Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [74]
—Okay, he said with a smile. Then watch me first. You rest the butt against your . . . shoulder, the way you would a . . . violin. Hold the barrel with your left hand here. Don’t grip. Just . . . balance it. Square your feet. Sight the target. Take a breath. Exhale.
Pow!
I jumped. And maybe shouted.
—I’m sorry, Wallace said. I didn’t mean to . . . startle you.
—I thought we were still in discussion mode.
Wallace laughed.
—No. Discussion mode . . . is over.
He handed me the rifle. Suddenly the alley looked much longer than before, as if the target was receding. I felt like Alice after she Drank Me, or Ate Me, or whichever ingestion made her become diminutive. I raised the rifle as if it were a salmon and tucked it in my shoulder like a watermelon. Wallace stepped closer and tried to coach, ineffectively.
—I’m sorry, he said. It’s a little like trying to teach someone to . . . tie a bow tie. It’s easier if . . . May I?
—Please!
He pulled up the sleeves of his sweater and came up behind me. He placed his right arm along my right arm, his left along my left. I could feel his breath, even and rhythmic, at the back of my ear. In a quiet voice, as if live game was grazing at the end of the alley, he gave me a few instructions and a few encouragements. We steadied the barrel. We sighted the target. We took a breath and exhaled. And when we pulled the trigger, I could feel his shoulder helping mine absorb the recoil.
He let me shoot fifteen rounds. Then the Colt. Then the Luger. Then we took a few turns with the Browning Automatic and I gave those bastards who killed Clyde Barrow something to think about.
Around four o’clock we walked through a pine glade behind the club. As we came into a clearing at the edge of a pond a woman my age came marching toward us. She was wearing jodhpurs and riding boots and had sandy hair drawn back in barrettes. She had a shotgun open at the breach hanging on the crook of her arm.
—Well hello, Hawkeye, she said with a muckraking smile. I haven’t caught you on a date, have I?
Wallace blushed a little.
—Bitsy Houghton, she said to me with her hand extended—more stating the fact of her existence than clearing up the matter of her name.
—Katey Kontent, I said straightening my posture.
—Is . . . Jack here? Wallace asked after giving her an awkward kiss.
—No. He’s in town. I was just riding over at The Stables and figured it was a good chance to swing by and hammer out a few. Keep myself in form. Not all of us are born to it like you are.
Wallace blushed again, though Bitsy didn’t seem to notice. She turned back to me.
—You look like a beginner.
—Is it that obvious?
—Of course. But you’ll have a good go of it with this old Indian. And it’s a crackerjack day to shoot. Anyway. I’m off. Nice to meet you Kate. See you round Wally.
She gave Wallace a teasing wink and then barreled on.
—Wow, I said.
—Yes, said Wallace watching her go.
—Is she an old friend?
—Her brother and I have . . . been friends since we were boys. She was a . . . bit of a hanger-on.
—Not anymore, I suspect.
—No, said Wallace with something of a laugh. Not . . . for a long time.
The pond was about half the size of a city block and surrounded by trees. Patches of algae drifted here and there like continents on the surface of the globe. Passing a little dock where a rowboat was tethered, we followed a path to a small wooden pulpit hidden by the trees. Tony greeted us, exchanged a few words with Wallace and then disappeared into the woods. On a bench a new gun lay on its canvas case.
—This is a shotgun, Wallace said. It’s a hunting gun. It carries a bigger charge. You’re going to . . . feel it more.
The gun had elaborate tooling on the barrel, like a piece of Victorian silver. And the stock looked as fine as the leg of a Chippendale. Wallace picked up the shotgun and explained where the skeet would come from and how one should track it with the bead at the end of the barrel, aiming just ahead of its trajectory. Then he raised the gun to his shoulder.
—Pull.
The skeet materialized from