When Mom tells me she lives in an open carry county I assume she means a county that lets her carry her open beer cans around town without wrapping them in a paper bag. I know Mom likes her brews and hates hiding them. Not that the neighbors are fooled. When Mary Jane starts gulping from a paper bag they know what she’s drinking. And they know to keep their distance.

When I act excited at Mom’s news about what I think is beer, she becomes indignant.

“We can’t drink beer in public, Joshua. Do you think we’re savages down here? I’m talking about guns. We can carry guns in public. No permit required.”

I don’t know when her town became open carry country but Mom is thrilled. I beg her never to buy a gun but again I misinterpret her words. Her news is not to announce the open carry gun laws, it’s to announce she has a gun.

“It’s a Glock. The same brand John Wick has.”

There’s excitement in her voice and though I want to squelch it I hesitate. These days Mom only calls me occasionally. More often I get calls from her neighbors, people I’ve known since I was little. They call me when they see Mom crawl onto the roof of her house, a beer in one hand, and adjust the satellite dish with her other hand. They call me when she climbs a ladder and puts a chainsaw to the trees in the front yard. I’m not sure what they think I can do about her antics, I’m four states away.

And I am not about to rush home. I haven’t been home in two years, not since I called Mom and told her I moved into a bungalow in the hills with my partner and we were very happy. Mom was silent for a time, then she simply hung up the phone. We didn’t talk about it then and we haven’t talked about it since. Don’t ask, don’t tell is alive and well and living comfortably in Mary Jane’s house at 17 Chesterfield Place.

The most serious call from the land of my childhood came in the middle of the night. And not from a neighbor, from the police. Shots were fired in Mom’s house. Of course, from her gun. The story gets hazy from there. Mom heard robbers in the house. Or maybe it was a raccoon or a deer, something rustling in the kitchen. Mom couldn’t be sure. The police found the back door to the house wide open, anything could have walked in. But because shots were fired, possibly at humans, now I am on a plane flying back to a place I thought I’d never revisit; back to Mary Jane, her beers, firearm and the apparently thieving wildlife around 17 Chesterfield Place.

***

The street looks like I remember it. Chesterfield Place has average-sized houses on large lots of land; tall trees loom over driveways clogged with cars, bicycles, toys and the occasional RV. All except Mom’s driveway, hers is empty. The house was home to Mary Jane’s two husbands and three children—all of them gone now. Not dead gone, just not living there anymore. My sister married an Italian and moved to Milan. My brother has a banking job in Bermuda. Mary Jane’s first husband came and went before any of us were born. Our dad (her second husband) divorced her years ago. He moved to Prince Edward Island and started a new family. So they all left her. Yes, I left too but at least I stayed in the US, if only barely. I live on the edge of the East coast.

I pull the rental car into the empty driveway and honk the horn as if issuing some kind of warning. Mom runs out the front door yelling her hellos. I’m relieved to see she’s not packing heat.

“My boy,” she cries.

I leap out of the car and she wraps her arms around me.

“At last you’re home.”

I look at the house. From a distance it seemed fine; white siding, gray roof, green bushes and small trees that cast a bit of shade on the front step. Up close things look different. The siding is loose, the gutters are pulling away from the roof and the tree branches droop as if they need water.

Mom pushes away from me and looks into my eyes. “You feel skinny. Come inside. I’m making a big lunch.”

Mom has the same furniture she’s had for years: a puffy beige fabric couch, a black leather lounge chair, a wooden coffee table covered with magazines and newspapers like it was when I lived here.

“I told the neighbors you were visiting,” Mom says as we have lunch on the porch. “Especially the ones you knew as a child. They all want to see you. Maybe we’ll have a little party here one evening.”

“Sounds great,” I say. “Just not right away. There are things I want to do first.” I scan the backyard. The lawn is overgrown except for a few bald spots, from here I can’t tell if it’s scorched earth or just dirt poking through. They remind me of burn marks in a living room carpet. The trees seem twice as tall and the woods that start at the edge of the lawn look thicker than I remember.

“Are you alright living here by yourself?” I ask, trying to sound unconcerned. I don’t want to worry about her. And yet I do.

“I’m fine,” Mom says just as casually. “You’re here now. And I have great neighbors.”

But I am temporary, I think but don’t say. Instead I nod.

Once lunch is finished I start cleaning the kitchen. Mom comes racing in from the porch as if I’m performing some kind of satanic ritual.

“What are you doing? That’s my job.”

