Saturday's Storyteller: ‎"He told me the shoulder stock would be a good investment, but I didn't listen."

by Belinda Roddie
 
‎He told me the shoulder stock would be a good investment, but I didn't listen. As a result, when she was sixteen, my sister Emma was being pampered while lying on the couch after flying twenty feet through the air from the impact of a shotgun.

Her friend Cody had dared her into it. Way up on the chimney top of a small house, where Mrs. Hillary Nordquist lived with her son and six cats (all from the same litter, no less), a single solitary pigeon would roost on the crumbling brick and warble to its little heart's content. It also woke Cody up at six o'clock in the morning every day, and he figured he and Em could try to off it in his backyard with my alleged "trusty weapon." I was there to try to talk them out of it, as well as get my shotgun back. I failed on both accounts.

Emma was tiny and gawky at the time, and the butt of the shotgun was probably wider than each of her calves. She hadn't had the time to fill out yet, not even after all the double cheeseburgers we gorged ourselves on every week at the small diner nestled between the giant pharmaceutical store and the post office. I was a pretty beefy nineteen-year-old tomboy back then - not grossly overweight, but bulky enough to get myself teased from time to time. I had real short hair cropped above my ears and hid a lot of my flab under long T-shirts and men's jeans and heavy leather jackets I had swiped from my father's closet. Emma would silently nibble at her food while I went all out, her white, fragile fingers scraping at her plate. We'd get a lot of queer jokes thrown at us because the older townsmen thought I was her girlfriend, and she'd lose her appetite.

I had gotten the shotgun for my eighteenth birthday, from my uncle, a big bearded North Dakotan who had no need of it due to his rather expansive collection. The stock had been split and splintered, hence my father recommending that I replace it. But I never did. I worked at the ice cream parlor and money was tight, especially when my parents decided to make me pay rent for not continuing school. But I wasn't a college kid and I was hoping I could just integrate into the tiny town of Little Man without any disruptions. Maybe hold down a mechanic job at the car shop or try selling motorcycles.

I never expected to be considered a hero, though. At least, not by my family after they realized Emma had no broken bones or sprains or anything. The truth of the matter is, if I hadn't been there to catch Emma, she would've flown a lot farther - probably into the adjacent house's swimming pool, which we had swam in as kids when the neighbors invited us to their children's birthday parties. My sister was so tiny, she could've been propelled thirty more feet. Instead, she plowed into me.

I had been winded and wound up with a couple of bruised ribs. It sure scared the Hell out of Mrs. Nordquist and her cats, too. She warmed up quickly after my sister and Cody apologized for disturbing her, though, and she gave me a plate of cookies.

"They're for being such a good big sister," she told me. But the truth is, I didn't think I was a great sister at all.

***

Emma and I had always been seen as compatible siblings. We were sort of yin and yang to the outside world. Emma was a pretty petite thing in floral dresses and headbands and lots and lots of jewelry. I was big and disheveled in wrecked converses. Emma played piano and danced ballet and even got runner-up in a Little Man pageant when she was thirteen. I rode motorcycles, got arrested for spray-painting a penis on a stop sign, and drank cheap beer from my father's refrigerator with buddies. We were the rebel and the sweet little sister, such a nice pair, like watching a bad sitcom that kept getting re-aired on the local news channel.

The truth of the matter was, Emma wanted to be more daring and I wanted to settle down. I had grown tired of traffic citations and the gross, raucous attitude of my old high school friends who also found themselves living in this town despite their wishes to bail. I wanted to be a musician like Emma, maybe join a band, maybe try singing a bit even though I was tone-deaf. Emma wanted to be the one who rode the motorcycles, who shot the guns and who caused a ruckus. She liked dressing up as a cowboy when she was younger, but Mom and Dad seemed to stamp it out of her after they came to terms with the fact I wasn't growing out of the boyish phase. It wedged this awkward vibe between us, and truth be told, even though we were seen together a lot, we didn't talk much or expose each other's feelings.

