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The officer suggests that we rethink our position. Afterward Greg points out that is his job; he’s a cop. He knows guns. We don’t.
I don’t know what to think. Just a few days ago, if anyone had asked me about the problems of my life, purchasing a weapon would have been the last thing I would have listed.
And the cold, hard truth is we really can’t afford to upgrade the security system. Not right now. Not without blowing our emergency savings, and not unless we put it on credit, which is another thing we agreed we’d never do.
Greg’s transmission blew two months ago. Then last month Blair dropped a toy in the toilet and thought the best fix was simply to flush, flooding the upstairs bathroom and the mudroom below. Between the car repair and our homeowner’s insurance deductible, we’re still working on building our emergency fund back up.
“We could ask my parents,” Greg suggests, knowing what my response will be. We can’t ask mine. So his are off the table too.
“We are not asking your parents.” I roll my eyes. “God, we’re not that desperate.”
“We can’t put it on credit,” Greg tells me, reading my thoughts. “What if something else happens?”
“What?” I demand. “What could be worse than this?” And before the words even leave my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them.
The girls are in bed when Greg returns from his business dinner. He comes in with a stack of mail. Pecking my cheek, he motions toward a letter on the top. It isn’t stamped. Nor does it have a return address. “It was stuffed in the box,” Greg says. He looks tired, and by his expression, I can see that he’s already read it. He slides it across the counter.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stone,
It pains me greatly to sit back and watch you—to allow you—to take such dangerous risks with your daughters. Children are delicate creatures with fragile bones. Carnival rides are no place for them. Do you know how many carnival-related accidents there are per year? I suggest you do some research. As parents, that is your job.
Children,
and girls especially, must be guarded against the evils of this world. They must be fed warm meals, not slop in Styrofoam boxes and plastic bags. Do you know how many food-borne illnesses there are a year? I assume not. Perhaps I should educate you. Before it’s too late.
There are forty-eight million cases of food poisoning each year in the United States alone. That’s sixteen percent of the population. Children are particularly susceptible to hospitalization, and even death.
In the name of God, I beg you to protect your little girls. This world is a dark place, and darkness is always closer to home than one thinks. Amen.
Yours,
A concerned citizen
“He didn’t sign his name,” Greg tells me sarcastically. “Imagine that.”
I bite at my lower lip until I taste blood. “I’m not sure this is from Mooney,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t sound like his vernacular.”
“Give me a break, Amy. He’s a criminal. They have a diverse set of skills.”
Our eyes meet. I exhale the breath I’d been holding. “Either way, I’ll run it by the station tomorrow.”
My first stop after I drop the girls off at school the following morning is not the police station. First, I wait in the office to speak to the principal and explain the situation. Not in too much detail, just enough to make it clear that my daughters are to be supervised at all times and released to only their father or myself. The woman listens intently, but she doesn’t appear shocked, as though this is not the first request of this nature she’s ever heard.
While Greg was at his dinner, I did a little research. If one wanted to acquire a gun, one they didn’t want their spouse to know about, how might one go about it? It’s not that I intend to lie to Greg, but I also don’t want to hear his objections, and I know there will be many.
I recall a conversation with a former client about teenagers down by the car wash on the Eastside selling handguns. I don’t know if this is true, and the last thing I want is to do something illegal, but there is a part of me that is desperate to find out.
In the end, I decide to go about the acquisition the legal way and I drive to McBride’s. The process is much smoother than I thought it would be. I am not simply handed a firearm and told to be on my merry way. There’s a process, and although I assumed that any firearm would do, I quickly learn that it is very important to choose the right weapon.
I am lucky. The man at the counter is very knowledgeable, and he is insistent at imparting his wisdom upon me. He is patient while answering my questions, although he smirks at me when I use shooting a deer as a metaphor for shooting a person, but he does not make me feel as ignorant as I am. It turns out, my metaphor is unnecessary, because most people who purchase guns purchase them for the same reason I am. He tells me something I needed to hear, that I am not a bad person for wanting to protect myself. He also tells me I should brush up on the law. He explains the Castle Doctrine and what I should say if I were to fire my weapon in self-defense. I leave the store feeling less guilty and more informed than when I went in.
While I still have no plans to tell my husband, I do know that if I am to use the gun for its intended purpose, then I am going to have to keep it close by. At this rate, I may sleep with it under my pillow.
Chapter Thirteen
She wasn’t the first one he’d watched. His needs have developed over time until the activity became sacred, something that he cannot imagine himself ever giving up. To him, observation is an art form. Loads of people bird watch every year, and while most people would say what he does is immoral, he doesn’t see how this is any different. He considers himself an anthropologist of sorts.
Which is how he found himself in the park, his favorite place to study.
