She’d been surprised when Shaw so readily accepted the guns from Walker. But after a short argument, whispered in Julie’s tidy mudroom, they’d agreed Shaw would purchase a gun locker. It was terrifying to think of the children having access to such deadly weapons. But maybe he’d understood something she hadn’t: the need for them.
As she hurried down the rest of the stairs, she called out to him, “Babe? Do you know where the guns are?”
5
Orla glanced around the living room, with its recently painted gray walls and white trim, on her way to Shaw’s studio. They’d thought the paint would mask or absorb the aroma of wood smoke. They hadn’t used the wood-burning stove yet—squat and animalistic, its territory a corner of the room upon a bed of bricks. But the decades of its use lingered in the hardwood floors, the ceilings. Their sleeper-sofa and ugly-but-comfy plaid chair, end tables, lamps, and bookcase were in place, along with the currently lifeless smart TV. But a large percentage of their unopened boxes were stacked against the interior wall, filled with books, framed pictures, knickknacks, random clothing, and most of the kitchen stuff. Her eyes appraised it all, seeking among the boxes one long enough to hold the guns.
Shaw’s door was wide open and she found him at the front-facing window, gazing outward. Though Eleanor Queen might physically resemble her mother, in other ways—her sensitivity—she was very much her father’s daughter. The look on Shaw’s face was like Eleanor Queen’s that afternoon, trying to decode their new surroundings.
“Did you hear me?” she asked softly, hesitant to startle him from his trance.
“Yes, no…” He blinked and turned to her.
“The guns.” Orla couldn’t quite decide if she was being paranoid. But a practical part of her knew the search had a valid purpose. “We don’t have the locker yet.”
“No, no, don’t worry. They’re in here.” Shaw nodded toward the studio closet and reached out to take her hand. “I figured the kids wouldn’t be in here anyway, so they’re up on the shelf for now. I can get one in Plattsburgh in a few days, or order one next week.”
Orla nodded, not relieved. She couldn’t really imagine either of her children dragging over a step stool to root around for a weapon in their father’s personal space. But how many families had made similar assumptions and been proved wrong? Another part of her didn’t want the guns hidden at all but stashed on hooks above the front door—wasn’t that how they did it in Westerns? So the hero could grab one when the bad guys rode up?
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Shaw placed a hand on one of her cheeks and kissed the other, his body pressed like a shadow against hers.
“I don’t feel…completely safe,” she admitted.
“What do you think’s gonna happen?” He asked the question with gentle concern.
She shrugged. “Bears?”
They stepped back, arms around each other’s waist, and stood facing his studio. Orla’s eyes wandered around, taking in the progress of his unpacking. Maybe it was all the extra space, but the new place was already having one positive effect on him: everything was so tidy and well organized. His guitars, an acoustic and a hollow-body electric, sentenced to a life of confinement in their apartment, now stood on display in one corner beside his small amp. He’d set his easel next to the front-facing window and a blank canvas stood at the ready. His paintings were leaning behind the door, their images toward the wall. His petite, once-cluttered desk sat by the smaller window, and set atop it were his laptop and a half-empty box marked PAINTING STUFF. On the floor, still sealed, was a box labeled PHOTOS ’N’ STUFF and two liquor boxes that she knew held his CDs.
Back in their old apartment, his “stuff” had been crammed into every available space in the living room, which, true to its name, was where they’d done all their living—eating, watching, reading, creating, playing, sleeping. Here, his things didn’t need to be stashed on top of bookcases or stacked in a corner like a Jenga game. Orla gasped, seeing something for the first time: No wonder he’d struggled to stick with things; their home had been the opposite of inspiring. It had been a mess.
“This is great,” she said. A tiny bit jealous, she wanted to put a portable barre on her online-shopping list. Maybe they could set it up in the living room and she’d have a place to do pliés, ronds de jambe, développés. While he developed his craft, she didn’t want to lose her finely tuned body. “I can see it. The light will be great during the day…this is the room—the space—you’ve needed.”
“It is.” He grinned, then grew serious again as he looked at her. “Are you really worried about bears?”
“Maybe. I saw that list. On Julie and Walker’s fridge. All the animals and their hunting seasons. Bears. Bobcats. Coyotes.”
“Well, I’ve got my license; I can shoot them if they get too close. And there are lots of harmless animals too. Deer. Geese. Frogs.” He gave her a little squeeze. A grin. Another peck on the cheek. But his efforts to relieve her worries didn’t work. Orla’s gaze remained fixed on the front window, on the dark mysteries lurking beyond the thin membrane. What had he sensed out there? The same thing their daughter had? “You’re really worried,” he said.
He stepped into her line of sight, and she returned to the present, the room.
“I just don’t…this is all foreign to me. Am I going to walk out the door and find a bear in the yard? Are people going to be hunting on our property? Is it safe for the kids to play outside?”
“Whoa, whoa, hold up. This is the place where it’s safe. This is where no one gets mugged. Pedestrians don’t get run over by asshole drivers. Construction cranes don’t fall over and crush people; buildings don’t collapse. And Homeland Security isn’t crawling everywhere with armed guards. I know you’re not used to it, but this—this isn’t what’s frightening about the world. Okay?” He was so lovingly sincere.
“I know. I mean, a part of me knows.” She wrapped her arms around his neck.
He swayed with her, the two of them moving from foot to foot as they often did when they embraced.
“It’s a big change,” he said, his lips tingling against her ear. “But I wouldn’t have suggested this if I didn’t think you, the kids, would thrive here. Bean might come out of her shell a little. And Tycho—I loved having this as my backyard when I was growing up. And you.” He pulled away a little to look her in the eye. “It wasn’t just a selfish suggestion on my part—”
“I didn’t think that.”
“Not even a teeny-tiny—”
“Okay, well, there were moments, but not in a bad way, truly—”
“I know.” His smile reminded her that sometimes he could read her mind. “I was hoping…I thought it might be hard for you to be in the city, which has always been about ballet—why you went there, why you stayed. I thought it might be harder to be retired and still there. Everything would be a reminder. I didn’t want you to feel…a loss. This is a completely new chapter. You can be a new person; no one’s going to ask you every time they see you if you miss it.”