38 again, but left it be. The mere thought of holding the damn thing was too much. I’d been cured of guns during a run-in with my father’s 20 gauge shotgun when I was fifteen. But that’s another story for another time.”Brookpark, Ohio. 1970. Another time.Saturday afternoon.I was watching TV in my bedroom. I saw rapid movement in the hallway outside my door. The old man had flashed by and into my parent’s bedroom. The old man never moved fast. Ever.“Uh, oh.”The night before I’d gotten the old man’s shotgun out of their bedroom, loaded it, stuck it out the side door, and blasted it into the night toward the backyard. My parents had gone out for the evening. My older brother was at his girlfriend’s house.Not satisfied, I kicked out the empty shell, reloaded, and fired forth a mirror image of that charter blast. Sated I jockeyed up the street and dumped both shell casings into the storm drain, then went back to the house. The neighborhood was as quiet as before I blasted it.He came out of. ’ said Tom. ‘You’ll get used to it. Now settle down and be quiet. Don’t move until I get back.’ ‘What are you going to do?’ ‘I’m not even sure yet,’ the lad admitted. ‘You just be quiet and keep out of sight while I figures it out.’ Abigail reclined into the odorous vat, anxious, but somehow hopeful that she might yet see the sun rise. She rested in the darkness for over an hour, hearing an occasional voice or thud, but generally having only the creaking and rolling of the hull for company. At long last, Abigail heard the approaching footfalls and saw a shadow play across the rim. ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ she said, her smiling face popping from the confines of the cask. Her features melted as she saw the visitor was not whom she had anticipated. ‘Where’s Tom?’ asked a gaunt and weathered mariner. ‘I don’t know,’ Abigail admitted. The man walked to the barrel. ‘Leave you all alone did he?’ Abigail froze, unsure what reply, if any, was best. Grinning through a dentist’s nightmare, the.
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