again

The leaves crunched under our shoes as we headed for the clearing in the woods. I watched as Steve picked through some rubbish, finding a suitable target. He chose a mini propane container, the kind used for camping, and balanced it on a rock. Stepping back, he handed me the gun. It was a Glock, 9mm, somehow much heavier than I had expected.

“What do you want me to do?”

He flashed me a somewhat exasperated look. “Just shoot.”

“But where do you want me to stand?”

“Right where you’re at.”

“Isn’t this too close? Shouldn’t I be farther away?”

He shook his head. “No. If you’re going to have to shoot someone, they’re going to be close, only about the length of a room from you.”

I paused. I had never thought about aiming a gun at a person. I had been target shooting before, years ago with my brother. We were setting the sights on his gun, and doing so involved me running up to the target after each shot, telling him exactly where it hit. He would make minute adjustments, then shoot again. When the sights were set, he let me shoot cans off fence posts. We were shooting at a distance about four times greater than the little can was from me.

“But isn’t it…”

Steve cut me off. “Just shoot.”

I clumsily put on the ear protection Steve had lent me, and I felt a tad mickey-mousish with the giant lumps over my ears. I grinned at Steve. He was getting impatient, so I tried to adopt a more somber expression. I positioned the pistol in my hands, trying to get a good grip, and aimed, using the little doodads on the top of the gun. I started to pull the trigger, but the gun swayed, my aim ruined. I paused, re-aimed, adjusting for the high action on the trigger. Slowly, I tightened my finger and, with a loud bang, the can popped off the rock.

Steve said nothing, just walked up and repositioned the can on the rock.

“What now?” I asked.

“Shoot.”

I aimed, shot, and the can fell off the rock.

He repositioned it. “Again,” he commanded.

I did as instructed, and the can toppled off the rock.

“Again.”

I was starting to feel as if I was doing something wrong. Am I not hitting the can squarely? Should I try to hit it perfectly in the center? On my few next shots, I aimed precisely, and, each time, the can dutifully dropped off the rock. Steve was silent. I couldn’t tell if I was doing better or worse.

“What now?” I asked.

“Just keep shooting.”

“But why? Shouldn’t I maybe get farther…”

“Because I want to see you miss.”

“Huh?!”

Steve grunted, laughed. “You’re not supposed to be able to hit it every time. I just want you to keep shooting until you miss.”

With that, he’d jinxed me. I made the next shot, but missed the one after it. And the next one. I was flustered, and all of the bullets went astray.

“Here, you shoot now.” I handed the gun back to him, massaged my finger, which was numb from the trigger.

Steve fired a few rounds, explaining to me between shots about something called muscle memory, how your hand involuntarily remembers the gun’s recoil, how this affects your shooting over time. It was a beautiful evening, and I wasn’t paying a lot of attention.

“Why don’t we go over there, into the woods?” I asked.

The land was Steve’s family’s, part of the homestead. When he was young, he spent the summers there, making hay, picking berries, playing in the woods with his cousins.

I forged ahead through the tall grasses, trying to clear a path. Steve followed. After a while, I didn’t hear him behind me, so I stopped, turned around. He was several yards back, winded, tired. His last chemo treatment had been a week ago, and he was still drained of energy. I walked toward him and suggested we go back to the car before it got dark.

“No, let’s go in a bit farther.”

I headed toward where he’d said the apple trees were, climbed onto the lower branches, stretched to grab a few apples, and knocked them to the ground. I hopped down, collected the apples, and waded back in the waist-high grass to where Steve stood, watching me. We each rubbed an apple, bit into it. Mine was tart, crisp. Macintosh-ish, but not quite. I tucked the remaining apples into my pockets and led the way back to the car, pausing occasionally to let Steve catch up.

We didn’t say much as we walked, just enjoyed the evening sounds, the waning light. When we got to his car, he busied himself putting our things inside. I rested on the hood, staring into the woods. He joined me there, and I retrieved the last two apples from my pockets, handed one to him. We sat, quietly crunching the fruit, enjoying autumn’s last bit of sweetness. Eventually, insects swarmed around us. I swatted mosquitoes for a while, then clamored for the safety of the car. Steve slid into the driver’s seat, silently. He didn’t turn the key. I lay my head on his shoulder, wrapped my arm around his, felt his warmth. A minute later, when I looked up, his eyes were closed. I spoke, and his eyes fluttered open. He started the car and carefully backed onto the road, turned west, headed back to the city.

I squeezed his hand.

“Thank you.”