Keith Meatto is a writer in residence at the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center in Nebraska, where he is working on a collection of short fiction. His stories have appeared in Harpur Palate and Glossolalia; and one was a Glimmer Train contest finalist. He has also published in The New York Times, The Forward, The Texas Observer, Mother Jones, and The Concord Monitor, where he was a daily newspaper reporter. He lives in New York.

LACEY

Lacey heard booms even before she got to the farm. When she reached the driveway, she saw her grandmother on the porch, shooting cowbirds with her infamous pink pistol.

She ran up the steps and pried the gun from her grandmother’s hands. The handle was hot and the barrel smoked like a snuffed candle. Lacey pointed the barrel down, away from her body. She had not handled firearms since high school and ten years later, her gun phase, like her religion phase, was a source of embarrassment. None of her friends back East had weapons and they went to church only at weddings and funerals.

Lacey set the gun down on a table then hugged and kissed her grandmother hello. Her body seemed brittle and her skin was as tan and cracked and chewy as smoked meat.

I almost forgot July here gets so hot, Lacey said. How about some iced tea?

Her grandmother grumbled and disappeared into the kitchen. Lacey stared out at the cacti and the fat-leaved succulents, and beyond the garden, rows of pines for the next owner to harvest. Once, the tree farm had been her sanctuary from the boredom of Waco and the terror of her parents before their divorce. She would miss this place.

When her grandmother came back with the drinks, Lacey filled the silence with stories from her new life in Boston, the baseball games at Fenway, her favorite spot for lamejun in Watertown. She was midsentence when her grandmother held up her hand.

Let’s skip the dancing, the old woman said. Just say what you came to say.

Lacey hesitated and poured her third glass of iced tea. She had survived brutal interrogations of law professors –Tribe and Ogletree – and her work at the firm had won over the curmudgeon litigation chief. But next to her Gran, those boys were kittens.

She began what she had rehearsed on the plane and the desert drive from Dallas. The farm cost too much to maintain. And beyond money, it was too remote from neighbors and grocery stores –and God forbid she slipped and fell-- the hospital was 40 miles away.

Her grandmother scowled. Lacey paused to gather courage, then continued. She had found some apartment complexes in Tyler where her grandmother could live worry-free. They all had cafeterias, social events and around the clock medical care. Then Lacey opened her bag and handed her grandmother the brochures for Brookdale-Sterling, Atria Copeland, Pinecrest —their names less like retirement homes than English manors.

Her grandmother listened in silence until Lacey was done, then put down the pamphlets and stood from her chair.

I see, she said. Send me to summer camp to die.

Flustered, Lacey stumbled for words. She wished her father had not left her to do his dirty work while he sipped Mexican martinis and chased waitresses and perfected his golf game. But she was here now.

Before she could reply, her grandmother had picked up the pink pistol and pointed the barrel to the sky. She nodded toward Lacey’s car parked in the driveway.

Go on, she said. Get out of here.

Put that down, Lacey said.

Boom. The shot cracked the air. Lacey twitched and in the silence that followed her heart leaped. Then her grandmother lowered the gun and trained the barrel straight at Lacey’s chest

I mean it, she said. You get out.

For a while Lacey did not speak, afraid that words would only make things worse. Chimes dinged. Grackles cawed. Floorboards creaked. Lacey looked into her grandmother’s eyes for a clue. She had always been feisty, stubborn, reckless –a frontierswoman who traced her Scotch-Irish heritage back 300 years in Texas. But what if her behavior now was different? A friend’s grandfather had dementia; they put him away after he smashed the television. He said the box was filled with dancing devils.

Lacey moved forward, step by step, her hands lifted in surrender. As she got closer, she saw the old woman’s arm tremble and her finger wobble on the trigger.

At last she reached her grandmother. She paused, then in one motion took the pistol, emptied the clip into her palm and then hurled the gun with all her strength. The weapon tumbled end over end like a drunken butterfly and landed in a whimper of dust.

Flushed, Lacey stopped a moment to catch her breath and wipe her forehead. Then she took her grandmother’s hand and led her into the house out of the heat.