Sophie Littlefield - A Bad Day for Sorry

“Well… thanks.” Stella brightened a little. The first time she’d gone jogging, in an old pair of Keds and baggy leggings, she’d made it halfway around the block before she had to stop and walk home, wheezing the entire way. Now she was up to ten-mile runs through town and out dusty farm roads. She might not look it, but she was in the best shape of her life, which was a good thing, since she was planning to take on a bunch of guys who were a lot more fresh-minted.

“Yeah, so, what do you think it is anyway? Drugs? Prob’ly drugs; seems like that’s what people get craziest over.”

Stella considered whether she ought to tell Chrissy everything she knew. She owed it to the girl, really; it wasn’t right to leave her in the dark.

“Listen, honey. When I went over to talk to Benning yesterday, I had a little more than a feeling about what-all he was up to. See, the night before… when I said I was going to Lovie Lee’s divorce party?”

“You didn’t,” Chrissy said. “I should have figured.”

Stella told Chrissy what Arthur Junior had said about the car theft. Chrissy, who had finished cleaning and wiping off all the gun parts and was working on putting them back together, stopped working and listened with her head shaking slowly back and forth.

“Figures, don’t it? Do you know Roy Dean still had all his Matchbox cars in this big old paint bucket in the garage? Threw out my box of bridesmaid dresses because he said we didn’t have room, but we got to keep those stupid cars.”

“Boys will be boys, I guess,” Stella shrugged.

“Boys will be assholes, more like,” Chrissy said. She held up the reassembled gun and turned it this way and that, gleaming under the kitchen light.

“Okay, Stella,” she said. “I’m locked and loaded. Show me something I can shoot the shit out of.”

Stella was relieved to discover that not only did Chrissy know how to handle the Makarov, she wasn’t a bad shot. They drove out to the back side of an old peach orchard, the trees so ancient and gnarled they didn’t give up much fruit anymore, and set up a row of Fresca cans on a folding table she brought from home. Then they started shooting. When Chrissy missed, it wasn’t by much.

The Ruger felt good in Stella’s hand. It had been her father’s personal firearm, and aside from target shooting, it had spent most of its days locked in Buster Collier’s gun cabinet along with his hunting rifles. Stella had always thought it was pretty, with its ivory grip. On the rare occasions that her father let her hold it, he’d cupped her hand in his bigger, stronger ones and made sure her fingers didn’t go anywhere near the trigger, even with the cylinder empty and the safety on.

Buster had died of a heart attack when he was still in his forties. He’d walked her down the aisle, but he hadn’t lived to see what a monster Ollie turned out to be. Maybe it was better that way. Buster might have killed Ollie himself, and Stella doubted whether the law would have been as lenient with him as it had been with her.

Picking off Fresca cans with her father’s gun, Stella wondered what he would have thought of the career she’d stumbled into. She was certain both her parents would have understood about Ollie. And they’d always preached a duty to lend a hand to those in need. Surely no one was more in need than Stella’s clients, the ones society couldn’t—or wouldn’t—protect, the ones who resorted to begging and promising and praying as their only weapons against the horror in their own homes.

When Stella started helping these women, she remembered how her father dressed so carefully each morning, putting on the Missouri Highway Patrol uniform shirts her mother pressed and starched, the heavy belt that contained the radio and the summons book, and finally, the gun. Buster had only drawn it twice in the line of duty, and he hadn’t fired either time. But it was a powerful symbol of order for Stella.

That gun went back to the Highway Patrol. But the Ruger was hers now. The ivory was slick-cool in her hand. She kept her arm firm against the recoil, sighted carefully, and fired over and over. The smell of the guns firing was acrid on the air, burning her nostrils, but she breathed it in hungrily anyway. Target practice had a calming effect on her, and she did it regularly, even if she’d never fired a gun into a man’s flesh and hoped she’d never have to.

She and Chrissy settled into a rhythm, without speaking, taking turns sighting down the cans and blowing them off the table, stopping to reload now and then or to stack the cans back on the table.

When the cans were nothing but shredded scraps of metal, Stella and Chrissy gathered them up in a plastic trash bag Stella had brought from home.

“Guess you’ll do,” she told Chrissy, grinning.

“You ain’t too bad either.”

For an instant they just looked at each other. Stella was praying they wouldn’t have to shoot, when it came down to it. She figured Chrissy was doing the same.

At home Stella defrosted a couple of rib eyes and microwaved some potatoes. They ate on TV trays out on the back porch, saying little as evening settled down and the sky turned pink and red.

“You probably shot people before,” Chrissy said as they dug into bowls of rainbow sherbet with Cool Whip and Nilla wafers crumbled on top.

Stella was silent for a while before answering. “Honey, I haven’t.”

“Oh.” Chrissy licked Cool Whip off her spoon, a bit of the white stuff perched on her upper lip. “ ’Cause, what they say and all, I just thought… and I wouldn’t think no less of you, either.”

“Well, thank you. That means a lot to me. But… killing a man. I mean, it changes you.” She paused—that was the first time she’d actually admitted to anyone what she’d done to Ollie. For a second she wished she could take the words back, but it seemed important for Chrissy to know. “It’s a one-way street. You come out harder. And maybe stronger. But I hate to think what would happen to a person if they made it a regular habit. I sure don’t want to find out. Especially when—so far, anyway—it seems like there’s other ways to handle men that need… handled.”

Chrissy nodded. “I imagine I understand. I mean, if we ever do find Roy Dean, I don’t need him dead, just—just really far away from me, and maybe hurtin’ a little bit, too. Or a lot, even.”

That wasn’t a bad summary of what Stella promised to deliver when she took on a new client. She was relieved that the girl got it; she didn’t need a loose cannon for a partner.

She examined Chrissy carefully. She had pulled her hair back with a pair of orange plastic barrettes that featured butterflies with sparkly wings. Her eyelids were dusted with gold eye shadow. She was wearing a scoop neck top that showed a bit of her creamy, youthful cleavage—and the edge of a fading ghost of a bruise.

Chrissy’s eyes didn’t look vulnerable, but they didn’t look bloodthirsty either. They looked alert and hard and determined.

“Tucker don’t have nobody else,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I’d tried a little harder to find out who his daddy was. You know? I mean, back then I thought I could do everything myself, and mostly I have, but right now it sure would be nice if there was some man out there who loved Tucker as much as I do. Who was willing to do anything for him.”

“I know, darlin’.” Stella did, too. She remembered sitting in church years ago, watching other men with little ones on their laps or a hand on their son’s shoulder, and cursing herself for not picking out a better father for Noelle. “But there’s nothing a man can do here in this situation that you can’t do. You and me.”