Ariel

Twenty

Six years earlier there had been a rash of break-ins in Charleston Heights and environs. Somewhere in its course Elaine Channing had become nervous about being home alone at night, and Jeff had decided she ought to have a gun around the house. He didn’t suppose she’d be very likely to use it, but felt it might give her a feeling of security.

The gun he’d bought was a .25-caliber automatic, nickel- plated, a tiny gun that could slip easily into a pocket or evening bag without causing a bulge. Elaine had refused to have anything to do with it, and it had stayed ever since, fully loaded, in the bottom left-hand drawer of the leather-topped kneehole desk in the living room, along with the original box of shells and a spare clip. The drawer was locked to keep the gun out of the children’s hands — Greta had been only three when it was purchased — and the key in turn was kept in the center drawer, in a little box with postage stamps and paper clips.

That morning Jeff was drawn to the gun like iron filings to a magnet. There was no conscious thought involved. He rose, showered, ate a good breakfast, and the next thing he knew he was unlocking the bottom drawer, scooping up the little gun and dropping it into his jacket pocket. He stowed the spare clip in another pocket, closed the drawer then opened it again and retrieved the box of shells, placing it in his briefcase.

He drove to work and was at his desk by nine. He went through a stack of letters, glanced over his list of calls. None of it made any sense.

After a while he drew the gun from his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands. Funny how he’d taken it from the desk without even thinking about it, as if he’d been led to it by some force or will stronger than his own.

How cool the metal was.

He took the clip out, put it back in, flicked the safety catch off and on, jacked a round into the chamber. He laid the barrel of the weapon alongside his forehead, noting again how cool it felt. Like a cold cloth on his forehead. Like his mother’s hand, checking to see if he were running a fever.

It was hard to believe such a little gun was truly lethal. He took experimental aim at the wall calendar, at a glass ashtray on top of one of the filing cabinets, at the silver-framed photograph of Elaine and the girls. Each time his finger gave the trigger a tentative caress.

He placed the gun on the desk and sat looking at it. Something had led him to it, and not so that he might cool his brow with it. The gun was a machine for killing. Whom, he wondered, was he supposed to kill?

He sat for several moments, considering this question. Then, with a sigh, he got to his feet and returned the gun to his jacket pocket.

“Don’t look now, Jardell, but we’re being followed.”

“Huh?”

“He’s just creeping along behind us. Our favorite Buick. Good old DWE-628. Why don’t you turn around and give him the famous Jardell stare?”

“I don’t want to.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s creepy,” she said. “Why’s he following us?”

“He always follows us. Especially since we turned up at his house.”

“Maybe it was a mistake, going to his house.”

“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Besides, who expected him to turn up there?”

She frowned. “Maybe I’ll just go home to my house today.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s following us because he heard you were a musical genius. He wants to sign you to a recording contract.”

“Sure.”

“Or he’s a white slaver. He’s going to chloroform you and fuck you five hundred times and ship you to Argentina where they’ll make you do it with Shetland ponies.”

“Or he’s from the Legion of Decency and he heard that there’s a gross pig named Erskine Wold who ought to be arrested.”

“He could probably get arrested for what he’s doing, as far as that goes. It’s against the law, isn’t it?”

“What, following people?”

“Well, bugging little kids. We could call the cops from my house.”

“And tell them what?”

“That this man keeps following us all the time. I could tell them the license number. I wouldn’t have to say that we know who he is because we did a little investigating. They might not like that part. But if we gave them the license number they could pick him up and give him a hard time.”

“Roberta would have a fit.”

“Roberta?” He stared at her. “What’s she got to do with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Ariel. Why’d you say that?”

She shook her head. “No reason,” she said...

When the two children entered the Wold house, Jeff circled the block and parked five houses down the street. He shut off the motor, left the key in the ignition. After a moment he took the gun from his pocket and gazed at it as if he were seeing it for the first time. It seemed to him to be an object of considerable artistic merit, its proportions mathematically perfect, the angle of butt and barrel evidence of its designer’s brilliance. With a fingertip he stroked its gleaming nickel surface. He tilted it in his palm, seeing himself reflected in its mirror surface.

If he were going to kill himself, how would he set about doing it? He held the gun first to his temple, then with the barrel in his mouth, tilting it so that it pointed up through the roof of his mouth.

You would have to take careful aim, he thought. The gun fired a small-caliber steel-jacketed slug that would not expand upon impact. To do the job properly, you would have to put a bullet directly into the brain.

When he withdrew the gun from his mouth he felt as though he had passed through some sort of ordeal. The taste of metal lingered on his tongue. He breathed deeply, in and out, in and out.

He looked at the Wold house. He thought of Grace Molineaux, and he thought of Bobbie and Elaine, and finally his thoughts centered on Ariel. It was difficult for him to think about Ariel because his thoughts were never very clear on the subject. There was something hypnotic about the child, something that clouded his thoughts.

He extended a hand, adjusted the rear-view mirror so that he could see his face in it. He kept glancing at his reflection and immediately looking away, not liking what he saw. Each time he met his own eyes in the mirror, a pulse worked in his temple and he felt something throb at the base of his skull.

But he couldn’t avoid looking into the mirror.

An answer presented itself. He took the little gun from his pocket, braced himself against the seatback, leveled the pistol at the mirror. His eyes closed involuntarily as he tightened his finger on the trigger, but he willed them open and was staring wide-eyed at his reflection as he fired.

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed car. The mirror shattered and the slug ricocheted, starring the window on the passenger side, rebounding into the back seat. Jeff sat motionless for a moment, then touched his left forefinger to the barrel of the gun. It was quite warm. He reached up to remove a few stray shards of glass from the mirror frame and let them fall to the floor of the car.

No one seemed to have heard the shot. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the smell of cordite, listening to the ringing in his ears. He felt calm now, and pleased with himself. It seemed to him that he had confronted a problem head-on and solved it.