HomeRIFLE SHOT
RIFLE SHOTJon Thörngren PRELIMINARY JACKET COVER
In 1953, Richard Carl Harkins and his family join the white flight from south Houston, Texas. They settle into a sprawling ranch style house in an emerging, nouveau riche neighborhood near what has become the opulent Galleria area (President George H.W. Bush country). A female dominated household, increasing family wealth, and a continuous exposure to prejudice gnarl the roots of his childhood. During his senior year in high school, a shooting incident destroys his silver-spoon future. Through college, marriage, and divorce, this event mixed with his upbringing becomes the mold for a hardened mentality believing success comes by caste and by chance. Was Richard Harkins a racist, a murderer, a chauvinist, or just the heel print of his environ- ment? Or was he understandable, even forgivable? Historically set in Houston and Dallas, Texas, mid 1940's through 1980's.
Jon Thörngren ... And weeds of hatred will choke the seedlings of disdain. Author Unknown
CHAPTER 1 Just the rim tops of his headlights were visible in my rear-view mirror, lurking beneath the trunk of my car, wide-spread fangs poised to strike my back bumper. The oscillating reflection of a left-flashing turn indicator rattled his warning: move out of the fast lane, the left lane, my personal race path. The image of his angry head, tilted to the left, filled my mirror, eyeballs brimmed with disgust. As I jerked the little Ford Pinto into the right hand lane, he waved __ friendly, surprisingly, with more than one finger. And as his short truck passed with mud-grip tires roaring, I noted his genre by the gun rack boldly covering the rear window cradling a shotgun, large, probably 12 gauge and a Winchester carbine with scope. A bumper sticker clarified his specie: "When Guns are Outlawed, Only Outlaws will have Guns." My beloved sitting next to me smiled, but I knew it had nothing to do with the sportsman and his truck, nor his long guns, nor the thoughts filling the breech of my mind. Guns were outlawed in my country, Jamaica, in the early 1970's. Most consider such gun laws a failure. I am indifferent; although knowledgeable in all types of firearms, I own none. But a rifle barrel pointed the direction of Richard Harkin's life, his story that I must share with you now, as best I can remember, as best I can fill in the parts not known ... --- "Eight ... Nine ... Ten ... and ... ," Richard Harkins grimaced, stiffened his elbows, grabbed his knees tighter, and bent forward a little more while his best friend, Bobby Montgomery, continued the countdown on the annual ritual. "And ... ," squealed Bobby, " ... and one to grow on." Richard braced himself for the last slap of his birthday spanking, but the severity came unexpected. "Damn, Bobby, that hurt," he blurted as he bounced into an upright position on the balls of his feet. Before he could regain his balance, he saw a tall specter glide in from his right between the coffee table and the living room sofa. She was shrouded in dark blue with white polka dots, and her open hand was arced high above, poised long enough to foretell the usual outcome. Down across the left side of his face, a human sickle cutting down a wild weed. A familiar form regained her earthly shape as bright specks of red and white evaporated from his eyes. "Don't you ever use that language in this house again, Richard Carl Harkins. Do you hear me?" said Katherine Harkins. Richard turned his back to his mother and mustered a smile at Bobby whose laughter had frozen in his half open mouth. "That really didn't hurt, Bobby," whispered Richard. Bobby remained motionless. Two quick bleats from an automobile horn and all seventy-five pounds of Bobby Montgomery became a blur. "Good-bye, Mrs. Harkins. I had a nice time," he shouted as he raced through the entry hall for the door. But Richard had guessed his friend's movement a fraction in time sooner; the two collided against the heavy wooden front door. Richard giggled as they fought for control over the large brass door knob that gleamed in muted afternoon rays through open windows. The wool throw rug in the entry hall slid across the polished oak floor and buckled against the base of a broad single landing staircase. "Boys, stop that rough housing. Right this instant," said Katherine. Richard yielded the door and galloped after Bobby down the red-bricked winding front walk, pivoted right and cut across the bright green lawn near the street to Mrs. Montgomery's new 1950 Ford. Through a waiting open rear door, the two slid into the back seat with Richard pushing Bobby as far as he could against the opposite side. A quarter cup of fresh St. Augustine grass clippings followed them into the car. After some brief laughter, Bobby said, "Let's go, Mom." "Just a minute, Bobby. We're not in that big a rush," said his mother as she turned around with a smile. Richard glanced through the open car door toward the house and saw his mother framed by a pair of white columns on