Grace promised to take her son to the carnival. It was all Jake could think about since he showed his mother his final report card. She would make good on her promise. She always had his back.
For Creekside’s kids, summers were three things—long, hot, and boring. Anticipation for the town’s first carnival was rivaled only by when an up-and-coming rock and roll star with a funny name gyrated on the stage at the annual 4H picnic. Grace was Jake’s age then. The carnival date had been written on her calendar for months. She knew how much the big event meant to him.
Jake heard about the Whirl-a-Copter ride, the High Striker test of strength machine, and the tempting array of food treats, but it was the shooting gallery that he was looking forward to. He had been practicing with his Daisey Red Rider BB gun since he discovered it under the tree last Christmas. He remained open-minded about the whole Santa thing, but he knew this special present had come from Dad.
Grace imagined her late husband’s face watching his son tear away the wrapping paper, but she quickly pushed that happy picture away. These last couple of years, Tommy would have been lit up brighter than the tree lights.
With Tommy gone, it was just the two of them, and Grace was determined to make one plus one equal three. She wouldn’t let Jake miss out on the things his father had planned for him before the painkillers and booze took over.
She tossed her working clothes in with the rest of the dirty laundry and scoured the day’s sweat off her face and hands. The image staring back at her from the bathroom mirror told her all she needed to know about the challenges of being a single mom. Her part-time job at the factory helped with the money, but there was never enough quality time to spend with Jake. That’s why today’s outing was such a big deal—for them both.
The rain earlier had left the air smothering. Grace’s cami clung uncomfortably to her skin. With the truck’s windows rolled down, the heat was bearable, but Jake didn’t care about the temperature. His focus was on where he and his mom were headed.
Jake’s mouth turned blue as he devoured a cloud of cotton candy bigger than his head. “After you finish, how about washing up at the pump over there?” Grace said. “We wouldn’t want your hands to be sticky when you try your luck at the shooting gallery.”
When he heard that, Jake quickly tossed the remnants of his paper cone into a nearby trash barrel. Almost immediately, foul-tempered yellow jackets pounced on the unfinished stickiness.
Stretched across the top of the booth was a brightly-colored banner reading “The Honey Hole.” Jake studied the apparatus as it pulled a row of metal plates along a mechanical track. Each plate contained an image of a different duck—Mallards, Pintails, Canvasbacks. Tiny dimples in the plates offered evidence that successful shooters must have hit their marks over the years.
A man with a smooth scalp resembling a melon shouted into the air. “Three shots for a dollar—Take a chance!” Jake’s attention was riveted. He watched the man’s distinctive red mustache curled up at the ends, as he repeated, “Take a chance!” and pointed to the prizes hanging from the gallery’s walls. The prizes increased as they progressed from “One Kill” to “Three Kills.” At the bottom was a poster that pictured a cartoon duck strangling a red-faced hunter—his waders dangling conspicuously from his naked legs. The caption read, “The Big Goose Egg: Zero Ducks!”
Jake would have loved to bring home one of the top prizes, but what he wanted most was to show his mom how good of a shot he had become after practicing all winter and spring on makeshift targets in his backyard.
Grace pulled a dollar from her purse and plunked it on the counter. The man inside the booth grinned at Jake as if they were old friends. He reached underneath and handed him a small rifle.
Though its stock was worn down to bare wood, the grip of the gun in his hands fed Jake’s excitement.
“Look, Mom, it’s just like my Daisey!”
“Take your time, son. Then give it your best shot.”
Jake raised the gun and pressed the sight close to his squinting eye. He steadied the rifle and aimed for a picture of a Wood Duck as it approached the middle of the track.
“Ping!” Jake’s shot hit the steel wall behind the row of ducks. Carefully, he repeated the process, this time with extra attention to timing the duck. “Ping!”
“Gee, Mom, I don’t know how I missed.”
Grace rested a hand on her son’s back to show support.
With Tommy no longer in the picture, Grace immersed herself in learning about guns and hunting. Taking a shooting class, she aimed not only to improve her skills but also to teach Jake about gun safety. To her surprise, she even earned Shooter of the Week, hitting more bull’s eyes than anyone else at the range.
Jake put her certificate in an old frame he found in a dusty corner of the basement. He hung it on the kitchen wall where they could see it from the breakfast table. The empty chair was a reminder of a time when a third person sat there. Jake would have exploded with laughter when his dad would say something like, “Who knew I married Annie Oakley?” But he and his mom had an unspoken agreement about keeping those memories locked inside. The good times were hard to share without risking the bad being unleashed as well. That would hurt too much.
Grace did her best to fill the hole left in their family. She worried that it would never be enough to provide Jake with the experiences Tommy had been much better at. The challenging question —What would his dad do?— kept nudging its way into her thoughts. It’s why today mattered so much.
“Every gun has a slightly different action,” she told Jake. “Maybe you can make an adjustment based on your last two tries.”
Jake selected a Black Duck that rose up on the right side of the track. He carefully tracked it across his scope. When he was satisfied, he pulled the trigger. “Ping!” Another miss.
Seeing the disappointment in her son’s eyes, Grace pulled out another dollar bill and pressed it into the carnival man’s hand. Turning to Jake, she asked, “Up for another round?”
