One in the Chamber

One in the Chamber

                   On February 19th, 1961 Henry Somers checked into the Grand Hotel with a gun in his bag. He walked up to the receptionist, dropped a bulky forearm on the counter, and requested a room. The hotel lobby was completely empty. Mackinac Island was always dead during the winter months. Somers grabbed the key, climbed three flights of stairs, and walked down the hall way.
         Room 341. He put the key in and opened the door. Dropping his leather satchel in the corner, Somers sat on the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers through his thick hair then lay back on the mattress.

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         Henry stared through his greasy black hair at a bowl of Cheerios. He rubbed the sweat off his fatty brow and massaged his throbbing temples. His wife was yammering on about The Honeymooners or some other crappy television program.
         Are you even listening?
         Henry nudged the last whole grain O around the bowl with the back of his spoon. He caught an unwelcomed glimpse of his wife in the old silverware. Her once vibrant red hair was now a dull clay color and she had crow's feet that raked back her eyes like dead leaves.
         Yeah Ange, I'm listenin.
         What'd I say then? She snapped back.
         Babe, I'm late. I gotta go to work.
         He left Angie at the table studying her glass of orange juice. He thought she probably knew he wasn't listening. He never listened. Henry walked into the living room and sat on the brown corduroy couch. The house was a mess. The only thing that wasn't caked with dust was the television. There were boxes of old records crowding the phonograph by the stairs, mousetraps in the corners, and shoes and boots littered about the carpet that was the color of  smoker's teeth. The house looked like one of those black and white sitcom houses, just without the kids' toys strewn throughout. The Somers had no kids; Angie was infertile.
          Henry looked back through the dirty room at his wife.  She always wore the same ugly blue dress with the gray trim that supposedly matched her lace sandals. The sandals were white, not gray, he always told her that. Henry shoehorned his heels into his work boots then walked to the coat rack. Angie was dumping the milk from his cereal bowl into the sink. Henry never drank the milk; milk was for babies and pussies with weak bones.
         I'll be back around six. How about something different for dinner tonight, eh?
         He slipped into his Carhart jacket, grabbed his cedar cane, and limped out the front door. Outside, there was a newlywed couple going on their morning run; jogging side by side in matching red and green jumpsuits at a trivial pace. Little boys and girls with blue and pink back packs loaded single-file onto a school bus. This was the only housing development on the island. It was that type of place where all the houses looked exactly the same – on the outside at least – and everything was supposed to be equal. Henry got into his first edition green Ford Mainline and drove to work.

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         Somers sat in the dimly lit hotel room, spinning and sweating. He groaned at the sour burning in his stomach as he dumped a shot of Jim Beam down his throat. After refilling the glass, Somers set the bottle on the desk and leaned back in the stiff chair. He pulled the dangling gold chain on the Victorian table lamp in front of him. Light illuminated his bedside corner and gleamed off the silver six-shooter laying on the desk.
         The .45 Schofield revolver was his grandfather's and had since been passed to his father and then to him. His grandfather, Somers was told, had used it while serving under General Custer during the Battle of Little Big Horn. This particular design was developed as an upgrade to the Colt .45 by  Major George Schofield; it was less powerful than the Colt but the Schofield's shorter barrel and larger rim made it possible to be reload nearly thirty seconds faster. Somers wouldn't need to reload though; just one shot should do it. He unbuttoned the top flap of his satchel bag and pulled out a .45 caliber bullet. He popped the bullet into the revolving cylinder, spun it with his leathery palm so it was lined up, then cocked it back into place. Somers placed the gun in his lap and bolted back the shot.

