Mulberry Street

From the side of the old shed, Jenny watched as Grover, newspaper in hand, closed the door of the privy. After giving him enough time to settle down and get into Lil Abner and Pogo, she gave the signal. Pat scurried back into the house dragging Aunt Mary away from the bedroom and her snoring husband with shouts for her to come see some frivolous thing she had done. I grinned at Pat and Mary as they tramped down the steps. “Mornin’ Aunt Mary,” I said in my Sunday sweet voice. “Uncle Orin still sleeping?” She said he was and for me to be careful and not wake him. “Yes Ma’am, I know,” I whispered. “He was up late last night and needs his sleep.” “Just play quietly,” she warned, putting her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. “Yes Ma’am, I won’t make no noise,” I assured her. I wasn’t lying either. Noise was the last thing I wanted. Pretending to be tying the frayed strings on my decaying tennis shoes, I stopped at the top of the stairs watching for Pat and Aunt Mary to disappear around the corner. Once they were out of sight, I held my breath, pressed my ear against the door and listened. The only sounds I could hear from the room were deep gasps of and an occasion snort. That was all I needed to hear. Pushing back the lump that rose to my throat, I opened the door. Choking on fear, I froze ready to turn and run as the rusted hinges scraped against each other. Orin, sprawled out on the bed in his shorts and undershirt, just readjusted his head and grunted with the gun resting just below his elbow. It was begging to be snitched. I inched closer to the bed. Just a step or two away from the gun, a loose floorboard decided to squeak sending my heart pounding in my chest. “Shit,” I muttered. I was sure I was just seconds from seeing ole Pluto Corner again. God, don’t let him wake up . . . please! God answered. The rhythmic rise and fall of my uncle’s thin, hairy, chest gave me a bit more confidence. The Lugar was just inches away from my shaking hand now. The plan was going to work. I slid my hand across the lumpy mattress until my fingers felt the cold metal of the gun barrel. Suddenly, Orin coughed then rolled to his side trapping the gun’s black handle between his belly and the bed. He grunted again then swatted at a fly that took rest on his ear sending it buzzing away and me to the floor in a nervous crouch. I felt a trickle of warmth run down my leg. At peace again, he smacked his dry lips, rolled over even further and continued his ground moving snorts. The position change made things even more complicated. Now the entire gun rested between his belly and the bed. Moving the gun meant moving Orin. Now I knew how Wiley Coyote felt. Sometimes things never quite worked out no matter how many diagrams you drew. I scratched my nose as I considered the options. Just waiting for him to move could take a while, and Mary could come back. Pushing on him might cause him to jerk, and the gun could go off. I could be shot dead just like Pluto Corner. Yelling at him would ruin everything if he woke up and didn’t go back to sleep at all. What would it take to get him up yet keep him from waking up, at least completely? Suddenly, the answer came to me. I backtracked to the door, tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen and the icebox. The large block of ice, delivered two days before, was now a collection of jagged, fist sized, pieces of ice crowded around a remnant of the last six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the night before. Grabbing the cold, wet bottle, I headed back upstairs. Orin was still snoring loudly and the gun was still wedged between him and the bed. “Uncle Orin,” I said softly as I nudged his shoulder. He shifted his weight and farted loudly at the annoyance. “Go away boy.” “But, Uncle Orin—” He ran a dry tongue over even drier lips, then muttered, “Boy, I said let me be.” “But Dad said to bring you this. It’s the last one, and he thought you might need it.” Orin grumbled as he felt blindly for the offering. After a failed attempt to find his prize, I slid the icy bottle next to his leg. “Shit!” he said at the cruel coldness that sent him struggling to a half sitting position using his elbow for support. He licked his lips again then rolled his eyes at me. “Opener?” Damn, I had forgotten the bottle opener. “I’ll go get one, Uncle Orin.” But before I could reach the door, I heard enamel on metal then the fizz as the beer overflowed onto his leg. “Forget it!” he shouted. Propped up on one elbow, he drained the bottle in three great gulps. After the last drop was gone, he tossed the empty bottle to the floor and belched. The springs squeaked, and the mattress sagged as he flopped back down on the bed his flabby belly squashing the gun’s skinny barrel. It hadn’t worked. He was going to go back to sleep. “Shit!” I mouthed the word. Mouthing a curse word wasn’t the same thing as saying it, Pat had once assured me. After a few grunts, Orin rolled to the edge of the bed, lost his balance and fell backward. It seemed hopeless now. I was about to run down stairs and report that the plan hadn’t worked, when I heard a string of curses followed by a pair of hairy legs flopping over the side of the bed. Head resting between his knees, shaky arms struggling to support his weight, Orin Hunter was finally sitting up. With fingers crossed, I watched as he sat there in his sweat stained sleeveless undershirt. Well, are you going to piss or not? As if he heard my thoughts, he wiped his matted eyes with the back of his hand, fought his way to his feet. His first steps were wobbly. Oh, no! He’s going to fall and break his neck, and I’ll be guilty of murder. Putting one foot in front of the other, he staggered over to the metal can in the far corner of the room. The gun was there on the bed, just a step away. I could almost hear it speak. Okay big boy, here I am. Come and get me. The sound of water splashing against metal told me it was now or never. With one eye on Orin and one on the gun, I took a deep breath. With a will of its own, my trembling hand grabbed the Lugar. I had never held a real gun before. It was a heavier than the cap pistol I found stuffed in the plastic holster under the Christmas tree every year. Somehow, that surprised me. Despite its awkwardness, it filled me with a sense of power. I imagined it hanging from my belt, nestled in a leather holster secured with a string to my leg so that my draw would be steady in the event of a shootout. My fantasy faded with the last splashes of the recycled beer. “Boy!” I froze. He caught me. Now I would pay the price. “See if there's another beer hidden away somewhere. Go on, get.” “Yes sir, Uncle Orin,” I muttered. With a deep sigh of relief, I scrambled out the room. At the steps, I heard the squeak of the worn bedsprings again. Orin was back in bed. I looked at the thing that had caused so much trouble then back at the bedroom door. Knowing that any second Orin would shout, Get back here boy, I closed my eyes and waited for the worst. At that moment, the sound of loud snores and raspy coughs made me happier than even Granny Nettie’s call to dinner. I took the stairs two at a time slamming the screen door behind me as I ran to the pear tree. Somehow, mighty gun in my hand didn’t look quite as dreadful now that Orin was not waving it about. I heard Jenny call in a low voice from her position on the shed’s rusting, tin roof. “Dang it Ian, he ain’t gonna sit in there all day.” “Did you get it Ian?” Pat called to me from her hiding place where she could see both the backdoor to the house and the front door of the outhouse. I answered her by waving the gun in the air so she could see what miracle I had accomplished. Once I reached the security of the shed, Pat grabbed my arm. “Damn, Ian, you sure did it.” I noticed a note of awe in her voice.