“Mr. Scalza dropped in for a visit this morning. I was out gardening…” Her voice trailed off. Suddenly, Andrew was very afraid. He knew his mother wasn’t just angry about the hooky. No, there were other things contributing to her fury, things out of his control. To the boy, life didn’t seem so fair and grand at this point in time.
She continued. “Mr. Scalza informed me that your attendance has been less than satisfactory as…of…late.” Andrew grimaced. The old bird-faced Scalza, he knew, would have used that phrase, ‘as of late’. His mother was simply repeating his words.
“Andrew, do you know how hard your father and I work to send you to that school?” Patricia Tollson asked, her voice rising. Andrew realized he had hardly said a word in the entire conversation. She hadn’t let him. He tried to speak now.
“Mom, I-”
“Do you know hard we work?” she cawed out. Suddenly, she was up out of her chair, and Andrew could see the dirt on her jeans and blouse as the sunlight struck her shirt. Yes, she had been gardening all morning. She slammed the shears against the counter-top, scarring the old wood.
“Your father,” she spat, “works all fucking day and comes home after dark, too tired to talk, too tired.” She held the shears in front of her, and with that the entire situation changed in Andrew Tollson’s mind. He jumped to his feet, backing away slowly from his advancing mother, a slow-dance with shears. She continued.
“So tell me, Andy,” she said, still advancing. “How will he like to hear that you’ve been absent twelve times from school in the past month? Oh, I know. He won’t care. He’ll be too tired. Too tired.” Her eyes blazed.
“Twelve times, boy,” she said. With scary speed she reached out with her other hand and smacked Andrew on the head. He stumbled but kept his feet beneath him, his eyes focused on the shears.
She’s not herself, the boy thought. What’s gotten into her? He continued backing away, aware he was almost at the door. The world spun a little from her blow on his head, but he knew if he could get out the door safely he could get away. He tried to calm his mother, as he passed the small porch chair by the door.
“Take it easy, mom. I—”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” she screeched, lunging forward again. Andrew was ready this time, shoving the porch chair between them as he jumped backwards. Patricia Tollson’s upper body connected with the chair first, throwing off her balance. Her legs were next; her knees, exhausted from gardening all morning, made contact with the legs of the chair. She let out a small yell and collapsed over the chair, tangled up in its legs. Andrew avoided the collision and turned around, throwing open the door. He sprinted off the porch and through the garden, hearing his mother curse as she threw open the door behind him, hot in pursuit. The heat hit Andrew like a wall as he flew through the garden.
“Get back here, Andy!” she screamed in a voice unlike her own. The chase ensued for a few seconds, but by the time he passed the stone wall that marked the front of his property, he knew it was over. Andrew saw the shears skid up the street past him. His mother had thrown them in a last ditch attempt to stop him. Now she stood in her garden watching him run up the street, panting heavily. She blinked away the fertile tears that accumulated suddenly in her red eyes.
II
Somewhere along the road Andrew decided he wasn’t turning back. He longed for the open road, for something new—something that didn’t stink of the drought. Andrew followed the banks of the Warren River. He figured he had to follow the heart of the drought in order to escape it.
The Warren River was long and rich. It ran southeast, perhaps to the ocean—Andrew couldn’t recall exactly where it went. Should’ve paid attention in Social Studies.
“Shit, I should’ve gone to Social Studies.” He muttered aloud, and laughed. It felt good to swear, to feel independent. His mother swore like a sailor; why shouldn’t he be able to do the same? He turned off the road and onto the forest path that ran alongside the Warren River.
He strode along the path as the hot afternoon slid into early evening. Soon he’d be hungry. After a few miles the path parted from the river and wound back up the road. Normally Andrew took the path to the road and headed back home. Today was different. He could walk for days on end. Andrew continued along the river, abandoning the beaten path for his own path along the banks. The ground was dry and cracked; normally in the spring the water would be overflowing the banks from melted snow and rainfall. This year, no snow had lasted long considering the drought. The snow had melted, and evaporated, and the woods were dry. The world was drying up.
Andrew strode along the banks, headed southeast, and some invisible hand guided him forward. In his mind, he wasn’t Andy Tollson but a gunfighter from the spaghetti westerns he snuck up to watch on the western movie channels. He no longer walked on the side of a river but railroad tracks, having just shot up some bandits holding up a train.
Doesn’t matter how hot or how long the drought lasts here, thought the boy. The law of the gun carries on, whether it rains every day or it’s so stinking dry your piss evaporates in your stomach. That was Andrew Tollson’s say.
The boy continued walking downstream past dried stream beds and rotten marshes. The trees above him refused to bloom, and they begged the sky for something to drink. Andrew was lost in his little fantasy when he nearly stepped on another.
He would’ve walked right by the gun had the sun not caught the metal and shined. He stopped and looked at it. It was not a handgun like the Nayreton police wore on their right hips, but an ancient revolver, huge and menacing. It lay on the forest floor, untouched by the mud and leaves around it.
“Holy shit.”
Pick it up?
Why not? The boy wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity like this. He bent over and ran his hands along the old metal. Picking it up, he felt the weight of the weapon. The grips were weighted and heavy in his hands and yet Andrew thought the gun felt… natural. As if he’d held one a thousand times before.
He’d fantasized about the law of the gun before, dreaming of a time when gunfighters held reign and evildoers were no match for the heroes’ draw. The boy mimicked this draw, snapping the gun to attention and feigning a shot. He jerked the weapon upwards in western fashion. He didn’t dare the pull the trigger of course; what if it was loaded? At this thought he pulled back the hammer, and jumped as he heard the gun cock. He opened the cylinder, and felt weight within. There were six shells in the chamber, each unspent. He had found a six-shooter, with six shots.
“Freeze, punks! Make my day!” cried Andrew, feigning fire at six invisible enemies, his right hand slapping the hammer back with each shot. He didn’t dare pull the trigger, though in his head he imagined a sharp report and flash, as his enemy gunmen fell helpless, one by one.
The boy snapped out of his dream. Whose gun is this? Why is it here? Should he even hold it? What if the owner shows up?
What if the owner had a bigger gun? Without thinking, Andrew pulled the hammer back again. Having fired his dad’s rifle a few times at a range outside of Nayreton, the entire process came naturally.
Andrew searched the ground for extra shells or footprints. There was nothing to indicate any activity near the gun, only an imprint of dirt where the gun had lay in. It was if the weapon had fallen from the sky for him to pick up.
“How long has this been here?” the boy wondered. It looked ancient, like a weapon belonging to a western epic. Finally, the young boy felt the air grow still. He looked up and saw the cloaked figure up ahead at the bend of the river.
III
The sun had started its descent behind the tall hills to the east, and in the golden twilight the mysterious figure shimmered and shined. The figure was short and emaciated, cloaked in white and hooded so that his face remained hidden. He (or she) was only a