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         Henry parked his truck and got out in front of the bar. The big lemon head with the curly brown locks and bright rogue lips smiled back at him. It read “Lemon Peel” and had a long plastic strip of the yellow rind half peeled off one side and loosely wrapped down the wooden pole holding it up. A couple of Henry's buddies' trucks were parked out front. Most of them had Fords and Chevys except McKinley; he had a Thunderbird in the lot. McKinley loved that car, he barely ever did anything other than work on it in his driveway. There was a boy sitting in the driver's seat with his close cropped blonde head resting on the steering wheel. Henry paid no mind and approached the bar door.
         Since the Mackinac Bridge - or “Big Mac” as the locals call it - was erected, lots of jobs started opening up. Henry had been working the bridge toll booth for three years now; since it opened in '57. He loved it, everything about it. Big Mac was beautiful; its soaring architecture, the glorious spans of suspension wires arcing through space, the taught feel of the cables, the smooth cement ground and bright yellow parallel lines. Henry loved the feel of gripping the gate lever in his withered hands, the grinding noise gears made as he lifted it for passer-bys. He loved greeting the multitude of faces that came through every day, some regulars and some not, and he loved the warmth of the coins as the gentle grazing of fingertips dropped them into his palm. And he enjoyed most of the guys he worked with; the Bridge Authority and the repairmen. Henry went with some of them to The Lemon Peel after work one time and, since then, he'd gone every day.
         Henry walked into the bar and saw all his friends posted in their usual spots. He lumbered over to a stool and leaned his cane against the shiny redwood counter. The afternoon sun shone through a thin layer of film on the giant front window and hit the mens' bourbon glasses in just the right way that it looked like they had come alight, like on fire. Mindy, the bar maid, was wiping down one of the stools. Her hair was up, like usual; all the fine downy hairs on the nape of her neck curling up delicately into a neatly molded bun.
         I'll take a shot of Jack, a shot of Jim, and a beer.
         Damn, Somers, what's the occasion? The bartender, Jim, replied.
         Yeah, why mix it up? A friend added.
         No occasion, just my leg's really sore. And shit, I figured if Dr. Jack didn't do the trick maybe Dr. Jim might have the right medicine.
         The men laughed. Their faces were glowing; lit up with laughter and flashing dull teeth, it seemed like a benevolent benediction, like being in church. Elvis' smoothly crooned “A Fool Such as I” in the background while meaningless banter took front stage. The old jukebox was mostly filled with big band music but since that new Rock n' Roll hits record came out, it had been on repeat almost every day. Back in the 40's, The Lemon Peel used to be a big band bar where lovesick teenagers came to dance with their girls. Henry had even brought his first highschool sweetheart there back then. Now, the teenagers were grown and the big band swing was replaced with early Rock N' Roll..
         Eh, how's those precious hands of your's doin? Somers asked the man next to him with the bandaged hands.
         Fuckin' terrible. Can't even drive, McKinley responded.
         McKinley was one of the repairmen for Big Mac. A couple days earlier, he was strapped to a beam below the bridge trying to weld one of the weak girders, when his grip on the blow torch slipped and it scorched both his hands on its way to splashing into Lake Huron.
         But I saw your Thunderbird outside?
         Got my son to bring me here tonight. He's been beggin' to drive the 'bird.
         Was that him outside?
         Yeah, the kid's only sixteen.
         You're somethin' else Mckinley, Somers said, patting him on the shoulder.
         Hey, that little shit drove twenty miles over the speed limit and ran a damn stop sign. Told him if he wants to sit in the bar with men, he better learn to drive like one first!
         The heavy wood door slammed shut, and the men's gaze quickly shifted to the front of the bar. A tall, crooked woman in a horrendously short dress walked in. Women hardly ever came in to the Lemon Peel but it sure was a treat for married men like Henry when they did. The men, as they always did when a woman walked in, all turned their heads and stared.  But this woman was not much to look at.
         So, besides drivin' real fast, how's that boy of yours doin? Somers asked.
         Well, doin' pretty good in class. Sure has a hell of an arm too. Coach says he'll be quarterback for a D1 school some day.
         Wow, McKinley, who woulda thought a kid with so much talent could come from you!
         The woman at the front of the bar walked clumsily to the counter and sat down on the other side of Henry, accidentally knocking his cane over.
         Oh, sorry Mr...
         Somers. He grumbled.
         Sorry, Mr. Somers. Why don't I buy you a drink?
         Isn't the man supposed to buy the broad the drink?
         Well, I'm no ordinary broad and 'sides, you look like you could use another. What're ya drinkin?
         Was drinkin a beer but since you're buyin, I'll take a Jack and Coke.
         The bartender gave him his Jack and Coke and she took a Vodka Tonic with a shot of Jim Beam on the side. Henry sipped his drink while she bolted back the shot and chased it with the tonic.
         Damn. Never seen a broad do that, Somers said, rubbing his gristled chin.
         Like I said, I'm one of a kind.
         What's your name anyways?
         Trixie, she replied, playfully tucking a lock of ebony hair behind her ear.
         Nice name, what're ya a stripper? He joked, You can call me Henry.
         They began to talk about work, about football, about Elvis, politics, the war, pretty much everything Somers never talked about with his wife. All Angie ever wanted to talk about was whatever was on the God damned television. Trixie was getting pretty drunk and a hell of a lot more friendly. She began grazing his arm, giggling and Somers even started to crack a slight smile.
         Hey, is that a cavalryman's ring? Trixie asked, touching the ring on Somer's finger.
         The ring had a polished silver band with the number “VII” engraved on it and a dull ruby gemstone in the middle.
         Yup. How'd ya know?
         My great uncle served in the 7th Cavalry Regiment -
         At Little Big Horn? Somers interrupted.
         Yeah!
         No shit. This is my grandfather's ring; he fought right alongside Custer at Little Big Horn.
         Wow, so did he survive?
         He gave me this ring, didn't he? Somers smirked back.
         Trixie sure had a way with words. The two talked for hours while one by one Somers' friends said their goodbyes and cleared out. At around 2:45, they were the only two left in the bar.
         Alright, you two, this is the last call, the bartender said.
         Give us one more round.
         Hey, she put her hand delicately on his lap, I got my uncle's old war journal at my apartment if you wanna come back and check it out?
         The bartender put the last two shots in front of them. They looked down at the shots and then at each other. Henry noticed how truly ugly she was for the first time. Her nose was bent and she had this little scar on her chin. Not to mention it seemed as if one of her eyes were lazy, either that or liquor had done a real number on his eyesight. He raised his shot glass to hers, touched them, then poured it down the hatch.
         Henry paused. He thought of Angie. He looked at his watch, it was 3 am.
         Where do you live?

