Trigger Finger (F)

My older brother Wayne clapped his hands together once. Our eyes met. “Get the gun,” he said.

I dashed to the barn and grabbed Grandad’s Winchester. As I came around the corner my brother made signs for me to slow down and be quiet. I eased up and took measured steps until I reached him.

“Coyotes” he whispered.

We scouted the slough that ran between the back of our farm and our new neighbors’ property. The pair were meandering along the low spots, stopping to lap up water as they moved away from us.

Wayne raised the rifle. The coyotes disappeared behind some small volunteer pine. Then, pace quickening, they were back in view, starting up the slope toward the neighbors’ pasture fence.

The first shot was aimed at the lead animal. The pair bolted. As they reached the top of the rise, Wayne fired again. The coyotes disappeared into the woods.

What we heard next made us both gasp. It was a scream. It was a crying out. It was a long wailing sound of disbelief and heartbreak.

In the pasture near the fence we could see Janet Berry running. Janet was in Wayne’s Algebra I class at school. We saw her fall to the ground. Her mother called out, “You shot her horse, you shot her horse!” Again and again she cried, “You shot her horse!”

Wayne’s mouth hung open. He looked at the scene as if it were a thousand miles away.

“You shot her horse.”

He finally let out his breath, a sort of grunt, a sort of groan. I took the rifle from him.

“I shot Janet’s horse.”

We heard the girl’s wail again. And again. Later, our mother would name the wrenching sound for us, “She was keening.”

Wayne turned and broke into a trot toward the house. I took the gun back to the barn and set it inside the door.

Wayne was already on the porch steps.

“Call Mama, Thad. Call Mama.”

When I got to Wayne he was on the floor, leaning against the stove, knees pulled up, hands tight to his chest. Next to him was Mama’s prized chef’s knife she bought for a cooking class at the tech school.

I could not misunderstand the scene before me, the blood on the floor, Wayne sobbing, and on the counter, the cutting board, and his trigger finger.