My dad taught me how to shoot in our backyard.
We had been planning a hunting trip for weeks—just me and him. It ended up later getting canceled because of an unexpected business trip to Toledo. But at the time, I thought we were going. And my dad said I had to know how to shoot if we were going hunting.
He set up a bunch of tin cans on a cardboard box. He said we were going to practice until I could shoot all of them. Our neighbors wouldn’t mind. Most people in our town owned guns and were proud of it.
We stood in the grass together, eyeing the tin cans like they were wild animals. My Orioles baseball cap kept the sun out of my eyes. It was a straight shot.
“So here’s what you do, sport,” he said. “You keep your feet apart. Square your shoulders. Keep your right foot just out in front of your left.” He helped adjust me until I was standing just right. “Good. Now you put the buttstock of the rifle near the centerline of your body and high on your chest.”
He took a step back, examining my pose. “Elbows down.”
I listened carefully, trying to do everything he told me. He showed me how to bring the rifle to my head and press my cheek firmly into the stock. Then he taught me how to aim.
“Good job,” he said. And I flushed with pride. “Keep both your eyes open. Don’t pull the trigger—squeeze it. You want constant pressure.”
I took a deep breath. I aimed at the can farthest on the right and squeezed the trigger like he told me.
I missed by a mile.
“You gotta relax,” he said. “You’re too tense. Take a breath before you shoot. Then squeeze the trigger on the exhale.”
I took a deep breath. I shot at the can again. I missed, but I came closer.
“Good job,” he said. “Now try again.”
I stared at the can. I imagined my mom’s face in the center. I took a breath, then I squeezed the trigger. I heard the ping of the bullet penetrating the metal.
“Great!” He clapped me on the back. “You did it!”
We spent the next hour practicing shooting. I couldn’t wait to go hunting with my dad. Just the two of us.
Finally, my mom came out into the backyard, her hands folded across her chest. She was wearing a tight blue sundress and had a face full of bright makeup. She smelled like flowers. When my dad was away, she wore sweatpants and undershirts. She didn’t bathe for days.
“Haven’t you been out here long enough?” she whined. “A kid’s got to know how to shoot,” my father said.
She flashed me that same look she always gave me when my father paid more attention to me than he did to her. She wanted him to herself.
I still had the rifle in my hand. As I looked at my mother, I imagined a tin can where her face was. I had gotten to be a decent shot in the last hour. If I aimed the rifle at her, would I make the shot? I could always say it was an accident. I was a beginner, after all.
“Whoa, sport.” My dad gently pried the rifle out of my hands. “You gotta be careful where you’re aiming that thing. You don’t want it to go off by accident.”
My mom’s eyes widened. She knew what I wanted to do. And if my father hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve done it