I point a rubber-gloved hand outside. “Go relax. I can take care of this.”

When I’m done I join Mom on the porch.

“You must be exhausted from the flight. Why don’t you take a nap?”

Instead I wheel the lawn mower out of the garage and cut the lawn. Or at least part of it. I’m halfway finished with the backyard when the lawn mower runs out of gasoline. I drag the machine onto the porch as if I intend to punish it.

Mom appears carrying glasses and aluminum cans on a tray that looks like it belongs in a café along the Champs-Elysées. “It’s too hot to work outside. Sit down and have a beer.”

My T-shirt sticks to my skin. I collapse into a chair at the table. “I don’t want a beer.”

She opens a can and takes a sip. “You may not want one but you need one.”

I tip my chair away from the table. Mom eyes me not quite suspiciously but something close to it. “You’re not one of those bottled water drinkers, are you?”

My chair bangs onto the porch. “It’s not an act of civil disobedience, Mom. I just don’t want a beer.”

Mom puts her hands up as if surrendering to bandits. “Okay, okay. No beer.”

I remember something I saw when I was mowing the backyard. There’s a fallen tree back there, back where the lawn comes close to the woods. On top of the tree trunk is a line of beer cans. I think it’s some kind of early warning system that alerts Mom to animals headed for the house. When I tell her my theory she laughs.

“What an imagination you have, Joshua.” She takes a breath to settle herself. “That’s no alarm system. That’s my firing range. Those cans are target practice.”

“Again with the gun,” I say. “You live in the suburbs. You don’t need a gun.”

The smile never leaves Mom’s face. “I have the best gun, dear. But there’s something even better. I’ve been waiting all day to tell you.”

She intentionally drags out the suspense by taking another sip of beer.

“I bought a silencer. It’s the perfect accessory.”

I stand and pace around the table. “Have you lost your mind? You don’t need a gun much less a silencer. How did you even get one?”

Mom lowers her voice as if revealing secrets. “At a gun show in the County Center. Under the counter of course. You can get anything at a gun show.”

I put both my palms on the table and lean toward her. “Why, mother?”

She answers immediately. “I’m being considerate of my neighbors. Now when I have target practice they won’t hear a thing. More people should have guns with silencers. It’s a kind of public service. I thought you’d be happy.”

“Yes Mom, I’m thrilled.” I start pacing again. “So now when you’re not cooking or cleaning, you can hire yourself out as a hitman.”

She smirks and takes another swig of beer.

I drop into my chair and run my hands through my hair. Maybe I will take that nap. And afterward I’ll get gas so I can finish the lawn before it gets dark. There are more things broken around here than I can fix in a day.

***

The sound of pounding fills the room, the sharp slaps of a fist pounding on a wooden door. The door rattles in its frame, the metal latch straining against the doorjamb. I dive deeper under the covers of the bed and pull a pillow over my head.

“Joshua, wake up,” Mom calls from the other side of the door. “Wake up. Church is in an hour and I made lots of pancakes we have to eat before we go.”

I see it’s just minutes before eight in the morning.

Amazingly, mainly to me, I’m able to adhere to Mom’s schedule and we arrive at the church on time. The church is hot and the mass is very long. I see a few faces I think I recognize but I can’t be sure. It’s not until after the ceremony when the socializing on the church lawn begins that I get to know who’s who.

I meet Mom’s friend Darlene and her husband Sheldon. They live on Mom’s street in the Tabor’s old house. I was friends with the Tabor kids when I was young. And though their house has changed hands two or three times since they moved, I still call it the Tabor’s house.

Mom maneuvers me over to Pastor Blessington, the one who said the mass. The pastor wears layers of clothes even on this hot day. Mom introduces me and I compliment the pastor’s sermon. When Mom gets pulled away to a conversation with people I don’t know, I ask Pastor Blessington pointed questions about my mom and how he thinks she’s doing on her own. He smiles and talks about her value as a parishioner instead of directly answering my questions.

“Are you two still gabbing?” Mom asks when she rejoins us. “Really, Joshua, I’m sure the pastor has other parishioners to talk to.” She tugs at my arm. We say our goodbyes and head home.

That afternoon I grab what tools I can find in the garage then head for the front step and the oddly hanging screen door. I see the pins in the hinges aren’t properly set, most are popping out—some more than halfway out—so the door hangs crookedly. With a hammer and a screwdriver I try to bang the pins down or pry them out of the hinge. None budge. I bang harder and the racket attracts attention.

