we ate without talking. I began to understand that with Wallace there were no awkward silences. He felt unusually at ease when nothing needed to be said. Occasionally ducks flew from over the trees and settled on the marsh with a flapping of wings and outstretched feet.
Perhaps Wallace was feeling relaxed in the run-down environment of his club—having exhibited his mastery of firearms and earned his iced tea. Or perhaps it was his memories of his grandfather and the Adirondack dusk. Perhaps he was just getting comfortable with me. Whatever the reason, as Wallace reminisced, the stall in his sentences had all but disappeared.
Back in Manhattan, when we were leaving Wallace’s garage and I thanked him for a terrific afternoon, he hesitated. I think he was weighing whether to ask me back to his apartment, but he didn’t. Maybe he was concerned that by asking, he might somehow spoil the day. So he gave me a kiss on the cheek like a friend of a friend. We exchanged good-byes and he began to walk away.
—Hey Wallace, I called.
He stopped and turned.
—What was the name of the old Irishman? The one who poured the hot chocolate.
—It was Fallon, he said with a smile. Mr. Fallon.
The next day at a little shop on Bleecker Street I bought a postcard of Annie Oakley. She was in full western regalia—a deerskin shirt, white-fringed boots, and two pearl-handled six-shooters. On the back, I wrote: Thanks Pardner. In Thursday’s four o’clock post, I received a note saying: Meet me tomorrow on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum at High Noon. It was signed Wyatt Earp.
Wallace skipped up the museum steps dressed in a pale gray suit with a white cotton handkerchief peeking squarely from his breast pocket.
—I hope you’re not trying to woo me by taking me to see some paintings, I said.
—Definitely not! I wouldn’t . . . know where to start.
Instead, he took me to the museum’s collection of guns.
In the dim light, we drifted shoulder to shoulder from case to case. Naturally, these were guns that were famous for their design or provenance rather than for their firepower. Many had elaborate engravings or were fashioned from precious metals. You could almost forget that they were designed to kill people. Wallace probably knew every last thing there was to know about the guns, but he didn’t overdo it. He shared some colorful arcana and a little bit of lore. Then he suggested we go to lunch exactly five minutes before the novelty of the experience was due to wear off.
When we came out of the museum, the brown Bentley was waiting at the bottom of the steps.
—Hello, Michael, I said, congratulating myself on remembering his name.
—Hello, Miss Kontent.
Once in the car, Wallace asked where I’d like to have lunch. I suggested that he treat me like an out-of-towner and take me to his favorite spot. So we went to the Park, a restaurant on the ground floor of a prominent midtown office tower. In the modern style it had high ceilings and walls without ornamentation. Most of the tables were occupied by men in suits.
—Is your office close to here? I asked innocently.
Wallace looked embarrassed.
—It’s in the building.
—What a stroke of luck! That your favorite restaurant is in the same building as your office!
We ordered martinis from a waiter named Mitchell and reviewed the menus. To begin, Wallace ordered aspic, of all things, and I had the house salad—a terrific concoction of iceberg greens, cold blue cheese and warm red bacon. If I were a country, I would have made it my flag.
While we waited for Dover sole, Wallace began drawing a circle on the tablecloth with his dessert spoon, and for the first time I noticed his wristwatch. It had the inverse of the usual design—white numbers on a black dial.
—Sorry, he said putting down the spoon. It’s an old habit.
—Actually, I was just admiring your watch.
—Oh. It’s . . . an officer’s watch. It had a black face so that at night it would be less likely to . . . draw fire. It was my father’s.
Wallace was quiet for a moment. I was about to ask him a little more about his father when a tall, balding gen
tleman came to our table. Wallace pushed his chair back and stood.
—Avery!
—Wallace, the gentleman said warmly.
Having been introduced to me, the gentleman asked if I could spare Wallace a moment. Then he led him to his own table where another older man waited. From their demeanors, it was plain that they were seeking Wallace’s counsel. When they finished talking, Wallace asked a few questions and then began making observations. You could tell there was no stall in his speech now either.
When I had looked at Wallace’s watch it was almost two. Alley had agreed to cover me until our daily three o’clock with Mr. Tate. If I skipped dessert, I still had time to taxi back and switch into a longer skirt.
—This looks very entre nous.
Slipping into Wallace’s chair was the horse-riding, gun-toting Bitsy Houghton.
—We don’t have more than a minute, Kate, she said conspiratorially. We’d better get to it. How do you know Wally?
—I met him through Tinker Grey.
—That good-looking banker? Isn’t he the one who got in the car wreck with his girl?
—Yes. She’s an old friend of mine. Actually, we were all in it together. Bitsy looked impressed.
—I’ve never been in a car wreck.
Though from the way she said it, you got the sense she had been in other kinds of wrecks—like in an airplane or motorcycle or submarine.
—So, she continued, is your friend as ambitious as the girls claim? (As ambitious as the girls claim?)
—No more so than most, I said. But she has got spunk.
—Well, they’ll hate her for that. Anyway. I dislike meddlers more than cats. But can I give you a tip?