the front porch. The white polka dots on her dress gleamed in the waning rays of a broiling sun __ a thousand eyes watching, always watching, always watching him. He grabbed the door jam and catapulted out by the side of the car. "Bye, Bobby. Good-bye, Mrs. Montgomery ... Can Bobby come back tomorrow?" "No, not tomorrow. I think he has something else planned." Richard darted up the driveway as he saw his mother approaching. He grabbed the handle bars of his bicycle leaning against one of the two columns with Corinthian capitals that supported a porte cochere, columns matching those on the front porch but on an ostentatiously larger scale. Straddling the seat with his feet barely touching the ground, he partially hid behind the column looking down into the street, straining to understand what they were saying but hearing only muffled bits and garbled pieces. "Norma, thank you for letting Bobby stay longer than the others," said Katherine. "You know it means so much to our Richard for them to get together. I just wish you lived closer." "I know. They're such good friends," Norma responded. "But I'm afraid I've got some bad news about being close ..." "Mom, let's go," said Bobby. "Just a minute, Bobby ... Please. Larry and I are pretty sure we will be moving. We're tired of being this close to downtown Houston. Last week we bought several acres much farther out. It would be a chance for Bobby to grow up in the country. And of course we want Richard to come see us whenever he can." "Oh my," said Katherine, "when and where are you going?" "The when is probably as soon as we can get a house built. The where is just off Woodway, Northwest of Houston, on Buffalo Bayou. A lot of our friends are moving out that way." "Why, Bobby, you didn't say anything to us about this," said Katherine. "Keep us posted, Norma. We've been talking about moving also. Wouldn't it be funny if we wound up in the same area?" "Com' on, Mom." "Yes, Bobby, yes. Bye Katherine." Richard watched as the Ford puttered down Parkwood on its journey to the Montgomery house a mile away to the north across Brays Bayou. He saw his mother walking up the sidewalk, frowning, looking toward him, and wiping a strand of short black hair from her forehead with the back of her hand; a glint or perspiration disappeared, flung onto the sidewalk with a fury. She must have one of her sick headaches. I'll hide out in the park and shoot a few renegades until Dad gets home. Shadows were merging within the little park across the street from their house as another of Houston's scorching summer suns rolled behind him off to his left below the roof line of the house next door. Whispering in the first hint of an evening breeze were the sweet smells of nature's oven: baked earth from a flower bed nearby, steamed trimmings from a freshly mowed front yard, and broiled tar from the street below. Richard's dash for asylum was interrupted as RK Harkins' sloped-back '47 Cadillac Fleetwood entered the driveway with its chrome front grill gleaming in the evening sun, five massive lips in a perpetual grin. "Headed for the park, Son?" asked his father as he stepped out. "Happy Birthday. I've got a special present for you come dinner time." "Dad ...," said Richard and realized further talk was pointless. His dad had reached for his pocket watch tied to the gold chain across his vest and noted the time. The show had begun __ the same show he saw nearly every evening between his dad's arrival around 5:45 and dinner at 7:15 __ a well rehearsed choreography in perfect time to a clock that never ran down. Richard followed him as he walked to the other side of the car, removed his suit coat and briefcase from the passenger seat and headed toward the narrow covered walkway at the rear corner of the porte cochere next to the house, a walkway leading to a small porch on the back end of the kitchen. Inside, he waited patiently as his father looked into a tired and worn refrigerator — a relic relegated to the sole function of The Beer Cooler __ replaced several years ago by a Crosley Shelvadore that glistened in the kitchen next to a new Roper gas oven. The ancient beer cooler, a yellowing reminder of a past monster that terrified Richard as a little child, stood squatty and square, on four stubby short legs, hogging most of the porch's interior. An enormous cylindrical head contained hundreds of long slit-shaped, menacing mouths, moaning continually as the troll still tried to perform its appointed task, keeping two to three cases of beer at something cooler than warm. When his dad resumed his march to the kitchen, Richard kicked the old beast in one of its shins. A family of bottles inside kissed each other with a soft klink-klink. "Get all of your feet through the door except the two you're wearing, Son?" Without waiting for an answer, RK made his usual pleasantries with the German servants, Frieda and Joseph Krueger. He told Frieda how good her cooking smelled, how he loved the smell of simmering sage and rosemary; she smiled, continued