“Be careful, Joshua,” Mom says from the other side of the screen. “The door’s fine. Who cares if it doesn’t close right.”

As I’m banging on a hinge I turn my head to say something to Mom. While I’m not looking, the hammer ricochets off the hinge and my arm goes crashing through the screen.

“Joshua! Are you hurt?” Mom shrieks.

The screen is old and stiff so of course it leaves scratch marks across my arm. I try to hide the thin trails of blood forming.

“Don’t move.” Mom disappears down the hall. She returns with adhesive bandages, cotton balls and antiseptic.

Once I untangle my arm from the door I receive treatment at a table in the kitchen.

“It looks worse than it feels,” I say.

“Well it looks awful,” Mom answers.

A shadow crosses the front step. “Knock, knock,” someone calls instead of knocking.

Mom gets up.

A man’s face appears behind the now slashed screen door. “Are you Miss Mary Jane?” he asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Pastor Blessington sent me. Says you need a handyman.”

“Now why would he think that?” Mom asks and turns my way.

I open one last Band-Aid and apply it to my arm. “I might have mentioned something like that. But I didn’t mean now, I meant weeks from now. After I’m long gone.” I gesture to the guy on the doorstep. “So you can go now.”

Mom puts her hands on her hips. “I see another thing you abandoned when you moved away is your manners.” She moves closer to the door. “This man is from the pastor.”

She pushes the door open.

“My name’s Benjamin,” he says.

“Benjamin,” my mother repeats in a slow, rapturous way. “A beautiful name straight out of the Bible. What else would I expect from the pastor.”

Benjamin wears blue jeans, thick-soled work boots and a white T-shirt.

“Come sit down, Benjamin.” Mom leads him toward the living room. “Tell me all the ideas you have for this house.”

I roll my eyes then search for my wallet. I need to go to the hardware store. And not just to fix the now really broken screen door. I make a mental list of all the things I can buy to improve the house.

I spend so much time at the store I expect a near empty house when I return. Instead there are now two cars I don’t recognize in Mom’s driveway.

Once inside I see Mom, Darlene and Benjamin sitting at the table on the porch. There are several beer cans in front of them.

“Hi, Mom,” I call. I drop my bags and boxes on the kitchen table.

“What did you buy?” Mom asks as she walks into the kitchen.

I look at Benjamin then back at Mom. “Why is he drinking a beer?”

“Because I gave him one.” Mom calls out to the porch. “You want another beer, Benjamin?”

“No thanks, Mary Jane.”

“Oh, already it’s ‘Mary Jane’,” I say, then pick up some bags and head to the front step.

Mom follows me halfway. “We’re making plans for the house, Joshua. He’s very nice.”

“Hope there’s a plan to do actual work at some point.”

I cover the hinges with a potion made from rust dissolver and silicone. While I wait for that to work I start replacing the mesh screen. As I’m pulling the rubber spline from the frame channel, a van stops in front of Mom’s house. The door opens and a delivery guy pops out carrying something heavy.

“Hey there,” he calls to me. “Don’t worry, I won’t get in your way. Just making a delivery.”

He puts a case of cans on the walkway just beyond the front step. “Are you here to help Miss Mary Jane?”

“No, I’m her son,” I say. “Are those all beer cans?”

“Not all,” he replies, then jogs back to the van. He returns with another case and places it on top of the first. “That’s all the beer cans.”

I scratch my head. “That seems like a lot.”

“Your Mom’s got a standing order: two cases every two weeks. No need to call us, we bring it automatically.”

“Is that so?” I stare at the house as if I can look through its walls and see her.

“She need more cans now that you’re here?”

I hold up my hand. “No thanks. I think we’ll manage.”

He jogs back to the van and drives off.

I rub my eyes and get back to work. Once I have the screen fixed I take another crack at the hinges. This time the pins in them actually move and I have two hinges swinging freely when I hear several popping noises then two loud bangs. I race through the house and onto the porch. Mom, Darlene and Benjamin are in the backyard. The women have guns pointed at the now scrambled line of beer cans on the fallen tree trunk.

“It’s Sunday. Why are you shooting things?” I yell.

“Oh Joshua, there you are,” Mom says. She holds the gun out to me. “Want to take a turn?”

I see Darlene has some kind of holster tied around her waist. “You too, Darlene?”

Darlene giggles. “Everybody’s got one. Even the pastor has a gun.”

Mom checks how many bullets she has left. “Benjamin likes guns.”

Three sets of eyes turn toward him.

