Read Online Sunblind by Michael Griffo - Free Book Online Page B

missing, he’s still laughing so hard that his protestations aren’t filled with any of the anger I know he was aiming for.
    â€œGive that back!” he shouts childishly.
    â€œMake me,” I reply, sounding equally as childish.
    Barnaby lunges forward to reclaim his prize, but I have supernatural speed on my side, so I step out of the way and turn around just as Barnaby slams into the sliding closet door, the impact ripping it from its hinges. His cries of pain are muffled by the sounds of the door falling and crashing onto his back. His bawling combined with my gigglaughs create a raucous sound, so it’s no wonder within seconds Louis is standing in the doorway.
    â€œDominy!” he screams. “What the hell are you doing?”
    Just like Barnaby moments earlier, I can’t stop laughing even though the situation calls for a serious face. Guess inappropriateness runs in our family. And you can’t get much more inappropriate than I appear to be right now, dripping wet hair, wearing only a towel, brandishing a gun, standing over my brother who can’t move because a closet door is weighing down his back. I understand how Louis could interpret the situation as being my fault. But he’s wrong.
    â€œThis isn’t my fault!” I cry.
    â€œPut that gun down!” Louis cries back, doing a great job of sounding fatherly. “Now!”
    â€œWho’s got a gun?”
    Arla’s not yet in my bedroom, but she must have heard the commotion and is en route. When she takes in the situation, she has a different take on it than her father.
    â€œWhat happened to the closet?” she screams.
    â€œJust came off its little rollie things,” I assure her. “We can get it back up in a jiffy.”
    Quickly, though, her concern escalates to match her father’s.
    â€œIs that Barnaby?”
    â€œWill you get up!?” I demand.
    If Louis and Arla weren’t in the room, Barnaby would’ve jumped up immediately and started punching me. I know this for a fact because this scenario has happened before, when we were living in our old house. Without the gun of course. The last time my brother was knocked to the ground by a closet door, he was upright within twenty seconds, ready to do battle with me. Now that he has an audience, he’s milking it.
    â€œCan somebody help me, please?” he asks, trying to make his voice sound fearful and fragile and frightened. None of which I know he is.
    â€œOh come on!” I hear myself shout. “It’s a closet door! It’s hollow! It’s not like the front door which, you know, would be really . . . really . . . you know, heavy.”
    By the time I finish my sentence, my tirade has become quite tepid, and I can see myself the way Louis and Arla must see me, like some crazy girl who showers with a weapon.
    Waving said weapon in the air, I announce, “This isn’t mine.”
    Wrapping his fingers around my wrist like a vise, Louis points the gun toward the ceiling and quickly wrenches it from my hand. Once again I’m reminded that despite his lackadaisical nature, he really is a trained cop.
    â€œI know it isn’t,” he says, examining the firearm. “It’s Barnaby’s.”
    A trained cop with insane detective skills.
    â€œHow do you know that?” I ask, very curious and very impressed.
    â€œBecause I gave it to him.”
    And now I’m very scared.
    Just how irresponsible can he be? First allowing Barnaby to join the witch brigade and now arming him with a weapon to kill the witch. Is this what my father had in mind when he put our lives in this man’s hands? Did my father have any idea that this man would work overtime to destroy our future?
    â€œIt was your father’s, and I wanted Barnaby to have it as a memento,” Louis explains.
    Finally vertical, Barnaby doesn’t ask for his gun back; he doesn’t demand it be returned to its rightful owner.