The Rifle
by Isaac Godfrey
It was two days before anyone found the body. Lying on the ground in a heap. Fell first to his knees and then face-first into the ground. Bloated beside empty bottles of moonshine and pools of dried vomit mixed with blood. That’s how he entered into eternity.
The boy had let a day go by before he called on the sheriff.
“You know how your daddy can be,” the sheriff said. “Give it one more day. If he ain’t showed up, come give me a holler.”
The boy walked home. He went inside and went to his daddy’s room. He took the rifle off the shelf and went and sat on the porch. He waited.
The dark came. He gripped the rifle harder, twisting his sweaty palms around the smooth wood of the stock.
Behind the house was an old barn. The boy knew it was haunted. For years he’d listen to the low moaning that would drift across the soft breeze on those hot summer nights when he would pull his bed beside the open window in his room. Too afraid to reveal his fears to his daddy he just lay there staring at the ceiling until the ghosts went to sleep.
The boy waited for the sounds. He heard nothing but the night before drifting off to sleep. His head against the railing. The rifle clutched between his knees.
The crow cawed, scratched the dirt with its yellow feet, and flapped its wings. The black feathers glistened in the sun like a rainbow on an oil spill. The crow threw back its head and cawed again.
The boy raised his rifle and steadied the barrel. He lined up the sights, front and rear, on the target. He tried to control his breathing, slow and steady, waiting for that single moment of pause between breaths to squeeze the trigger. He felt his father hovering over his shoulder. He could feel his father’s breath on his neck and his father’s words echoed through his ears.
“More pressure on the trigger, son. A little more. The shot should surprise you.”
The rifle jumped. The boy stared down the barrel at a cloud of dirt that rose from the ground just short of the crow, sending the crow skyward and out of sight. He lowered his rifle.
“Darn it,” he said. “Stupid thing can’t even shoot straight.” He said it aloud to no one and without conviction. “Can’t even shoot straight,” he repeated.
“Son, you just got to have an eye for it. Not everyone does,” his father said.
The boy’s heart sank. He wished he were somewhere else where his faults were not put on display. A place where he could be himself and that would be good enough. He felt his father’s breath on his neck and the sweet sting of its smell in his nose as his father kneeled down beside him, guiding him.
“Just, keep at it, son. Learn it.”
The boy woke up shivering a little before dawn. Checked to make sure the rifle was there. He sat and listened. That silent time between the end of night and the beginning of day. Nothing.
He went inside to make sure. His daddy’s room was still empty. The bed was cold. He put the rifle back in its place. It wasn’t his. Not yet. He drank souring milk in the kitchen.
Outside the sun was coming up. He stepped off the front porch. He headed to the road that would take him back to town.
The sheriff stood on the front porch looking out over the yard.
“He didn’t say he was going anywheres?”
“No,” the boy said. “I woke up the other day and he was gone.”
The sheriff took his hat off. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and slicked back his thinning hair. The sheriff walked to the end of the porch. He stared off beside the house. Towards the back. He turned and walked past the boy. The boy followed. The sheriff pushed the barn door open. Sunlight poured in. The smell wafted out.
There he was.
The sheriff dropped his head. He looked at the boy who was standing beside him. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry son.”
The sheriff walked forward. He knelt down and checked for a pulse. He picked up a bottle and inspected it. He pulled the cork out and sniffed the mouth. He set the bottle down on the uneven ground. The bottled fell to its side clanging against the others. The sheriff stretched the body out.
The sheriff walked back over to the boy. He put his hand on his back and guided back to the house.
“C’mon. Let’s go get some help.”
The boy walked. His face blank.
“Don’t think poorly of your old man. I remember him long ago. Back before your mama passed on. He was different back then. Things was different. He was a good man.”
“I know,” the boy said. “I ain’t forgot.”
The boy balanced the rifle on his right shoulder, holding it by the barrel. He walked down the dirt path through a maze of pines. He crossed a forgotten field once ripe with harvest and now left to nature’s design.
He smelled the sour fragrance of the moonshine that still coated the insides of the empty bottles as he lined them up in a row. He walked off a good distance and turned to face them.
The boy raised his rifle and steadied the barrel. He lined up the sights, front and rear, on the target. He tried to control his breathing, slow and steady, waiting for that single moment of pause between breaths to squeeze the trigger. Then the rifle jumped as if it was surprised at the sudden explosion.
Isaac Godfrey is a high school English teacher who lives in Newnan, Georgia. Contact Isaac.
