I Call Shotgun

I Call Shotgun

Melinda noticed two things about the courthouse as she entered and took a seat for her brother’s trial, touching a scar on her hip unconsciously, as she often did. First, the blinds were pulled down on the windows, so you couldn’t see out of any of them; this reminded her of the house where she grew up, and where her grandfather insisted that they live without the benefit of natural light. Second, there was a family, already seated, to Melinda’s right, and it consisted of a young mother with her two children, a girl and a boy; the girl was older, and was trying to contain the boy, who kept climbing over the seats or being restless.

She felt a sickness at the bottom of her stomach as she tuned in to her brother’s trial; he was guilty, probably, and she knew it; he would be sent to jail, and there wasn’t much anyone could do for him at this point. She also knew that once they took him off to jail, she would probably not see him very much; after all, she had several children herself, and the prison was across the state. She looked hard at him, trying to give him hope; at the same time, in her mind, she was reliving their wretched childhood.

The stern judge, a bald older man with a gavel and too many clothes on, reminded her of their grandfather, also a stern old man, who disapproved of virtually everything, and who would yell at them from his chair at the front of the house. Their early life had been one of confinement; they weren’t allowed to play, or go here, or go there, because he liked his alcohol and didn’t want to have to follow them, or go out into the world after them. The world had seemed bright, and green, and full, while their house was small, dark, confined, and oppressive.  Melinda, in spite of this, had managed to get married and make a decent life for herself; she worked at a restaurant nights, and still managed to get her kids off to school mornings. She even had enough friends that she could find one to watch her youngest child while she came for this part of the trial.

Her brother Marcus had not been so lucky. Marcus was about the same size as Melinda, and strangers would point out how much they looked alike. Marcus, though, had clearly made some bad choices. His friend Joey had got him involved in a robbery of a convenience store, which he had told her about later, and yes, Marcus said, somebody had gotten hurt in the process. As it turned out, a young man had been shot, and later died, and it was a good guess that it was either his sister, or his wife and family, over there on the other side of the courtroom. The trial, she knew, was to spell out how it happened, to what degree Marcus was responsible, and what the punishment was, but Melinda could barely listen to that part. When Joey had come out to testify, she had planned to stare him down, because, the best she could figure, he had turned state’s evidence, and was helping the prosecution put Marcus away. How could a guy betray his best friend like that? To her, it was Joey’s fault; he had talked Marcus into involvement; he had made the arrangements. Marcus alone wouldn’t have done something like that.

 When Joey came out to testify, though, she could see how a guy like him could turn state’s evidence. He looked like death, hopeless, with a choice of telling his story the way they wanted, or nothing. She looked hard at him, trying to catch his eye, but she realized that staring him down would do no good at all. He knew what he was doing to his best friend, and he had done it anyway. He clearly didn’t feel like he had much in the way of choice.

Over on the other side of the courtroom, the girl continued to try to control the boy, usually unsuccessful. The boy looked at everything and continued to try to reach anything that held the slightest interest. He looked at Melinda occasionally, but wasn’t generally interested. The girl perfected the art of yelling at him while still whispering. The mother, or the woman who appeared to be mother, paid close attention to the trial.

Melinda, touching her scar again, suddenly had a memory of what had happened in their small house, one day when, as usual, she was with only her brother and her grandfather. When the grandfather said that they were going somewhere, anywhere, whoever called out “I call shotgun!” first would get the front seat of the car; this was highly valued as the back smelled of rotten clothes and alcohol. The battles for shotgun were legendary, but eventually they decided that they couldn’t even call it until they got out the door; at that point, there would be vigorous battles to get out the front door first. But the front door had a jagged metal piece in it, and one time, Marcus and Melinda hit the threshold at the same moment, and her hip was cut by the jagged metal. The cut was deep and painful, but healed adequately and she didn’t need stitches. The scar was still there, though, and Melinda could still feel it, under her pants; she could still feel that pain, even today.  At the time, Marcus had gotten into a lot of trouble for it, as if he had injured her purposely, but he hadn’t. It was just because they had gotten there at the same time, and were both using all their force to get through the doorway.

The fan in the courthouse was going around very slowly, too slowly to change the air, or keep her from feeling completely stifled and frustrated. The tragedy of Marcus’ situation was that he had already started to clean up, and get his life back on track, when they came after him for what had happened at the convenience store. He was couple of years into having a job, and was trying to get back on an honest path, but the same couldn’t be said for Joey. And when Joey went down, they really wanted to get to the bottom of this convenience store thing, so they laid into him. She felt the weight of the system, the inevitability of Marcus’ doom. She looked at Marcus again, his head down, realizing that Joey’s testimony would put him away for years.

The testimony about the gun, late in the afternoon, dragged on for hours, it seemed. The prosecution asked incisive questions that were intended to pin the blame squarely on Marcus, and did, although it could have been any gun, could have come from anywhere. Did it matter? It was late in the day, and Melinda couldn’t bear it anymore. She squirmed in her seat. Somewhere deep in her memory she could hear her grandfather admitting that his stern approach hadn’t worked too well with their father, who had killed himself and their mother in a car crash, but it was all he knew, and he could only do what he knew.

The situation with the little boy had reached a climax, and the mother was now involved, telling him what he could and couldn’t do, and how he was to behave. But something she said to him made his eyes open wide, and turn to stare at Melinda. Later she guessed that she had simply told him that Melinda was Marcus’ sister. The boy stared now at Melinda, as if she were totally responsible for everything that had happened. It was a cruel, hard stare, and it melted Melinda; she couldn’t bear it anymore.

 She took a last look at Marcus, nodded at him as she got up to leave, and walked out of the courtroom, never to come back. It was almost as if she was walking away from her entire early life, the memory, the pain, the confinement, the whole thing. She needed some fresh air.

5-2-2015