“My grandpa has rifles. He taught me how to shoot.” Benjamin shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “My grandma has a Sig Sauer pistol. She never fires it but she cleans it all the time and makes sure the grandkids see her with it. She wants us to think she’s dangerous.”

I shake my head. “There has to be a better use for those cans. Why not just recycle the empties?”

“We are recycling them,” Mom explains. “They’re getting a second life as targets.”

As much as I want to confiscate their guns I’m not sure how I can do that. Especially since they have firearms and I do not.

“Try not to kill anything,” I mutter.

“We’ll be fine, dear,” Mom says. “Go back to your door.”

I walk back through the house and work on something I can actually fix.

***

Mom does not wake me early the next morning. While I have breakfast in the kitchen I hear the sounds of drilling and hammering coming from outside.

“Seems strange not to hear gunfire,” I say.

Mom purses her lips. “Very funny. That’s Benjamin. He’s fixing the siding and the gutters and lots of other things. If you didn’t sleep so late this morning you’d have heard his to-do list.”

I have my own to-do list but I don’t want to talk about that. Instead I ask her what she hears from my sister and brother.

“Not much. I’m sure they’re busy with their own lives.”

I don’t dare ask about my father.

After breakfast I fix peeling wallpaper, paint window trims and replace dead lightbulbs in light fixtures Mom can’t easily get to. On my way to clean out the attic I see Mom outside talking to Benjamin. I could go out and interrupt them but I do not.

The attic appears to be a repository of junk more than anything else. I sift through boxes of textbooks and papers I kept for reasons I no longer remember. I find bags of my old clothes. How did they even get here? I put everything aside for Goodwill or the garbage. Then I dig through my siblings’ boxes. I find old yearbooks, trophies and ribbons from grade school athletics. Their boxes join mine for disposal.

I drag the donations to the driveway. As I load them in the car I hear Mom run up behind me.

“Joshua, guess what! Benjamin’s going to paint the house.”

I stare back at her. “How is that possible? He’s one man. He can’t do the whole house.”

“He has one of those sprayer things. The paint goes on in no time apparently.”

I look at the house. The siding is aligned, the gutters are straight and the bushes and trees in the front yard are nicely trimmed.

“Some fresh paint and this house will look brand new.” Mom claps her hands and returns to the house.

I head for Goodwill. And though I get lost going there and coming back, the trip is a huge success since I get rid of more boxes and bags than I thought Goodwill would accept.

As I pull up to Mom’s house I see one section of the siding has new paint. Benjamin’s “sprayer thing” sits abandoned on the grass and the ladder is empty as if the handyman was abducted by aliens.

“Mom?” I yell when I’m inside the house. No one answers.

In the kitchen I find a note:

Went to Darlene’s for

Happy Hour—with Benjamin!

Join us if you can.

 

I imagine what that event might look like then walk out to the porch and start stringing lights above it for the rumored party. The first strand looks so good I decide to do more. But first I turn on the stereo in the house and point the speakers out the window. By the time I have all the lights up it’s after dark. The porch is shimmering, the music is mesmerizing and as if powerless to resist I start spinning across the flagstones like the party has already started.

Until I hear the front door slam.

I look into the house and see Benjamin helping Mom drunk walk through the living room. Her eyes open wide when she sees me.

“There you are, Joshua. You missed a great party.” She speaks slowly as if her tongue was made of lead.

“For the love of God,” I mutter and hop inside.

“She seemed fine for a really long time. And then she wasn’t,” Benjamin explains.

We walk her over to a chair. Mom closes her eyes and mumbles something indecipherable.

“I should go,” Benjamin says.

“You don’t have to,” I reply.

“I feel like I’ve been monopolizing your Mom.”

I smirk. “I think she likes it that way.”

“I’ll be back early. Gotta finish the house.”

Once I’m alone with Mom I give her water and ibuprofen to help her inevitable hangover. Then I lead her to her room and watch from the doorway as she falls into bed.

***

I wake to the sounds of crashing. I hear glass shattering, pots banging across a tiled floor. I wonder why Mom is creating such a racket until I step into the hallway and see her standing there.

“The robbers are back,” she whispers and disappears into her bedroom.

I feel my way down the dark hallway and head for the kitchen. When I hear Mom’s footsteps I put my hand out to keep her behind me.

I cut through the living room, navigating my way by the dim glow of the streetlights that filters in through the windows.

