Lexi
And Oren came tumbling after.
‘I’m not leaving you alone in this house,’ he said.
I said, ‘It’s my house.’
‘You think so?’ he said.
We went downstairs. Bullets hit the outside walls. A haze hung over the furniture. The air smelled like sweat and splintered wood and tar. Mom sat on the floor by the kitchen doorway. Cristofer jumped up and down on Walter’s green chair. Grunting. Walter kneeled by the window with his .22. Squeezing one shot for every ten that the people outside fired. The German shepherds barked and barked and barked.
The green chair was safe from the window but I yelled at Cristofer to get down. He kept bouncing and grunting. Dust pumped from the split cushion. I grabbed him but he swatted my face.
‘Hey,’ Oren yelled at him.
Cristofer kept bouncing.
‘It’s all right,’ I told Oren. ‘He didn’t mean to.’
But Oren yanked the chair out. Cristofer hit the edge and fell. Oren stood over him like he would crush him. I yelled, ‘Don’t.’
Cristofer looked at Oren and keened.
Oren bent over him. Whispered something. Then sat in the chair. Pine oil from the box of photos had stained his sleeve. Cristofer smiled at him and stayed on the floor. Oren stared at the clouds of dust in the morning sunlight. As if he could read a message in them. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Anyone for breakfast?’
I gave him the meanest look and crawled to the window where Walter was kneeling with his rifle. The sun was rising over the hill. The ground was wet and glistening from last night’s rain. And breathing out a vapor. The people in the yard had parked the pickups end-to-end by the tar kiln. The bikers stood behind the yellow truck. They were thick-chested and square-faced and tan. The black-haired woman wore a black T-shirt. Grinning.
Walter squeezed the trigger of his .22 and sank a bullet into the rear panel of the yellow truck. Raising a yellow-paint mist. The woman finished saying whatever she was saying. Then lifted a black semi-automatic above the truck bed. Shot at the house.
When the sound died and the shock passed Walter shouted into the yard, ‘What do you want?’
No one answered.
He shouted again, ‘Whatever you want you can have it. What do—’
The woman shouted, ‘Your daughter.’
Walter stared at me. Considering. Then he shouted back, ‘I have no daughter.’
One of the bikers shouted, ‘Your wife.’
The other shouted, ‘Your son.’
Walter shot another bullet into the side of the yellow truck.
The woman shouted, ‘Your life.’
‘Why?’ Walter yelled. But soft. Like he was afraid of the answer.
Paul the driver stepped from behind the red truck. Big. He was trying to pass for human but not making it. He cupped a black pistol in his hand. ‘Your blood,’ he shouted. ‘Your wife’s. Your—’
Walter shot at him. Paul’s pant leg twitched and a spray of blood came from his thigh. The bullet had grazed him. Stung him. He shouted, ‘Never wound a predator. Kill him or hide from him. If you wound him—’
Walter shot again. Missed. And Paul yelled and shot his pistol four times at the house. When I looked back outside he had ducked behind the truck. The woman and the bikers had also disappeared.
But then Paul laughed and ran into the open. He threw a jug of something burning which shattered in front of the porch. Exploded. The house groaned. The walls and floor and ceiling shifted and settled. In the kitchen a shelf broke and glass shattered. Flames licked from the dirt in the yard and then died.
Walter said, ‘Jesus Christ.’
Mom started crying.
Cristofer keened.
Oren sat in the green chair. Calm. Dabbed at the oil on his sleeve with his handkerchief. When he saw me watching he said, ‘I really could use some breakfast.’
‘Asshole,’ I said.
He frowned at the handkerchief. Spat on it. Dabbed the sleeve.
Walter seemed to notice him for the first time. Squinted through the hazy light and said, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Apparently not eating breakfast,’ Oren said.
Walter went to him with the rifle. ‘Did I or didn’t I tell you to leave yesterday?’
‘You did,’ Oren said. He dabbed the sleeve. ‘I found it insulting. Paul must have too. You read about this kind of thing. Guys getting kicked out of parties and then coming back and burning down a place. Until now I didn’t think it really happened.’
‘Did I or didn’t I say I would shoot you if you came into this house?’ Walter said.
Oren looked bored. ‘You did.’
Walter gripped the rifle barrel and swung the wooden stock so it hit Oren in the head. A crease of blood welled over his eyebrows. Walter tried to hit him again. But Oren grabbed the stock and twisted the gun from his hands. Oren stood.
Mom who was sitting in the kitchen doorway said, ‘No.’
And Cristofer stopped keening.
Walter backed away.
Oren sighted the gun at the floor. ‘How many rounds does it hold?’ he asked. No longer bored.
‘Go to hell,’ Walter said.
Oren chambered a bullet. Raised the gun. Pointed it at Walter’s head. ‘How many rounds?’
‘I modified it,’ Walter said. ‘Thirteen.’
