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Kate spent the evening sipping Chardonnay and reliving the events from her afternoon at Cossetta’s. She sat in the recliner, Renzo’s favorite chair, and flipped endlessly through TV channels, never staying on one for long.
After finishing her second glass of wine, she felt drawn to her bedroom. She climbed the stairs and flipped on the light, astonished to see her room in such disarray. The bedding unmade; clothes strewn about the floor and chaise; a wet towel from her morning shower still in a heap on the floor where she’d left it; and shoes scattered about.
Chaos. The clear picture of her life.
Kate ignored the mess and again faced her closet, staring at the white slatted doors. She couldn’t help herself. She was drawn to the canvas bag. She again dropped to her knees, leaned into the closet and shoved the box of magazines to the side. She tugged the heavy bag, dragging it toward her, pausing before digging around inside.
She pulled out the silver pistol and held it in her hand. She shifted its weight back and forth, as she examined it. She wondered if there were bullets inside. She didn’t even know how to check. There was that rolling thing that she always saw on TV.
What did they do? They popped it somehow, and it opened. The bullets were in the tiny holes inside that thing. The chamber? Is that what it’s called?
She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror to her left—holding a gun.
What did she think she was doing?
She had no idea how to use a gun—how to load it—and she certainly had no idea how to shoot it. This was ridiculous. She put it back in the bag, slid it into its secure place and covered it with the box of magazines.
She went back downstairs, poured herself a third glass of wine and returned to the recliner. She found a channel and watched it mindlessly, unable to concentrate, the gun reappearing in her thoughts. She changed the channel. Then the next channel, next channel, next, next.
Then ... she came upon an old Clint Eastwood movie. He portrayed a cop and was shooting at people. She watched him closely, paying attention to how he held the gun, how he aimed it.
Clint Eastwood’s gun was much bigger, more menacing than the one sitting up in her closet. There were other characters with guns. She’d never paid attention before. Never noticed how often guns appeared in different scenes. Some of the guns snapped open, to the side, to insert the bullets.
Bullets.
She put down her glass of wine and ran back upstairs.
Bullets. Bullets.
She moved the box of magazines and pulled open the canvas bag. She reached in and again pulled out the gun, setting it on the floor next to her. She shoved her hand back inside the bag, feeling the bottom of it with her hand, looking for side zippers or bumps or a box. Looking for bullets.
No bullets.
She sat there, staring at the gun sitting beside her.
What were you thinking, Marco? Why did you have this gun? Where did you get it? Why are there no bullets? What was your plan?
She squeezed her lips, thinking. Her eyes began to dart around the closest in front of her. She got onto all fours and started knocking things around. Clothes hanging from above swayed across her head making her hair flip in all directions.
Pushing her hair away from her face, she sat back, breathless.
No bullets.
She leaned over and picked up the gun, twisting it around in her hand, examining it. Were there bullets inside?
Forget the gun. Move on.
She returned to her movie and glass of wine. Her phone buzzed on the sofa. Her mother. She let it ring.
Intrigued by the violent movie, she focused on the guns. She finally saw one of the criminals stop to reload. He did something to make it open to the side.
“Oh!”
She ran upstairs to try to duplicate what she’d seen in the movie. She smoothed her hand all around Marco’s gun, turning it, until she felt a raised knob. She pushed it and the chamber opened. Kate’s heart began to pound. Six holes with a bullet in each.
The gun was loaded.
“Oh my God.”
She slapped it shut and put it back, tucking the canvas bag back into its hiding place. She hurried back downstairs and tried to forget about it.
What would she even do with it?
She had no idea how to shoot it. She’d need lessons, which she’d never do. She couldn’t even reload it if she had to.
Still ... she could not stop thinking about that gun.
