Chapter 6

Gerald sat on his couch, flipping through the channels. Not finding anything good on TV, he walked over to his bookshelf and scanned the contents. Somehow, he’d managed to go through his entire to-read stack. He looked around the room, desperate for something to do. He walked over to the PlayStation, picked up the controller and set it back down. He got bored with video games way too quickly to really justify owning a system and he couldn’t really remember why he’d bought it in the first place. He looked at the urn, looked away, and tried not to think about it. That would be impossible with it out in plain view. He grabbed the urn, took it into the kitchen, and put it in the only cabinet with enough space.

   He walked outside, remembering the mess of beer cans and bottles on the front lawn. He went to the garage for a trash bag, then got to work cleaning up. He nearly filled the bag and set it down on the lawn. He sat down next to it and lit a cigarette. Initially, he’d meant to quit again, but didn’t feel like fighting that battle today. Halfway through the cigarette, he looked at the bag of cans and got an idea.

   Take a breath, hold it, squeeze slowly . . .

   BAM!

   The Budweiser can flew off the post, a hole punched in its center. Gerald lowered his pistol, smiled, and aimed at the next can. He fired again, then again, not stopping until all fifteen cans were knocked down. The slide on his pistol locked open, smoke rising from the empty chamber. He walked over, picked up the cans and put them back on the posts, replacing the ones that wouldn’t stand back up with new ones. He reloaded the nine-millimeter and went through the process again.

   After going through a box of bullets, he went in the house to get another box. He hadn’t expected to have quite so much fun shooting cans. On his way back outside, he stopped in the kitchen to get something to eat. Opening the refrigerator, he saw all the beer left from the previous night. There was an entire unopened case, plus eight more singles. He thought back to telling Matilda he wasn’t going to drink and got a little angry. Fuck that, he thought, it’s not like she’s my wife. His expression shifted from slight anger to dark and serious and he took out the case.

Gerald pulled the trigger on the pistol five times in rapid succession, missing the cans entirely. His last shot glanced off something hard, ricocheting and whistling into the distance.

   Not my wife, he thought again.

   He emptied the rest of the bullets randomly in the direction of the cans. He tried to reload the pistol, but dropped it, the magazine, and the box of bullets, which landed on and around all the fresh empty beer cans.

   “Oops,” he said, slurring and laughing. He bent down to the ground and found seven bullets. He drunkenly loaded them into the magazine and replaced it in the pistol. He stuck the gun in the back of his pants and looked for another beer. As he walked over to where the case was spilled on the lawn, he heard someone scream. His head whipped around and he thought he saw a flash in the field. As he was telling himself it was nothing, the nothing screamed again. Gerald’s face screwed up, and he mumbled, “Sounded like—”