Then yesterday morning, Judd woke up to a call from Deb.
“Is Teddy with you?” she said, as if Teddy were a child or a golden retriever. Before Judd could answer, he’d felt a dark vibration between him and his twin brother.
Judd steps onto the deck to watch his grandson hold the pistol at arm’s length and sight the target. A Coke can sits thirty feet away on a portable tree stump, splintered and chipped by errant bullets. Braedon squeezes the trigger. Judd hears a pop from the .22, and the Coke can jumps, falls back onto the stump, and bounces off.
“That’s one less bad guy in the world,” says Judd.
Braedon turns to look at Judd, the sun glinting red off his dark hair. He has a big smile on his face.
“Barrel pointed down,” says Judd.
“Right, sorry,” says Braedon and drops his hand so the gun barrel points toward the grass.
Judd walks down the steps to the backyard. “Safety on?”
Braedon looks, realizes the safety is off, then pushes the cylinder to the other side of the trigger guard. He offers his grandfather a weak smile.
“Don’t forget next time,” Judd says with kindness in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” says Braedon.
Sir, thinks Judd. Braedon learned that at his private school in Galway, where Clay played the last five years of his career. In a way, Braedon is the son Judd never had. The son Clay wasn’t. Or could not be. Braedon likes going up north and fishing for walleye. He likes target practice. This fall, Judd plans on taking the boy hunting for ducks and maybe a trip to South Dakota for pheasant. All things Braedon is begging to do, and Clay scoffed at.
Braedon stands in the same yard his father once played in. But Clay didn’t shoot Coke cans. He kicked soccer balls at a makeshift net. He bounced the ball off his feet, his knees, his head, over and over. Seeing how many consecutive times he could launch the ball back up into the air before it hit the ground. Judd didn’t understand any of it.
“You just kick a ball into the air over and over again until it gets dark,” said Judd. “How is that fun?”
“I like it,” said a teenaged Clay. “So it’s fun to me.”
Judd feels grateful to have this second chance at being a father figure for Braedon. He supposes he has a second chance with Clay, too. But a few months after Clay’s return, they haven’t made much progress. Still, at the ages of sixty-three and forty-two, Judd and Clay are both wiser. They know some battles are worth fighting and some aren’t. The rough edges seem to be worn down on both of them.Not completely shotare the words Judd uses when referring to his relationship with his son: “Things between me and Clay arenot completely shot.” But that’s more wishful thinking than a truth put in practice. Judd knows this but has a hard time admitting it to himself. He feels his and Clay’s dissonance. And feelings, in Judd’s experience, are easier to ignore than deal with head-on.
“I’m ready to take a break,” says Braedon.
“All right. Show me what you do when you’re done shooting.”
Braedon drops the clip out of the gun into his left hand, puts it in his pocket, then uses one eye to sight the barrel, making sure the chamber is empty.
“Attaboy,” says Judd. “You ready for pancakes?”
“What time is it?” says Braedon with a hint of alarm in his voice.
“Eight thirty. Why?”
“I promised a friend we’d FaceTime before three o’clock Ireland time. Okay if I do that before breakfast?”
“Sure,” says Judd. “Breakfast will be served at nine.”
“Can we have rashers?” says Braedon.
“Never heard of ’em.”
Braedon half smiles and half rolls his eyes. “Bacon.”
“Oh, sure,” says Judd. “We got plenty of bacon.”
Braedon hands the pistol to his grandfather butt-first, just as Judd taught him. He pulls the clip from his pocket and turns that over as well. “Thank you for letting me shoot.”
“Anytime, Brae. Anytime.”
