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Shotgun Divorce

Terry Sanville

    Jerry handed him the pump-action 12-gauge. “Okay, spread your feet.”
    “Like this?” Loren asked.
    “Yeah . . . and hold the gun right.” Jerry moved Loren’s hands until they gripped the weapon at the proper position. “Pull the stock snug against your shoulder.”
    “It feels heavy.”
    “Man up, will ya. Keep it tight and raise the gun. Mash your cheek against the stock and keep it there.”
    “Shouldn’t I wear earplugs?”
    “Only pussies wear ’em. Sight down the barrel.”
    Loren did as instructed, the gun tracing figure eights in the air. He tried to point it in the direction of the fencepost where the offending beer can rested.
    “Now, click off the safety and pull the damn trigger.”
    Loren closed his eyes and fired. The birds stopped singing. He opened his eyes. The gun pointed toward the faint sun hidden behind dripping rainclouds. The beer can rested sedately on its fencepost.
    “How the hell can you miss with buckshot from twenty feet?” Jerry asked.
    “What? I can’t hear you. Talk louder.”
    Jerry grabbed the gun from Loren’s hands and slammed it to his shoulder. Snick-click BAM, Snick-click BAM, Snick-click BAM, Snick-click BAM. The gun’s roar echoed across the partially-flooded fields. Loren jumped with each blast. The beer can disappeared into the mud along with the splintered top of the fence post.
    Jerry stared at Loren, shook his head, reloaded the shotgun and handed it to him.
    “Wait.”
    He stepped to his rusting pickup and pulled the six-pack of tall boys from the cooler. Loren tried to clear his ears of the high-pitched ringing.
    “You want one?” Jerry asked.
    “What? Yeah, sure. Why not.”
    “I had my first beer when I was ten.” Jerry smiled.
    “That’s really something. But I’m thirteen and should know better.”
    “Don’t be a wiseass.”
    “Sorry.”
    Loren awkwardly opened the beer, struggling to cradle the shotgun in his arms, and took several gulps, grimacing at the bitter taste. The rain became a steady downpour. He pulled the hood of his slicker over his head and gazed across the desolate fallow fields. Late autumn in Minnesota sucked, not that life back home in Philadelphia proved much better. The day before he had driven up with his mother and grandparents to visit his sister and Jerry, her almost new husband. Sheryl was eight months pregnant.
    Jerry drained his beer and set the empty on a new fencepost. “Okay, let’s try ’er again. Maybe that brew will limber up that stick up your ass.”
    “Hey, screw you.”
    “That’s more like it. Don’t take shit from nobody. If you do, you’ll get pushed around all your life.”
    Jerry dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, offering one to Loren.
    “Can’t you read the warning?” Loren said. “Those things will kill you.”
    “Yeah, so will a lot of things.” Jerry took a deep draw, the cigarette’s tip glowing red in the grayness, and blew smoke into Loren’s face. “You and your sister gotta always be right, don’tcha?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “How could ya stand livin’ with all them women, your sis, ma, and grandma all in one house?”
    “It’s called an extended family.”
    “You’re better than me,” Jerry said. “I can’t stand being with one of ’em, always complainin’, no sex, just watching TV all day in this damn ugly county.”
    “Hey, my sister’s pregnant. That’s on you.”
    “Yeah, well I didn’t ask for it.”
    “What did you expect?”
    “Not this. She’s such a bitch . . . and it’s gonna be worse with the kid.”
    Jerry let out a cloud of smoke and chugged his beer. A pair of croaking ravens flew overhead, wheeling, turning, dancing in the air, together. He grabbed the shotgun from Loren’s hands and pointed it skyward.
    Snick-click BAM, Snick-click BAM.
    In an explosion of feathers, the birds plummeted to the ground, one of them still moving, flopping a wing against the mud.
    “I need another beer. Here, you go finish it off. Jus’ don’ shoot your foot.” Jerry handed Loren the shotgun and pulled another tall boy from the six-pack.
    In a daze, Loren walked across the muddied field toward the downed ravens. One of them lay still, its head and a wing gone. The other stared at Loren, shuddering. He raised the gun, closed his eyes and fired, then turned toward Jerry. His brother-in-law leaned against the pickup, grinning, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other.
    Loren pulled his hood off and wiped his eyes. He strode toward Jerry, the shotgun resting comfortably in his hands. The grin faded from Jerry’s face. He dropped his beer and cigarette and scrambled into the pickup. Its engine roared. Rear tires spun on the farm road’s slick surface, then caught. The truck sped away.
    Loren raised the shotgun smoothly, rested his cheek against the stock, sighted down the barrel, sucked in a deep breath and held it. Snick-click BAM, Snick-click BAM.

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