stirring gravy, and mumbled "Dunkershaen." He told Joseph that the yard looked good since he mowed. Joseph said, "Thank you, Herr K," and took his coat and briefcase. Richard stayed in the kitchen and watched his father's uninterrupted momentum through the rear hallway connecting the kitchen to the living room, onward to the study at the back of the house. As always, Joseph followed with a silver tray carrying the Houston Chronicle and two large glasses of old fashions, a clear brown liquid Richard knew from a previous surreptitious sip burned going down all the way to your navel despite its exciting garnishment of an orange slice and a maraschino cherry. The door to the study would remain closed except when, by some unknown signal, Joseph would enter with another old fashion __ the one in reserve never suffered from loneliness. Richard looked at the long black hands on the round electric clock above the Crosley. Almost 6:00 __ thirty minutes to kill before the time for his radio program. He scampered upstairs to his room, lay on his bed, and asked his Magic Pyramid a question, "Will I get what I really-really want for my birthday tonight?" He shook it vigorously to get the right answer and turned it over. As the bubbles moved out of the window on the bottom of the pyramid, a little hexagonal gray block surfaced with the answer in raised letters on one of its sides: "Maybe". He tried again. Surely it will say "Yes" this time. And he shook it even harder. And again: "Maybe". Baloney. This thing never has worked right. He re-read an old Lash Larue comic book from his ever growing library to pass the time. Transfixed in the old west, he saw Lash Larue bull whip the pistol out of a bandit's hand and then realized that it was a few minutes past 6:30 by the wind up clock on his bedstand. Quickly he turned the dial on the little Philco radio. Six glass tubes gradually heated to an warm glow shinning through rectangular openings on her cardboard back, an orange flame reflected on the glass face of the clock, magic candles lighting a path through his imagination with sounds and voices. ... And out of the pages of yesteryear ..." Good. Just in time. "... with a hardy Hi-Yo Silver..." The William Tell Overture faded into a commercial about little O's and an offer to receive an authentic Lone Ranger bandanna: just one Cheerio's box top plus 25 cents for postage and handling. He smiled as he looked at his own long awaited bandanna on the brass bedpost; it had arrived in last week's mail. With his arms motionless by his side, he waited for the movie to begin on the tiny screen within his head. He wondered if everyone had a motion picture screen in their brain, just above the bridge of the nose, slightly below the center of the forehead, and just beneath the skull. If he were doing something, the picture was short, a flashing brief image, and if he stopped moving and sat still, the picture might last a second or so. When he lay down and listened to a radio program, it became a full length feature. As western justice prevailed and the rancher, "never got a chance to thank that Masked Man," Richard left his private theater and answered the growl from his stomach. Let's mosey on down to the chuck wagon and see if them vittles is ready, Kemo Sabe. The smell of dinner lunged at him when he opened his bedroom door: roast beef smothered in heavy seasoning and boiled cabbage. Two steps at a time down the staircase hastened his trip to the dinning room table. There he sat alone and watched Frieda place the Harkins' dinner into serving bowls on the buffet. Joseph finished setting the table. The big kitchen clock must be near 7:10, he thought. Good. Exactly five more minutes. Mary Kay, his older sister by three years, came into the room and sat down opposite him. "Looky here, it's the beanpole birthday boy," she said blowing a puff of breath upward and dislodging several springs of dark brown bangs over her left eye and across a round forehead. After a sarcastic moan, Richard countered, "Fatty, Fatty, two by four/can't get through the bathroom door/so she did it on the floor/licked it up and did some more." After an extended tongue, she returned with, "DDT, Drop Dead Twice." And determined to get the last shot he replied, "You're so fat, you're even starting to get bosoms." "I'm gonna tell Mother what you said." The room lights dimmed briefly as the attic fan above the upstairs hallway roared into being, signifying Katherine was on her way downstairs. A door from far away slammed closed with the suction. Dag blast it, probably mine; now I'll get yelled at for not sticking the door stop under it. I need to hide that thing so no one can find it. RK was the last to be seated; Joseph pulled out his chair at the end of the table, the end near the front of the house. His throne creaked as his large six foot tall frame came to rest. Katherine ruled from the opposite end. Walnut sized spots of gold light exploded through crystal pendants from eight small bulbs in an