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         There was a knock at the door. Somers quickly took the revolver off his lap, hid it in the drawer, and hopped to the bathroom. There was another knock. Somers turned on the cold water from the faucet and let it fall into his calloused hands. He splashed it on his face to try and wash the drunk off. There was a final knock followed by fleeting footsteps. Somers stammered to the door and fumbled it open.
         A woman in a prim cream colored blouse turned around.
         Oh, Mr. Somers, I'm sorry to disturb you.
         S'okay. I was just resting.
         There's been a problem with your credit card. It's been denied.
         I see. Could I pay cash tomorrow?
         Yeah, that'd be fine.
         Okay, I'll have the money for you tomorrow then.
         Goodnight Mr. Somers.
         Night.
         She turned around and walked down the hallway. Somers watched her for a while. At least the tight black pants Grand Hotel employees wore gave him something decent to look at. It’s better than that shitty Victorian architecture. He went back to his room.
         Somers sat back at the desk. He opened the draw and examined the pistol. It had a long, slender .45 caliber barrel, polished swing-out cylinder, smooth chambers, and an etched wooden handle. He thought of the Somers' lineage; he was the last man in the family.

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         Somers came home at seven the next morning. Angie was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. She peered up from the paper at Somers. His blue jeans were blemished with booze stains and the tight t-shirt he wore under his jacket had been loosened around the neck. She put the paper down.
         Where were you last night?
         Went to the bar.
         So you come home at seven in the morning?
         Got a little too drunk and slept on the cot in the back, he answered.
         She looked back down at the paper. Angie couldn't even make eye contact with him; Somers could tell she knew he was lying.
         Oh yeah?
         Yeah, he answered. I've gotta go shower and get ready for work in an hour.
         You have to work today? The weather's awful. Says here in the paper that the bridge is gonna be closed down all day.
         Yeah, I do.
         Somers left her. He went upstairs and into the bathroom. Leaving his stained pants and shirt in a messy pile by the toliet, he got in the shower. His right leg was pulsing with pain, from the top of his calf all the way up to his groin. Somers hadn't been able to work a decent job since he fell off the ladder three years ago. He was re-painting the siding - because Angie hated the ugly green color – when he slipped and fell 12 feet onto his leg. He tore his ACL and broke his fibula. Even after surgery, Somers still had trouble walking. He began using the same cedar cane his father had used before passing away.
         That man was a real bastard of a father. He used to beat Somers and his mother nearly every day. Somers still had the ivory scar on his ear from his father's belt buckle. His father died of lung cancer ten years prior, in 1950. Serves him right. He was no fucking cowboy, had no business expending packs of Marb Reds like chewing gum.
         Tepid water massaged his aching body and cleansed him of the stench of smoke, liquor, and cheap perfume. Leaning his pounding head against the wall, he thought of Trixie. He thought of Angie. Then he remembered he had to get to work in a half hour. Somers turned off the water and got out of the shower.
         After he dried off and changed into some new clothes, he hobbled down the stairs, went through the living room, and into the kitchen. No Angie. The newspaper was spread out across the kitchen table with a half eaten bowl of cereal sitting on top. Somers slicked his teeming hair back behind his head. She must have left. His shift started in twenty minutes, so he grabbed his jacket and left.