A plate falls and I freeze while I listen to it roll around on the floor. When it finally stops I creep just outside the kitchen. I reach in and feel along the wall looking for the light switch. Mom peeks out from behind me so we can see the intruders at the same time.

I flick the switch. Instantly the room fills with light.

There’s a hole in the screen of the open window and our intruder sits on the countertop. He has a mask, beady eyes and tons of fur.

“Die you rodent,” Mom screams as her gun explodes.

The raccoon squeals and runs across the counter, knocking into the large cooking utensils hanging from a bar attached to the wall. The utensils clang onto the counter then the floor. Next it knocks over the decorative ceramic containers of kitchen staples. Flour, sugar and elbow macaroni fly into the air then cover the counter.

Mom screams and fires again.

“For Christ’s sake, stop shooting,” I yell.

I run at the raccoon, trying to scare it back toward the window. The beast snarls at me and I throw the downed utensils at it. The raccoon retreats and scurries along the window sill toward the shredded screen.

I run at it again just as Mom starts a flurry of firing. I see the raccoon leap out the window then feel a sharp, searing pain in my shoulder. Blood runs down my arm and my chest. I fall to my knees and for the third time tonight I hear my mother scream.

***

The emergency room is not as hectic as the ones on TV. Especially now—eight hours after I wandered in all bloodied and broken. Now the ER shift is changing; fresh, rested-looking faces show up and check to see how I’m doing. I lie in a hospital bed though I am not tired. Mom sits in a chair next to me. We haven’t spoken much since she almost killed me but I guess that kind of experience tends to cut down on idle chit-chat.

My upper body is wrapped in gauze and bandages, my left arm sits in a sling. The bullet went through the fleshy part of my arm, passed in and out without nicking a nerve or breaking a bone. The doctor said I’ll have scars at the entry and exit points but otherwise I’ll be fine.

Mom and I wait for someone to show up with papers I have to sign. Then I’ll be released.

I sigh and sit up in the bed. “All that time target practicing and you still hit me instead of the raccoon.”

Mom closes her eyes. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry.”

I look at my sling. “Not sure there’s a limit.”

The door flies open and Benjamin bursts in. “I just heard you were shot,” he says then rushes to the bed and hugs me as best he can with my sling and bandages. “Are you okay?” He sits on the bed and peers at me as if searching for damage.

Mom looks happy to see a new face. “How nice of you to visit, Benjamin.”

I figure this is as good a time as any. “He’s not being nice, Mom.” I look at him and then back to her. “Ben and I live together. Out in that bungalow I told you about. We’re partners.”

Mom’s face darkens. “That can’t be true. Benjamin’s from the pastor. You said so yourself. The pastor sent him.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“You lied?”

“I wanted you to meet him.”

Mom’s voice hardens. “Lying liars the two of you. How could you?”

“He’s a really great guy.”

Mom stands and jabs her index finger at us. “You stupid, stupid boys,” she says then stomps out of the room.

***

The house is quiet when I walk inside. I see the kitchen is still a wreck from last night and notice the tiny paw prints in the layer of flour and sugar on the countertop.

Mom’s outside. I hear her before I see her. She’s target practicing again.

“I’m back,” I call from the porch.

Mom walks my way.

Ben appears in the doorway but does not step onto the porch. “I’m back, too.”

Mom looks at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here when you know I have a gun.”

Ben’s eyes widen.

“She’s joking,” I say but don’t actually believe. “Settle down, Mom. Yesterday you couldn’t get enough of Ben.”

She sits at the table. “All of this, your whole trip, all lies isn’t it?”

“Not all,” I say.

“If it makes any difference, I really do like guns,” Ben says.

“Don’t try to sweet talk me, boy.” She takes a breath to calm down. “So you’ve been in town the whole time?”

Ben nods. “At a hotel until Josh and I figured out a plan.”

With my one working arm I slip the frame of the ripped screen out of the window so I can fix it.

“Stop trying to repair things,” Mom says.

“C’mon, you know it needs fixing. Don’t take it out on the house because you’re mad at me,” I say. “Besides, you can’t have a party with a broken screen.”

“Or a half-painted house,” Ben adds.

Mom snorts.

“And as mad as you are at me, I’m the only kid who visits.”

“Not often enough.”

“Do you want it to be never?”

Mom waves her hand and lightens her tone. “Fine, fix things. I don’t want to disappoint the neighbors.”

Well that’s hopeful, I think.

And so we go on as if I don’t have a bullet wound, as if Mom never shot me, as if spending time with the neighbors was the goal all along.