Read Online My Present Age by Guy Vanderhaeghe - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Guy Vanderhaeghe
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duck, bright blue eyes staring out of a face that had been battered white with a powderpuff. I smiled weakly at her while I tried to balance a teacup on my knee and prayed silently for succour.
“You should be warned of what you’re getting into,” she continued shrilly. “There’s cancer in our family. All kinds of it!”
“Now, Auntie,” said Victoria’s mother, “there’s cancer in all families.”
“Not like ours,” the old girl said, wavering between pride and anger,
“we’re full of it!”
Jack got conspicuously to his feet. “Come along, Ed,” he said, “and have a look at my shooting range in the basement.”
As I followed him out of the living room I heard the great-aunt say, with immense self-satisfaction, “Somebody had to let that boy know. It’s only fair. And another thing, now that he’s been told, he can’t come back at the family and say he wasn’t warned.”
Of course, Jack never made any mention of what had gone on upstairs. That was how he dealt with things or people that failed to please him: he refused to recognize their existence. In the not-too-distant future Jack would make me disappear also, but for the moment he was still sizing me up, forming his opinion of me, and so I was being taken to the firing range.
I had heard a bit about Jack’s marksmanship from Victoria. When I had asked her what her father liked to do, she had said, “Cut the lawn and shoot air pistols in the basement.”
The shooting range wasn’t as elaborate as I had envisioned it, just a white line painted on the basement floor where one took up one’s position to fire. Ten yards distant from the line a wire was hung with bull’s-eye targets; behind the targets a canvas tarp absorbed the impact of the pellets with a resounding
thwack!
Before we commenced gun play, Jack said we had to put on safety glasses to prevent taking a pellet in the eye. How such a thing could occur, unless we let off a salvo at each other, I couldn’t see, but I didn’t ask questions. Once we were suitably goggled, Jack showed me how to load the pistol and demonstrated the two-handed grip and the wide, straddle-legged stance I was to assumewhen “discharging my weapon.” Finally I was allowed to approach the line. When I had taken up the prescribed stance and sighted down the barrel of my piece, Jack said, “Ten rounds rapid fire. Commence firing.”
In my nervousness and haste I squeezed off eleven shots instead of ten and hit the target only twice. Jack didn’t use the word cheating, but he carefully explained to me that a score was computed on the basis of
exactly
ten shots. Then he stepped up to the line and showed me how it was done. After peppering his target he solemnly totted up his score and recorded it on a large chart taped to the wall. From what I could see, his records went back to the early sixties.
That’s the way we continued, alternating turns and merrily firing off our air pistols in total silence except for Jack’s terse command: “Commence firing!”, an order he addressed not only to me but also to himself whenever he toed the line and levelled his pistol. This fun had continued for about a half an hour when he remarked, “We’re running low on ammo, Ed. I think I’ll pop off to the store and lay in a few more rounds. Won’t be a sec.”
He left so abruptly I didn’t know what to do with myself while I waited. One thing was certain, I didn’t want to go back upstairs and subject myself to the tea party. Out of boredom I started fooling around with the air pistol. I twirled it on my index finger. I stuck it in my pants and practised my draw. I attempted the border roll of the shootist of the wild west. I shot at the target over my shoulder, behind my back, between my legs. I tossed the gun from my right hand to my left hand and snapped off a shot. That’s how I took the light out over the laundry tubs.
It was while hiding the broken glass in the drain in the basement floor that I heard
“You should be warned of what you’re getting into,” she continued shrilly. “There’s cancer in our family. All kinds of it!”
“Now, Auntie,” said Victoria’s mother, “there’s cancer in all families.”
“Not like ours,” the old girl said, wavering between pride and anger,
“we’re full of it!”
Jack got conspicuously to his feet. “Come along, Ed,” he said, “and have a look at my shooting range in the basement.”
As I followed him out of the living room I heard the great-aunt say, with immense self-satisfaction, “Somebody had to let that boy know. It’s only fair. And another thing, now that he’s been told, he can’t come back at the family and say he wasn’t warned.”
Of course, Jack never made any mention of what had gone on upstairs. That was how he dealt with things or people that failed to please him: he refused to recognize their existence. In the not-too-distant future Jack would make me disappear also, but for the moment he was still sizing me up, forming his opinion of me, and so I was being taken to the firing range.
I had heard a bit about Jack’s marksmanship from Victoria. When I had asked her what her father liked to do, she had said, “Cut the lawn and shoot air pistols in the basement.”
The shooting range wasn’t as elaborate as I had envisioned it, just a white line painted on the basement floor where one took up one’s position to fire. Ten yards distant from the line a wire was hung with bull’s-eye targets; behind the targets a canvas tarp absorbed the impact of the pellets with a resounding
thwack!
Before we commenced gun play, Jack said we had to put on safety glasses to prevent taking a pellet in the eye. How such a thing could occur, unless we let off a salvo at each other, I couldn’t see, but I didn’t ask questions. Once we were suitably goggled, Jack showed me how to load the pistol and demonstrated the two-handed grip and the wide, straddle-legged stance I was to assumewhen “discharging my weapon.” Finally I was allowed to approach the line. When I had taken up the prescribed stance and sighted down the barrel of my piece, Jack said, “Ten rounds rapid fire. Commence firing.”
In my nervousness and haste I squeezed off eleven shots instead of ten and hit the target only twice. Jack didn’t use the word cheating, but he carefully explained to me that a score was computed on the basis of
exactly
ten shots. Then he stepped up to the line and showed me how it was done. After peppering his target he solemnly totted up his score and recorded it on a large chart taped to the wall. From what I could see, his records went back to the early sixties.
That’s the way we continued, alternating turns and merrily firing off our air pistols in total silence except for Jack’s terse command: “Commence firing!”, an order he addressed not only to me but also to himself whenever he toed the line and levelled his pistol. This fun had continued for about a half an hour when he remarked, “We’re running low on ammo, Ed. I think I’ll pop off to the store and lay in a few more rounds. Won’t be a sec.”
He left so abruptly I didn’t know what to do with myself while I waited. One thing was certain, I didn’t want to go back upstairs and subject myself to the tea party. Out of boredom I started fooling around with the air pistol. I twirled it on my index finger. I stuck it in my pants and practised my draw. I attempted the border roll of the shootist of the wild west. I shot at the target over my shoulder, behind my back, between my legs. I tossed the gun from my right hand to my left hand and snapped off a shot. That’s how I took the light out over the laundry tubs.
It was while hiding the broken glass in the drain in the basement floor that I heard
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