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         The glass shone a brilliant amber in the spotlight of the lamp. He took it, spilling a few golden drops on the pine desk, and sucked it down. He replaced the void in the spotlight with the revolver. Still holding the shot glass, he studied the writing. “Fort Mackinac.” Angie used to work there. It's the place where all the Fudgies – what the locals called outsiders on account of their incomprehensible desire for Mackinac Island Fudge – flocked to upon visiting the island. Somers bought the shot glass one afternoon when he surprised Angie at work. The phone rang.
         Hello...
         Hey, Somers answered.
         Henry, what are you doing at the Grand Hotel? I thought you hated that place?
         I do. All this old French shit makes me sick, he barked.
         So why are you there then?
         Ange, I don't think I'm coming back.
         What are you talking about?
         Somers put the receiver on his lap. He uncapped the Jim Beam and poured himself another shot.
         I'm sorry, I gotta go.
         But I want you to come back now...
         He hung up. Somers put the phone back on the desk. Stinging pain shot up his calf and burned through his knee. Sweat beaded up on his chest and traced itself along his ribs, down this thigh, and met at the fire in his leg. He wiped the string of spit gathered in the corner of his mouth, swallowed hard, then took the shot. Somers braced his blistered trigger finger.

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         An hour later, Somers was sitting in the booth watching a five inch television. Sheriff Andy Taylor and his son Opie were sitting on the bank of a river fishing for bass. Somer's father never took him fishing, not even once. Angie loved that show but Somers thought it was just fairytale bullshit. His job was especially easy today because Big Mac was shut down with a sign on the toll gate that read “Closed. Do Not Enter.” And it was a good thing too, because the wind was howling by at 40 mph, and parts of the bridge were coated with a solid inch of ice. The tense cables vibrated and wind rattled the wires running underneath the massive bridge. The suspension arches cut through dark clouds and were daintily being painted white with snow. On a clear day, it was possible to see the mainland from the booth, but that day, the fog only allowed Somers to see about half a mile.
          A car beeped its horn in front of the gate. Somers turned off the TV and stuck his head out the window. Angie was standing next to her '54 Lincoln Cosmopolitan motioning with her hands for him to lift up the gate. He did.
         Angie's blue car crept forward over the slick bridge. She pulled off to the side of the toll booth and got out. Somers met her beside her car.
         How's work? Angie began.
         Not bad. Uh, what are ya doin' here, Ange?
         I brought you a sandwich. She held out a plastic wrapped bologna sandwich.
         Babe, you know I hate bologna. He noticed a couple suitcases in the car.
         Ange, what's that in the car?
         Suitcases.
         Somers wet ebony hair froze to his forehead and snow clung to his cheeks like cobwebs. His wife's hair escaped the bonnet and whisked in the wind while she tried to pluck it back. Their teeth chattered between talking and their noses were turning stoplight red.
         What for?
         Henry, who were you with last night?
         I already told you.
         I know what you did last night. Sharon McKinley told me.
         There was a shriek of tires, and a 1956 Thunderbird darted under the open toll gate. Somers forgot to put it back down after letting his wife through. The black Thunderbird raced a couple hundred feet past the toll booth and slid on a patch of ice, tires gyrating furiously while it drifted towards the three foot wall. The car spun frantically then whipped around backwards. Sun light flashed off the hubcaps, blinding the Somers and making them squint. Then a quick squall of wind slammed the Thunderbird against the safety wall, lifted it up into the air, and tumbled it over the edge into the Mackinac Straits.
         Angie ran to the toll booth to call 911. Somers stood at the wall and watched. The car plunged deeper into Lake Huron until only the glowing brake lights could be seen. Soft flakes coated Somer's face and jacket. Cold air bit at his fingertips, making them pink and raw. He turned around and saw his wife crying in the booth.
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         With one in the chamber, Somers shrank back in the chair and took a deep breath. His finger quivered on the trigger. His knee panged with acrid combustion. He exhaled and Angie came to mind.
          It was a gray, gloomy day; raining harder than hell, the type of day that was seldom seen on Mackinac Island. Henry was sitting in the booth with his boots up on the desk, mud dripping off into little mud castles on the wooden floor. He was reading Hemingway's “A Farewell to Arms” when a car approached the gate. He felt pretty miserable that day, he just stuck out one dusty palm while still holding on to the book with the other. Henry felt something unusual drop into his palm. He looked, it was a ruby ring.
         I saw it at the pawn shop and thought you might like it. The owner said it was a cavalryman's ring, it belonged to some guy from the 7th Calvary Regiment. Didn't your grandpa fight for them?
         Yeah, he did, Somers said. He slid the ring down past his hairy knuckle. It felt natural. Thanks Ange, really, he replied.
         He leaned out of the booth window and gave her a kiss. Her cheeks tinged a rosy pink. They had been dating a year but she still blushed every time he kissed her.
         I'll see ya at home, she said before driving off.
         
         Somers closed his eyes and put the gun to his head. His hand was shaking violently. He bit his bottom lip and pulled the trigger. Click.
         Henry opened his eyes.