“Move back,” Beatrix says. “Get up against the wall. Do it.”
She’s like a stick-figure drawing of someone holding a gun, all sharp angles and straight lines, her arms extended from her body in a perfect triangle. It’s the amateur stance of someone who learned her gun skills from comic books and cartoons, who’s never held a gun, never even had an interest in a toy one.
My chest swells with terror, and I shift to the other side of the chair. “Beatrix, sweetie, give me the gun.”
She shakes her head, hard and sharp, a rapid back-and-forth that shivers her curls. “I mean it, mister. Back up.” Her muscles are taut, her finger twitching where it’s bent over the trigger.
Sebastian takes a tiny backward step. “Be careful with that thing. This isn’t some plaything, you know, that gun is deadly. One wrong move and you could shoot yourself in the foot or worse. What if you shoot your mama?”
“I’m not aiming at my mom. I’m aiming at you.”
“Come on, kid. You really don’t want to do this.”
“Yes, I do. I really, really want to shoot you.” Beatrix’s voice breaks on the word shoot, and she thrusts the gun for emphasis. “Now move back. I mean it. Go!”
Sebastian takes another ministep. “So that’s it, then, you’re going to shoot me. Better make it good. Better not miss.”
Beatrix closes one eye. Her muscles never so much as quiver when she holds the violin, but now her aim is all over the place. She’s close enough, though, that even a wide shot could be deadly. The femur, a collarbone, a direct hit to the head.
I hold out a trembling hand. “Beatrix, I mean it. Give me the gun.”
Another shake of the head. “Not until he moves back. He’s still too close. Move more.”
“Or maybe you should just wait until the cops get here. Let them handle things.” Sebastian tips his head to the window, to the sound of sirens. The wailing feels like a hallucination, like if I cover my ears they’ll disappear, fading away into silence. I picture police cars hurtling through the streets behind our house, colorful lights cutting through the dusk and rain like swirling lanterns. In another few minutes, they’ll be squealing up the drive.
“Stop talking. And move back more.” Beatrix enunciates each word slowly, deliberately. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
It’s a phrase I say to the kids often, and in exactly that same tone, and my words coming out of my daughter’s mouth wrap around my heart and squeeze. It never works on them, either.
Sebastian’s soles stay planted to the floor.
I slide onto my knees on the carpet. I’m afraid any sudden movement will set Beatrix off. Slowly, steadily, I stretch my hand farther.
“He’s right, baby. You’re so brave, but let me handle this, okay? Give Mommy the gun.”
Except for two candy-red spots high on her cheeks, Beatrix’s face is shockingly pale, white and translucent like melted candle wax, like a body dredged from the depths. The effect is terrifying, especially when coupled with her voice, high with icy anger.
“No. Not until he gets back to the wall. All the way. Mommy, make him move.”
The sirens are getting steadier now, undulating waves through the air on the back side of the house, which means they’ve made the turn into the neighborhood.
“Sweetie, give me the gun.”
Beatrix’s body is wound tight, her shoulder muscles bunched under her pink polka-dot shirt.
Sebastian’s gaze flicks to mine, his eyes going wide, like do something. “Put the gun down, missy.”
“I’m not your missy.”
I move on my knees, edging closer to curl my hand around Beatrix’s, take control of the gun and shoot Sebastian in the head. And just to be sure, I’ll shoot him in the heart, too. Bang bang. Dead.
And then I will carry this gun out the door and across the road and point it at Tanya until she gives me back my son. I will tear her limbs from her body if I have to.
Sebastian points a gloved finger to the ceiling. “Hear that? They’ll be here any minute.”
I keep my eyes on Sebastian, the gun a black blur in my periphery. “It’s true, sweetie. The police are on their way. They’re coming to save us. Let them handle this, please. Give the gun to me.”
I reach for the gun, at the same time Beatrix steps to the side, and my hand swipes air. I don’t try again because I know that expression, the way her eyes and jaw are locked down tight. There’s no way she’s putting that weapon down, not even for me. Not even for the police.