Free Sunblind by Michael Griffo

He silently basks in the joy of feeling superior, knowing that Louis and Arla think I’m the one who violated a beautiful memory.
    Think again.
    â€œHe was pointing that memento at me,” I say.
    â€œWhat?!” Louis screams.
    His usually quiet voice is so unexpectedly loud that it literally makes me and Barnaby jump. Arla, obviously used to her father’s sudden outbursts, doesn’t move. She remains leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed, head tilted, with the smallest of smirks on her lips. Even though I’d look horrible in a black pageboy wig, I so want to trade places with her right now.
    â€œI didn’t give you this gun so you could wave it around and scare people!” Louis starts, waving the gun around and kind of scaring most of the people in the room. “I gave it to you so you could remember your father! Do you understand the difference?!”
    I’m sure that Barnaby does know the difference, but since his face has turned ghostly white, I’m also sure that he doesn’t have the ability to respond to Louis’s question beyond a nonverbal head nod. Nonverbal communication, however, will not satisfy Louis at the moment.
    â€œAnswer me!!”
    â€œY-yes,” Barnaby stutters. “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anybody.”
    Breathing deeply through his nose, Louis examines my brother for a few seconds in an attempt, I think, to determine if he’s telling the truth and if he’s truly sorry for his actions. I could put Louis’s mind at ease and tell him that Barnaby is being honest; he’s not trying to pull a fast one. Barnaby only stutters when he’s contrite. Physically, he may be changing, but emotionally he’s still the baby of the family. No matter how much our family has changed.
    â€œI-I thought it would be f-funny,” Barnaby continues. “Guess I was being st-stupid.”
    â€œ Very stupid!” Louis shouts.
    After he paces restlessly for a few seconds, Louis’s demeanor softens. He kneels down in front of my brother and holds the gun in both of his hands like it’s an offering in church.
    â€œYour grandpa gave this gun to your father when he graduated from the police academy,” Louis whispers, his voice rough. “He said, ‘Those guns they give ya won’t protect ya; ya gotta have one from your family.’ ”
    Louis doesn’t have to say another word. He doesn’t have to lecture Barnaby about gun etiquette or why it’s beyond wrong to point a gun at your sister, or anyone for that matter, as a joke. He does inform my brother that he wants him to put the gun back in its box and leave it there; it’s a for-show gun, nothing more.
    Nodding his head Barnaby agrees and then adds, “I knew there weren’t any bullets in it.”
    When Louis laughs I know that this reminds him of my father too.
    â€œNone of Mason’s guns had any bullets in them,” he says. “He must’ve emptied them all. I know he didn’t run around town with a gun he couldn’t shoot if he needed to.”
    Arla’s smirk disappears into a look that can only be described as “uh-oh,” which, in turn, disappears when I catch her eyes. We both know that her father’s offhanded comment is correct, but there’s no reason to fill him and Barnaby in on that secret as well. Let them think that my father was like every other policeman in the world and carried a loaded gun; no need to tell them that his guns were bullet-free because once upon a time he had made a pact with God.
    â€œLike he would ever do that,” I say sarcastically.
    Sarcasm, once again, does its trick. It calms the situation and diverts Louis from the truth he unwittingly stumbled upon and toward the reality he wishes he hadn’t seen.
    â€œAnd there’s, um, no reason for you to walk around the house like that,” he says, pointing a finger at me, but keeping