The old man’s face twisted in agony the moment he hefted the rifle off her rack high above the fireplace mantel. A passerby might’ve mistaken him for a statue teetering on its pedestal—body rigid, arms locked in the air—were it not for the buckling of his knees and his pain-laden shrieks. He summoned every ounce of strength just to maintain his balance, until the sciatic shock had run its course and the chronic throb had settled into its familiar places. His signal that it was safe to lower “Ol’ Winnie” and continue on with their grisly chore.
Squaring himself with the red-brick hearth, he held the Winchester single-shot rifle close to the light of sizzling embers. He reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out a cartridge, slipping it into Ol’ Winnie’s chamber. He reset her lever and lowered her hammer to half-cock. Despite the spicules of pain in his hands, each step was executed with practiced precision.
He paused to roll the gravel out of his shoulders and admire the play of firelight on Ol’ Winnie’s sleek walnut stock. She’d always been a thing of beauty. A priceless heirloom. Beads of sweat rolled off his forehead, plipping onto her barrel. He wiped her dry upon his threadbare bibbed overalls—required farmer’s wear, at least for his generation. One that was dying before his very eyes.
Soon there’ll be another to add to the list.
He blew out a sigh. It was time to get a move on.
The man walked out of the old farmhouse toward the rickety shed. He shuffled past the wooden door hanging unevenly upon rusty hinges, pulling it behind him. The sweet scent of gun oil chased him into the cramped enclosure. The door creaked and then clapped with a certain finality, as if someone on the other side had forced it shut and was now bracing himself (or herself) against it.
Someone on the other side.
Icy tendrils twisted around that thought. They slithered down his spine with a hard shudder.
He turned the latch to prevent the door from swinging open, as it was wont to do. Something else he’d meant to repair but kept putting off. A job for the next occupant, he reckoned. That is if the county didn’t demolish the place. Who’d be fool enough to buy it after today?
He plunked himself down on the rough-hewn bench and reclined his body against the wall, releasing a weary sight. A few minutes more to allow his eyes to adjust, joints to settle, mind to unravel. Just as he’d done a hundred times before. Just he and Ol’ Winnie, stealing a spare moment of solitude together to get away from it all . . . away from her.
His grip around Ol’ Winnie tightened, knuckles whitening. Though six feet under, the old shrew had never quite left him.
Labored breathing and an arrhythmic heartbeat were the only sounds coursing through the stagnant air. The trip that had once been so frequent, so easy, had devolved into a monolithic task. Such were the effects of degeneration and an unfavorable prognosis.
Like the damp muzzle of a faithful pooch, Ol’ Winnie rested across his thighs, yearning for assurance, sensing that something with her master was amiss. He pulled her close, cradling her in the crook of his waist and lower abdomen. He gave her an affectionate pat. Another face came to mind. A gentle one, framed with golden locks, bounding toward him with a disarming giggle.
His hold on the rifle loosened. A weak smile played across his lips . . . and just as quickly faded away in plaintive resignation.
It was time.
He swung Ol’ Winnie around and set her butt on the floor. Her body was compressed between his thighs, barrel facing outward. He considered going mouth-to-muzzle but winced at the prospect of tasting gun oil, along with the memory of dozens of animal carcasses poked, prodded, and tested for life with that end. He repositioned the rifle along his right side, inclining his body until the muzzle found purchase on his temple. The muzzle slid upon a sheen of sweat. His left hand crossed his body, securing it back in place, its thumb knuckle resting against his cheek bone. His thigh cleared a path for his right hand as it traced the ribs of Winnie’s octagonal barrel downward. His thumb bumped the forestock and then the trigger guard; his remaining four fingers curled around the opposite side just in front of the hammer. His thumb pulled back, then thrust forward, coming to rest on the crescent trigger. There it awaited the brain wave that would deliver the fatal command.
He remembered the first time he’d held Ol’ Winnie in his hands, strong and confident they’d been at the time. Aiming steadily, he’d pulled the trigger (with his forefinger, the correct way, the safe way), blasting the makeshift target clean off the cordwood stack. His father cheered, clapping him on the back. He had been young and hale then. And proud. All of his years far ahead of him. Halcyon times that had slipped by far too quickly.
The old farmer closed his eyes. He offered up a silent prayer. The tympanic beat of a failing heart pounded against his eardrums as if it just might be making a resurgence . . . or was verging on cardiac arrest. If he waited long enough that might just do him in—a more honorable death to be sure.
He was stalling, he knew.
His index and middle fingertips palped the serried ridges of the comb. They depressed the hammer. The cocking mechanism echoed up the rifling inside Ol’ Winnie’s 26-inch barrel—such a strange, forbidden sound when received from this end.
His thumb pressed gently against the trigger, meeting resistance and the unfamiliarity of the trigger’s impending activation by the incorrect digit, pushing instead of pulling. No matter. The upshot would be all the same.
His body shuddered. A vision of the little girl with golden curls returned. He paused. This time she was crying. What trauma will this cause her? A lifetime of it, perhaps.
He eased the hammer down, withdrew his thumb. And heaved out a sigh. His stomach rumbled.
“Well, ol’ girl. Guess it’s time to get breakfast around. Maybe I’ll go pay my grand-daughter a visit this afternoon.”
The old man stood up, and with Ol’ Winnie in hand, shuffled out the door and into the bright early morning sunshine. The dawn of a new day.
The moral of this story is simple. We all have someone to live for.