overhead chandelier, bounced from a linen table cloth and from carefully folded napkins monogrammed with a swirling "H" in raised thread, and were quickly eaten by a massive solid mahogany buffet. An ornate gold leaf framed mirror centered above the buffet tried in vain to return a tiny handful of sparkles. Glass doors on a heavy mahogany breakfront sprinkled in a few bits of modest brilliance while dark red velvet covered, high back chairs fought for the remaining scraps. A Norman Rockwell painting in oils barely one millimeter deep. Richard fiddled impatiently with his napkin while making a few subtle faces at Mary Kay across the table. He looked at Joseph standing at attention by the buffet. Com' on, cowboy, serve up that grub. I'm a getting mighty hongry. Five family-cast members stared peripherally at each other for a millisecond waiting for their cue to perform. Margaret Blanchard, majestically flapped the sign of the cross over her puffed out breast and glanced sternly at her daughter, Katherine, who followed with a perfunctory hop, skip and jump across her blouse. Mary Kay bowed her head and closed her eyes in a moment of silence. RK and Richard stared at their hands. When Richard looked up, he saw his grandmother glaring at him as she spoke, "A meal without grace/Such a holy disgrace." Grumpy, gray haired old dwarf, Richard wanted to say, King-Kong woman beating her blowed-up breast, green troll turned gray, Billy Goat Gruff from under the bridge, and ... and a big pile of sun-dried-white doggy poop. He kept his head down, afraid to look up lest he giggle and be banned for ever: no more radio programs. Joseph rhythmically served from china bowls with a set hierarchy: Margaret, Katherine, RK, Mary Kay, and finally Richard. Last. Even on my birthday __ always last. As dinner neared the half way line, Richard noticed his grandmother squinting at the serving bowl Joseph offered to RK, her mouth pinched into the point of a needle __ a needle he knew well, in the arm of an old Victrola playing the same record again and over again. "You know," said Margaret, "looking at that serving dish, reminds me of all the fine china that the late Mr. Blanchard and I had when we were together. Of course, we had common, everyday china also, but we always used the Wedgwood whenever we had company ..." "You aren't company, Margaret," interrupted RK. "You've been here five years. And that bowl happens to have been my mother's." "That is not the point I was trying to make," she retorted. "I was merely trying to say that you should use the fine china that I brought with me __ that which you have boxed and hidden in the hall closet under the stairs. At least I assume it is still there. To use such lovely pieces is a sign of proper breeding. You know my family can trace their lineage back four centuries through the Greens in the Derbyshire county of England. And Mr. Blanchard was from quality people in his own right. Of course, Katherine is far more of a Green that she is a Blanchard and ..." "Joseph," RK interrupted, "you sure did an excellent job on the lawn today, not a blade out of place. Did Richard help you like he's supposed to?" "Aw, Dad, it's my birthday." "And what does that have to do with the present price of snuff in China?" Richard saw he wasn't smiling. "Next time, I want you to try pushing that mower over at least half of the front yard __ see that he does it, Joseph __ build you up, make a man out of you ... Now, Joseph, would you go out to my car and get that box off the back seat?" "Yes, Herr K," he replied. "Eat your vegetables, Richard," said Margaret, "that will make you grow up into a strong, young man also." "Yes, Gran-maw," he replied. "I have told you before, young man," she snapped, "you will not use those sorts of bucolic terms when you refer to me. I will not have anyone add unnecessary years to my age with such dreadful cognomens as 'Gran-Maw', 'Me- Maw', 'Maw-Maw' or even 'Grandmother'. As I have instructed you before, you will call me 'Mother Margaret'. In fact everyone in this family may refer to me as 'Mother Margaret'. It is a term that reflects my status in years and is as close to familiarity as I wish to be." "When Joseph gets back, I'd like some of your birthday cake, Son," said RK. "I know there's some left; Frieda promised me on that. She makes a chocolate cake that'll knock your hat in the creek. And how was the birthday party?" "Good, Dad. I got a new set of Hopalong Cassidy pistols with a real leather holster from Bobby ..." "Bobby Montgomery?" "Yes, and Mary Kay gave me a wood burning set, and Mother Margaret gave me a new wallet with a dollar bill in it and a note about a boy named Penny Wise and ..." "I guess I should have locked the back door of the car rather than take a chance on leaving that present out there like that," said RK. "This neighborhood’s not like it used to be. I saw a nigra walking down by the corner of Del Rio and Dixie Drive last night after dinner. He's got no business being around here at that time