Free Nursery Tale by T. M. Wright Page A

don't think I'm afraid of it."
    He cut in, grinning, "Hey, listen, I know this weapon makes you 'uncomfortable,' and I wish I could help that, Marge, I really do. But you wanta know what makes me uncomfortable? I'll tell you what makes me uncomfortable, Marge. It makes me uncomfortable to think that while we're asleep up there"—he pointed with the gun to indicate their bedroom—"asleep and vulnerable , some lousy trespasser can just waltz in here and do whatever he wants. In our house!" His grin became a tight, malicious leer. "And you know what the law says I can do with that trespasser, Marge? That trespasser in my house! The law says I can't do a goddamned thing. The law says if I blow him away, if I hurt one little hair on his precious little head, Marge, then I'm the one who gets thrown in the cage, like I'm the one who's the goddamned animal. And that's why I got this goddamned gun, Marge. 'Cuz the fuckin' law is fuckin' wrong, 'cuz the next time this house gets broken into—"
    "But, Norm, he was just a boy—"
    He held his hand up to quiet her. She stopped talking abruptly. "I'm going to tell you something, Marge, something from when I was in 'Nam, something I've never told you—"
    "'Nam?"
    "Viet Nam. We fought a losin' war there, Marge. Remember?"
    Marge nodded, embarrassed. "You never told me you were in Viet Nam." She tried to smile, as if suddenly proud of him.
    "Yes, I was, Marge." It was a lie. "Saw three years of combat, and I want to tell you a story from those years, and if you'll stop interrupting me, I'll tell it." He paused; she said nothing; it was his cue. "Okay. We were in Khe Sanh, just outside Saigon—that was the capital of 'Nam, you remember that, Marge? And it was the closin' days of the war, the last few days, and we were all itchin' to get outa there 'cuz we knew the communists was on their way. And there I was with my buddy, Frank Thompson—I ever tell you about him?—and we were patrolling this street, you know, for snipers, and I was talkin' to Frank about one thing and another, and, all of a sudden, Frank grabs his chest, and falls straight to his knees. 'Norm?' he says, and then he falls flat on his face. Dead!" He paused for effect.
    Marge said, "He had a heart attack, Norm?"
    Norm rolled his eyes. "Jesus, Marge. What do you mean heart attack! In 'Nam, for Christ's sake?! He got shot right through the heart, just like 50,000 other guys, only he didn't get it from no Viet Cong, at least not from a grownup one. I know that, Marge, 'cuz when I look up, I see this kid, about 50 yards away, and he's maybe nine or ten—the same age as that kid who broke in here—and this kid has this sickening grin on his face, and this government issue rifle in his hands, and he says something like 'I got him, I got him!' And then he runs off."
    Norm paused again for effect. Marge said nothing; she looked ill at ease.
    "That's a true story, Marge, true as yesterday." He nodded at the Smith & Wesson still in his hand. "And it's one reason I got this little beauty, and one reason I'm going to use it, if I got to—if I'm forced to use it."
    Marge's hands began to tremble. The magazine she had been pretending to read fell to the floor. "That's an awful story, Norm." She bent forward and picked up the magazine; a ludicrous, quivering smile appeared on her lips. "That's an awful story, Norm." She stood abruptly and put the magazine on a small table near her chair. "I'm going to go to bed now. I'm tired, Norm." She continued smiling; she made her way to the living room doorway; she paused. "Are you coming up, Norm?"
    "This weapon needs cleaning, Marge. I practiced with it today, so now I got to clean it. Guns are just like pets, Marge. You got to tend to 'em all the time."
    "Yes," she said, in a monotone. "I understand that." And she left the room.
    Norm listened as she padded up the stairs. Her steps were slow and deliberate. She sounded very old and very tired.
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