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I lift it and aim at the hanging metal tube about forty or fifty yards away. As I empty the magazine and hear the twelve reports and the twelve clangs that tell me I hit the target, I realize my mind isn’t really doing a very good job of quieting down. Part of the problem is just that I’m a good shot. In fact, that’s a big part of the problem. With a semi-automatic handgun, aiming and firing is just second nature for me now. It doesn’t require any real concentration, which means it doesn’t really require much thought or clarity.
Still, when I decide to fire three magazines, I fire three magazines, not one. I pop out the empty, slide the next in, and empty it at the target. I do the same with the third and then grab one of the rifles. It’s a 30/30, which is a good rifle but essentially an early version of hunting rifles compared to later types. The 30/30 is probably still so popular primarily because so many grandfathers teach their sons and grandsons with them. I only still fire it because it’s my grandfather’s, passed down to me. I don’t use a scope, so I actually have to pay attention as I fire at an old, five-foot metal CO2 cannister long empty and battered with bullet holes. The camp paints it bright yellow every five or six months.
I don’t use a scope because the whole point is to make me focus. I pull the trigger guard to chamber a round and fire.
And I miss.
I can’t recall the last time I miss that target. I certainly don’t have any misses at that target since becoming an adult. This situation with Mack has me a hell of a lot more twisted up than I want to admit. I carefully aim and pull the trigger.
You have no idea how good it feels to hear the bullet ricochet from the cannister.
“You want to try the fishing hole next?” I don’t turn around, but I smile at the sound of Jacob’s voice. “I can get you a pole if you didn’t bring one.”
“Why would I want to stop doing something I’m so much better than you at just so you can beat me at fishing?” I cock and fire my rifle repeatedly until all the bullets are spent. I hit every time. Hell, twisted up about Mack or not, a guy doesn’t want to miss a chance to do some dick measuring with a buddy, right?
“Yeah, I saw you miss your first shot,” he says.
I sigh. Of course, he sees that. “Just because I knew you were there,” I say, “and I wanted to give you hope.”
“Whatever it takes for you to feel okay about yourself,” he replies, “Mary’s putting lunch on the table, you hungry?”
“Don’t you have campers?”
“You think you’d be shooting today if there were campers?”
“Sure, I would,” I reply. “Hell, you’d probably introduce me and trick me into giving a shooting lesson.”
“You should,” he says, “You’d be good at it.”
I chuckle and aim the rifle again. This shot once more hits the target and after the ring of the spent shell dies, I say, “Yeah, I don’t think so. I can just imagine the first time some knucklehead kid forgets to safety his rifle or sets it down with the barrel pointing anywhere other than downrange. I’d probably rip the poor kid’s head off.”
“Hey, that’s not a bad way to learn gun safety,” Jacob says, “That’s how my dad taught me.”
“Yeah, me too.” I shrug, then aim the rifle again. “You have a point there.”
Crack. Twang.Another shot on target.
“So, what brings you to my neck of the woods?” he asks.
“Do I have to have a reason to visit an old friend?” I counter.
“Well, you went straight to the shooting range without so much as a text letting me know you were coming, and you refused dinner with me and Mary, so—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “I ain’t refusing anything. Let me fire this last shot and I’ll be right over. Lasagna today?”
“Scampi,” he replies. “They had fresh shrimp at the fish market today.”
“Since when do you shop at a fish market?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Mary does. On the coast.”
“She drove five hours to the fish market?”
“Once a week. She keeps it on ice on the way back. She’s talking about getting one of those coolers you plug in for the trunk. She started watching cooking shows and now she’s on a roll making gourmet meals every day.
I fire my final shot, nodding in satisfaction when a fresh nick appears in the center of the target I aim at. I eject the spent shell, safety the rifle and set it on the rack to let the barrel cool before I pack it up. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“Hey, I don’t mind eating like a king every now and then,” he says, “But I wouldn’t mind mac and cheese once in a while either. I’m a man of simple tastes.”
