Nancy Bartholomew - Stella, Get Your Gun

I stared out of the funeral home limo as we drove home, watching the familiar neighborhood pass by the rain-streaked window. Aunt Lucy and Uncle Benny lived in a blue-collar Italian neighborhood that even on the best of days smelled like the nearby paper mill. The brick row homes and postage-stamp backyards were coated in a thin layer of grimy ash that descended like smog over everything and everybody, until gray became the standard color and a hacking cough our constant companion in the wintertime.

But once you set foot in the house, the black-and-white TV screen of our lives changed into a vibrant Technicolor. The kitchen was yellow, the air warm and fragrant with baking bread and everywhere you turned there was some picture or reminder of all the important events or occasions in Benny’s and Lucy’s full-to-overflowing lives. It was a home with love to spare, a home that had taken me in when my parents died and tried, with some success, to raise me into a healed and whole person.

People were packed into every corner of the downstairs by the time I arrived. They sat on the steps leading up to the second-floor bedrooms and peeked through the banisters at the others sitting in the living room below them. They laughed and shouted, hugged and drank, and some cried, not for long, but with earnest emotion that was no longer concealed by convention or etiquette. It was as much home to me as it was foreign. It was too much to return to, and still, it had not been enough to keep me rooted.

When I heard Jake’s voice in the living room, I knew he’d look for me, and I also knew that whatever he had to say, whatever explanation he chose to offer, it wouldn’t be enough to make up for what I spent so long trying to forget. Jake Carpenter was a bastard’s bastard, and my opinion of him wouldn’t change just because he’d been kind to my aunt and uncle.

I looked around the crowded kitchen and realized I was trapped, saw the basement door behind me, and lit out for the space below like a homing pigeon. Uncle Benny’s workshop was down there, a safe haven to him for years and now for me.

I closed the wooden door behind me, fumbled for the light switch and began my descent down the worn, smooth steps to the basement. It still smelled like the old coal furnace, even with years having passed since Uncle Benny had made the switch to oil.

I stepped down into the bright white space and found it just as I’d left it—concrete floor, workbench and cabinets back behind the steps; old worn, terry-cloth couch against the far wall; shabby, braided rug; ancient TV sitting on top of a rusting metal TV tray. It was exactly the same as the day I left home to strike out for Florida, and Benny’s secret bottle of Wild Turkey was in exactly the same place as it always was, way in the back of the last cabinet on the left.

I reached in, pulled out the bottle and was reaching for a shot glass when I found the envelope. It was a sealed, white, standard legal-size rectangle and it felt thick with papers.

I slowly pulled it toward me, placed it on the workbench and knew I was going to open it. I decided I needed fortification first. I poured a shot, lifted it to my lips and tossed it back, feeling the burn as the liquor found its way down my esophagus and into my empty stomach.

“Damn!” I whispered, half choking on the bourbon. I poured another shot and carried it and the envelope to the couch, where I sat down and prepared to read whatever Uncle Benny had hidden away from Aunt Lucy.

I started to fumble with the seal, realized I still felt unprepared and drank the second shot. Then, with slightly trembling fingers, I undid the flap and pulled out the thick sheaf of papers.

It was meant to be a legal document—that much seemed clear, but it was a generic, computer-generated form, not one from a lawyer’s office. There were no embossed seals, no witnesses’ signatures and no “whereas” and “to wit’s.” It was a simple agreement, a partnership arrangement, in which Uncle Benny had invested $260,000 in Jake Carpenter’s auto body shop.

I poured a third shot, tossed it back and felt the burn all the way to the pit of my stomach. I turned back to the beginning of the document and read, this time making careful note of the terms and conditions. It seemed that Uncle Benny had given Jake the money in return for a share of the business, a guaranteed income for himself and Aunt Lucy. But where had my uncle come up with so much money? He was a retired government chemist, not some hot-shot executive. My aunt had been a chemist, too. When my parents died and I’d come to live with them, she’d retired early to take care of me. She became a homemaker, pinching pennies to make ends meet, making her own soaps and cleaning supplies, clipping coupons. They lived in a row house. Where had Uncle Benny gotten so much money to give Jake?

I folded the papers back up, shoved them into the envelope and carefully returned them to their hiding place. I turned, intent on heading back to the couch, and felt the room spin slightly. Not a good sign, I thought. I tried to remember when I’d last eaten anything and figured it might’ve been yesterday as I’d pulled out of Garden Beach and started toward home.

“Shit, Uncle Benny!” I said to the empty room. “This is so not like you!” Even with a fur brain, I knew there was more to this than the agreement said, but what? Obviously that jerk Jake had conned my poor retired uncle out of his retirement money and every dime of his savings. Jake probably promised my uncle pie in the sky and a pot of gold at the end of the auto body rainbow. Now Uncle Benny was dead and Aunt Lucy was crying foul play. Did she know about Uncle Benny’s agreement? I figured not.

The more I thought about Jake taking advantage of my aunt and uncle, the angrier I got. Jake had been trying to rip off my uncle. He had to be in financial trouble; I’d just bet on it. I looked at the steps leading to the kitchen and listened to the dull rumble of people drinking and laughing overhead. I leaned back against the sofa cushions, kicked off my high heels and pulled my feet up where I could massage my throbbing ankle.

“I should’ve worn my flip-flops,” I muttered. I tugged with no effect at the hem of the miniskirt, trying to cover my thighs and get comfortable at the same time. It was pointless. I was not a sexy showgirl, merely a poor imitation who would’ve given anything for her own jeans and a T-shirt.

I needed to eat, but I was so tired and Uncle Benny’s old couch was so comfortable. I pulled one of Aunt Lucy’s afghans down from the sofa back and snuggled into it. It smelled like Uncle Benny’s Old Spice aftershave. I felt sadness threaten to overwhelm me and closed my eyes, hoping to wish it away. I leaned back against the soft, overstuffed cushions and tried to remember all the good times, hoping the grief would somehow vanish or at least become manageable.

“I’m gonna close my eyes, just for a minute,” I murmured. “Then I’ll eat, and then I’ll kick some Jake Carpenter ass!” The prospect seemed somehow satisfying. I could finally exact my revenge on Jake Carpenter and be doing it for a worthy cause. What could be better? I envisioned Jake, pleading with me, his dark, sexy eyes widening with fear as he realized what he’d lost and what he was about to lose. I fell asleep imagining him on his knees, begging for mercy.

I woke up with the sudden awareness that I was no longer alone.

“You know, you drool when you sleep,” Jake said, his voice right up against my ear, the musky scent of him suddenly overwhelming my dream world. “And you still make that little piglike sound, too, you know, the one you make when you snore so loud you half wake yourself up? I hadn’t thought of that in years!”

I opened my eyes. Jake Carpenter was sitting beside me on the edge of the sofa, leaning over to balance himself above me and smiling as if he were in complete control of the universe. For a moment I felt disoriented, and wondered if I was still dreaming. I stared at Jake, willing my eyes to focus. He bent closer, his face inches from my own, inspecting me intently.