Noah’s four o’clock-to-midnight shift wouldn’t begin for a couple of hours so he opted to make constructive use of his time.
His parents insisted he and Natalie sleep uninterrupted for a full night, allowing the grandparents to attend to Jake when he awoke wailing during the dark hours. Natalie protested, wanting Jake to stay in the basinet, but they demanded she reenergize for the days—“and decades,” her mother-in-law joked—ahead.
The current quandary was Natalie’s inability to produce breast milk.
“They’re plenty ripe—almost ready,” said her father-in-law, Alexander Chandler. While this observation unnerved Natalie to no end, Alexander correctly concluded the baby would need bottle-feeding until she could bear milk.
“No hireling breast will nurse my grandchild.” Susanna Chandler ended the discussion of whether to hire a wet nurse.
Secretly, Natalie embraced deep sleep and felt like a selfish mother for craving it. Jake slept in a wooden cradle at the base of the elder Chandlers’ bed, and but for one outburst that was quelled by a bottled mix of water, cow milk and sugar, the child managed a quiet night on the plantation.
Noah, clean and refreshed, sat with Natalie in bed as she tried nursing Jake. Noah managed earlier to wrestle his son away from granny’s surprisingly strong arms and held him for long stretches of time. When Natalie and Jake napped at two o’clock, he rode Wilbur to the far side of the plantation and carried a burlap bag whose interior clanked the entire way. He tied Wilbur to a small tree and walked the remaining three-hundred feet to his destination.
He reached into the sack and placed the five empty metal cans on the wooden fence posts outlining the Chandler property. A solitary, centuries-old oak tree stood behind the centermost can and had taken many a bullet from Noah and his deceased brother when they were learning how to shoot. Behind it stood flat grassland leading to miles of bogs, providing an uninhabitable backdrop for humans. God willing, nobody would mistakenly be on the receiving end of a bullet—hopefully just the cans.
He backed up sixty feet and figured it sensible to aim first for the center can, and then pivot to shoot the two on either of its sides, working his way out. He brought with him a lever-action Winchester rifle that wasn’t due to go on sale until the next year. (His father knew people.) It bolstered his confidence when he picked off the five cans one after the other in six seconds. He shot them near the base so they whirled in a circle before landing.
The bitch of it was loping back and forth to reset cans, which he did, in preparation for the quick-draw.
They’re just cans. They held coffee and ain’t gonna shoot back. Don’t be nervous.
He couldn’t help it. His right hand lingered to the side of his Colt, his sweaty fingers brushing the handle and trigger.
One fluid motion: Cock the hammer with the thumb and grip, draw, point, shoot, he thought. Do it. Don’t think.
Noah cocked, gripped and shot while drawing and nearly blew off his foot. A chunk of dirt exploded from the ground next to him. The gunshot echo amplified his embarrassment, and he slowly circled around to see if, somehow, someone had seen his failure. Other than Wilbur, who milled around the tree, nobody had.
Take out the bullets, genius, he thought. Practice.
Noah did and became comfortable enough dry firing the piece to reload it.
He opted not to rush his first time back with live ammo. He drew in what looked like slow motion and fired: Nothing on the horizon moved.
Missed. That’s okay—you can still walk. You’re making progress.
Noah had no clue if he came close to nicking the can. He drew and fired five more times. The unmoving center can mocked him.
Maybe I hit the tree. Maybe?
“Who am I shitting?” Noah mumbled. “In a real fight I’d be maggot meat by now.”
Noah took a drink of water from a canteen he’d brought with him. He looked behind him to see Wilbur now resting on the grass.
Can’t take your rifle everywhere. Keep at it, he thought.
Confident he progressed enough so he wouldn’t shoot himself, Noah squared and focused on the shiny middle can.
He cocked, gripped, drew, pointed, aimed and fired, and picked off a squirrel he didn’t even know had shielded itself (or so it thought) within the high oak branches behind the fence. The dead critter hit the ground with a final thump and a squeak.
Aim lower.
Then he looked on the bright side: At least I hit something.
Noah kept at it: Gunshot and silence, gunshot and silence. Over and over.
I’ve got to go to work soon.
Gunshot and silence. Gunshot and silence.
Never a clink of a can.