Jake’s face brightened. This was his opportunity for redemption. Back home, he had been able to hit nine out of ten bullseyes consistently. And that was from a greater distance.
“Maybe the closer range in the carnival booth is throwing off my calculations,” he said. He stood back a few feet, sized up his target, steadied his hands, and shot. “Ping!” Ping!” Ping!” The man inside the booth gave Jake a toothy smile and said, “You gave it a good try, son,” and he put the gun back under the counter. “Three shots for a dollar—Take a chance!” he shouted as a group passed by the shooting gallery.
Before Grace could think of the words to console her son, a man standing beside the gallery leaned toward her. He whispered, “I think the firing mechanism pulls to the right.” As he spoke, he shot a furtive glance at the man behind the counter. “Aim a couple of inches to the left next time. He’ll hit ‘em.”
Grace drew the last dollar from her purse and slammed it on the counter. It was with more force than she intended, but she was angry. The gun may have been fixed to miss on purpose. Bending low to tell her son in private what the man told him, she said, “Try it again, son. Just aim a little to the left.”
The man on the side of the booth sneaked a wink at the man behind the counter, who pulled a different gun from below and placed it in front of Jake.
Jake did as he was advised. He shot three more times. The “pings” of the BBs ricocheting off the backsplash, reverberated in his ears. Grace could tell by her son’s face that he was trying to conceal his embarrassment as he laid the gun back on the table.
“Let’s go, Mom,” he said quietly. Grace observed the carnival man as he quickly stored the gun under the counter. Her eyes caught the cartoon sign. “Goose Eggs.” To Grace, it wasn’t funny.
As they left the shooting gallery, Grace spotted a Ring Toss booth. “Want to try your luck?” Instinctively, she reached into her purse. After the entrance tickets, hamburgers, candy, and rides, she realized she was out of cash.
“That’s alright,” said Jake. “I’m ready to go home.”
Jake was unusually quiet on the ride back. Grace understood how he felt. She pieced together clues confirming that the shooting game was rigged. The man kept the guns out of sight until someone was shooting. The fellow standing next to the booth had been there a long time, for no apparent reason. Jake missed the targets whether he aimed straight at them or shot to the left. Grace began to heat up, but it wasn’t the sticky temperature outside that was causing the skin on her neck to turn red.
Tucking Jake into bed, she kissed him on his forehead and told him he was a good sport for not complaining about not winning a prize. The guns were cheap, she told him.
“I had a good time, Mom. Thanks.”
For some reason, that made Grace feel even worse.
After Jake was asleep, Grace crept downstairs. Normally, she didn’t drink anything stronger than the occasional glass of wine, reserved for special occasions. Tonight, however, she dug into the cupboard where Tommy stored his whiskey. As she poured a tumbler full, the familiar smell hit her—as if Tommy were beside her in bed, whispering how much he loved her, promising to clean up his act. Then, he would pass out, only to hit “repeat” the next day.
What would his dad do?
Grace could see how the carnival man might justify tricking older customers. Sometimes. Just enough to make a profit. But not every time. And not for a good kid like Jake. What happened to him just wasn’t right.
Grace needed a stool to reach the cabinet above the refrigerator where Tommy stored his Smith & Wesson revolver. She swung the cylinder out and stared into the empty chambers.
If Tommy had seen what the bald man with the red mustache did, he would have exacted his revenge before the sun came up. He would have called his kind of justice “poetic.”
Grace loaded the first bullet. Shoots to the left. Then, she inserted the second round. Shoots to the right.
When she picked up the third bullet, her hands shook. She held it up, and the ceiling light reflected off the shiny cylinder. Her focus shifted in and out—the bullet—the empty chair—the framed certificate on the wall behind it.
She thought of what Tommy would say to the man. This gun of mine has a slight pull as well. But I’m not going to tell you if it pulls to the right or to the left. When I shoot, you’ll just have to take your chances. Isn’t that what you carnival guys call it—a game of chance?
The third chamber was for the bullet that would deliver justice. Three shots for a dollar.
After quietly closing the front door behind her, she pointed her pick-up toward the carnival grounds. The twinkling lights of the midway would be dissolving into darkness. The gaudy rides and booths quieted for the night. With her truck’s window rolled down, she listened as the buzz of locusts filled the woods. The last carnival workers would be returning to their cars.
When Jake woke up the next morning, he shuffled past his mother’s bedroom door. He heard the reassuring sound of her deep breathing. He tried to be quiet as he fixed himself breakfast. Reaching for the box of cereal, he noticed the tumbler. He didn’t need to smell it to recognize the contents.
He couldn’t bear to think that his mom might go down the same path, but because it had already happened to someone he loved, he kept his guard up.
Then, he realized the tumbler was still full as if no one had taken a sip. He calmed himself—his mom always had his back. Still, leaving it around was dangerous. Jake glanced toward his mother’s door as he poured the whiskey into the sink.
Then, he heard something fall from the glass and clink against the steel sink. He looked down, expecting to see an ice cube. Instead, he was stunned to find a bullet.
A single bullet.
[Image Credit : Photo by Jay Rembert on Unsplash]