of night. You know, they're buying up homes awful close to us ... too close." "You are so right. And I was thinking about the same thing today when I was talking to Norma Montgomery. She said that they were ..." "Just a minute, Katherine," said RK. "Thank you, Joseph ... bring us some of Frieda's chocolate cake for dessert, ice cream too, if there's any left." RK took the slender box and rapidly flipped it over. But he was too late. Richard had caught a glimpse of the drawing, of what looked like his long held dream, what had kept his fingers crossed all day __ a Crosman pellet gun. "Well, I didn't have time to wrap this, Son, but Happy Birthday." Richard turned the box back over to the side with the drawing of the rifle. Strange, the writing below it said "Winchester", not "Crosman". With a few rapid jerks, the box fell apart. "It's a Winchester .22 Model 62A pump," said RK. "One of the best .22 rifles made." "It's a gun!" screamed Mary Kay. "We'll all be killed. He'll murder us the first chance he gets." Joseph left the room. "Is this what we're giving him on his tenth birthday, RK?" asked Katherine. "Why didn't you discuss this with me beforehand? I thought you were getting him a speedometer and a horn for his bicycle. Good heavens, he's too young to have a gun." "First of all," admonished RK, "it is not a gun; it's a rifle. And he's not too young. I got my first rifle when I was only nine." "Well at least you had sense enough, I suppose, not to get him that pebble gun he's been talking about __ excuse me __ a pebble rifle," Katherine replied. "That's the last thing we need is for him to be hunting windows in the neighborhood." "That's pellet not pebble, Mother," Richard interjected, coughing on further explanation as he noted Katherine's glare. "A mere child with a firearm? Why that is unfathomable," added Mother Margaret. "It's in two pieces, Dad. How do you put it together?" "That's one of its good features. The barrel and magazine come apart from the stock so you can get into the chamber area and clean and oil it regularly. That's something I expect you to do after every time you use it. Now you just mesh these pieces together like this and tighten that thumb screw on the side. Pull this rod up here directly under the barrel and fill the tube with your cartridges through this slot. "When you're ready to shoot, pull back the pump. That loads a shell into the chamber; then push the pump forward. The hammer automatically shifts all the way back __ in the firing position. Hold the hammer with your thumb, squeeze the trigger, and let the hammer down half way __ on safety. That's the best safety of any gun made. It absolutely can not fire when the hammer is in that position __ half way back. Then when you're ready to fire, pull the hammer all the way back, aim and squeeze the trigger." "When can I shoot it, Dad?" "Next time I go hunting, I'll take you with me." "This year?" "We'll see." And he felt a familiar mushy smoke signal in his father's reply. Indian run from truth like cornered fox. Richard held the rifle in his lap for a moment. Katherine and Mother Margaret looked as if each had sucked all the juice from a dozen lemons. Mary Kay glared at him wide eyed, opened mouth. "Where's the peep sight, Dad?" "It doesn't have a peep sight. It has an open sight. That's what you need for hunting. Peep sights are just for target practice __ like the ones you learned on at camp. Remember? In an open sight you place that little ball at the end of the barrel right beneath your target point and line it up with the bottom of that open notch __ right back there. You see? Now would you excuse me for a moment? I'll be right back right after I make an important telephone call." Silence. Richard looked up briefly from the rifle in his lap into a poignant glare from the feminine trio who remained. He stood, pushing his chair back with the calves of his legs. "Just where do you think you're going, young man? We haven't had dessert yet. You haven't been excused," said Katherine. Continuing without response he stopped at the doorway to the entry hall. Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he scanned through the hallway into the adjoining living room for a suitable target. Yes, Mother Margaret's precious blue bowl on the marble top table. Carefully he pulled the hammer back to its firing position and curled his finger around the trigger. Mary Kay squealed. Thunder like the sound of a six inch deck cannon, rolling between the living and dining rooms, and reverberating upward through the stairwell? A 39 inch burst of flame that momentarily changed the dim lit green-papered walls of the entry hall into a brilliant orange? Mother Margaret's fine bowl exploding radially into a thousand blue and white shards while the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the dining room? No. Just a harsh click on an empty chamber __ a sound that would someday echo unmercifully through a twisted tunnel down into the tortured soul of Richard Carl Harkins. Home