‘Enough for everybody,’ Oren said. And lowered the rifle. He gripped the barrel and gave it to Walter. He said, ‘This isn’t the time to kick guests out.’
‘You aren’t a guest,’ Walter said, and grabbed the gun. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Oren looked surprised. ‘Me?’
‘You and your friends,’ Walter said.
‘What makes you think they’re my friends?’ Oren asked.
Walter pointed the gun at the floor. ‘You’re saying they aren’t?’
‘I’m inside with you,’ Oren said. ‘If they were my friends, wouldn’t I be out there with them?’
Walter aimed the rifle at him. ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘That’s where you belong.’
Oren went back to the chair and sat. ‘If I walked out the door, they would shoot me just as they would shoot you.’
‘Why did they come here?’ Walter asked. ‘Why is your driver with them?’
‘You treated Paul badly,’ Oren said. ‘As for the others, you’re an unpleasant man. I’m sure you’ve made unpleasant enemies.’
Walter pointed the rifle at Oren’s face. He said, ‘Why did all sorts of evil start happening when you came?’
‘Is that when it started?’ Oren asked.
‘Why did you come?’ Walter’s fear was gone.
Oren said, ‘Because I appreciate fine painting and have a special interest in portraiture.’ The crease of blood over his eyebrows had swollen into a half-moon.
‘Get out,’ Walter said.
Oren said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, right now this house is as much mine as it’s yours.’
‘I already shot your driver – your friend,’ Walter said. ‘You know I’ll shoot you.’
‘Once again,’ Oren said, ‘you’re calling him a friend.’
‘You say he isn’t? Let’s give it a try,’ Walter said. ‘Get up. Let’s see just how friendly you and those people are.’
Oren shook his head. Hardly tolerating him. And stood.
Walter poked him with the rifle. ‘Move.’
‘You do that again, I’ll break it over your back,’ Oren said.
Walter pointed the gun at him. ‘To the window,’ he said.
‘This is a bad idea,’ Oren said. But he lifted his hands over his head and moved in front of the window.
Bullets pelted the outside of the house like metal hail. Ricocheting off the chimney. Sinking into the walls.
Oren knocked the rifle from Walter’s hands and dropped to the floor. The guns outside stopped. ‘Satisfied?’ Oren asked.
‘Not hardly,’ Walter said. ‘They didn’t come close to hitting you.’ And he picked up his rifle and aimed it at Oren.
‘You’re wasting time,’ Oren said. ‘While these people are shooting at you and generally kicking your ass you’re chasing me around with a squirrel gun. You could be getting ready for a fight. These people look like they’re planning to stay awhile.’
If Walter pulled the trigger he would shoot Oren in the eye.
‘Don’t tell me that’s your biggest weapon,’ Oren said.
Walter only stared at him.
Oren laughed and said, ‘How about knives? Do you have rubbing alcohol? Peroxide? Bleach? You can improvise – a man like you with a modified rifle magazine. You must know how to make things and break them. The rules don’t apply to you. Right?’
I said to Walter, ‘Listen to him.’
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘You brought this man into our house—’
Oren said to him, ‘You’re wasting time. I’ve never seen a man who acts more like he’s got it coming to him. You might as well walk out and get it over with.’ He went to Mom. She was weeping in the kitchen doorway. ‘And you,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with you? What makes you give up so fast? What do you have to cry about?’
‘Shut up,’ I said to him.
He stared at me. The wound on his forehead was bright with blood. His eyes were flat.
I said, ‘Don’t do this.’
He turned back to Mom. ‘These people have restrained themselves so far. Do you want to take it to the next level?’
Mom wiped her chin with the back of her hand. ‘We’re not taking it to any level,’ she said. ‘They brought this to us. We’ve never seen them before.’
‘You must have done something to bring it on yourself,’ Oren said.
‘Stop it,’ I said.
He looked at me. ‘What?’
‘Stop this from happening,’ I said. ‘Tell them to stop. They’ll listen to you.’
He shook his head.
‘Tell them,’ I said.
Then from upstairs there came a grinding of metal on metal. And wood on wood. Old bed springs. The guns outside opened up. The front of the house clattered with bullets. The chimney stones pinged. The grinding got louder. I looked around the room. Cristofer was gone. A spray of bullets hit the house. High above the front porch.
I yelled, ‘Cristofer!’ And ran for the stairs.
Oren passed me before I reached the landing. Ran into Cristofer’s room. Cristofer was bouncing in a cloud of plaster dust. Twirling his fingers through the cloud. Bullets hit the walls outside of the window. One had come through and pocked the ceiling. Oren tackled Cristofer. Throwing him on to the mattress and falling with him on to the floor. Cristofer laughed and laughed. He ran his fingers through Oren’s hair. Like Oren was a dog.
Oren looked up at me.
Blood from his forehead had smeared across Cristofer’s face.