Which is funny to look back on because I could've found a lot of ways to connect to her. Her giving me advice on how to attract boys despite my rugged look. My teaching her how to properly shoot a gun. Going on motorbike rides. Swimming. Eating. Joking. It didn't happen all that often. I first thought it was just because Emma was quieter. Then I'd hear about how outgoing she was at school. It baffled me.

Apparently "saving her life" didn't help, either. If anything, it made things worse. We stopped going to the diner together to eat. Emma stopped swinging by the ice cream parlor to get a discounted pistachio scoop in a waffle cone. I thought about replacing the stock on my gun but ended up sticking it in the cramped basement we had in our house. Mrs. Nordquist was more conversational with me than my sister was.

"So how's the little rascal doing these days?" she asked one day as I passed by her watering the pots on my way to work.

"She's fine."

"Probably thankful for you," she said. "Would've been awful if she had hurt herself badly after shooting at my chimney. You never know how kids these days can stay safe..."

It had been two weeks since the incident, and she still hadn't dropped it. Fun.

Around that time, my mother had decided to travel to our aunt Sally's place for a couple of weeks, and my dad was gone for a business conference in Houston. So Emma and I were on our own and it was like I was living by myself. I'd catch glimpses of her in the corner of my eye each day, heading to school or disappearing into her bedroom to do homework or racing down the street for her piano lessons. I just made myself dinner and worked at the parlor and didn't really chat with my friends - they were all working menial jobs, too, and when I called them up, they were always exhausted.

Sometimes saving someone's life alone doesn't make you closer. What's really important is when someone lends you a hand in return and then the connection gets fully established. Like the lion and the mouse story by Aesop. A lion is about to eat a mouse and decides to let it go after it tells him it will do something for him in return. Then the lion gets trapped in a hunter's net and there's the mouse, gnawing through the ropes like a little furry crusader. I can't remember if they become friends or not or the lion's a dick and decides to eat the poor rodent anyway. But the gist is what I remember - helping someone out and being helped out in return.

I certainly didn't directly put my sister in danger, but I wondered if I'd be like that lion, trapped in a metaphorical net. And that's exactly what I got, much to my embarrassment, three weeks after the pigeon-getting-assaulted-by-a-deadly-weapon incident.

***

One very early morning, after finally convincing one of my coworkers to share a beer on the roof of the schoolhouse with me and bolting just before the cops spotted us, I returned to my house only to realize with a subdued panic that I had left my keys in the house. I tried banging on the door and remembered that my sister was at a piano performance competition in Austin and she wouldn't be back here until around seven o'clock AM. It was like my innards were being tied into a very tight noose made just for my throat, and I sat down on the doorstep with my face feeling rather hot and definitely looking devoid of color.

I thought about calling my father, but he'd be asleep or drinking coffee with his work colleagues. My mom never picked up her cellphone, and my aunt never kept her landline connected to the damn wall. No neighbors could help me, and I certainly wasn't feeling comfortable with calling the local cops. So all I could do was sit there, hunched forward, my father's worn out leather jacket, my Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, and my tattered black jeans being the only warmth besides the thick layer of blubber all over my body.

It had been about five in the morning according to my watch when I got back from the schoolhouse, and just waiting fifteen minutes felt like hours. If there was anything I wasn't (besides the obvious list when it came to intelligence, strength, beauty, all that), it was patient. That's when I remembered the unlocked window that led to that cluttered basement of ours and decided I could sneak through there.

Fiddling with the wooden fence door that led to our sad-looking little yard, I pushed myself past my parked motorcycle and into the overgrown patch of weeds that obscured the window appearing to rise up from the dirt. I felt my windpipe tighten when I saw how small the window really looked. It didn't look like a good-sized dog could fit in there. But I had seen my father hoist himself through from time to time when he forgot his house keys when we were kids, and he certainly wasn't a skinny guy. So I pried the pane open with numb fingers, removed my jacket, and proceeded to squish myself through the window, grunting and cursing all the way.

Needless to say, I didn't get very far. I felt my stomach plug up the opening and my knees stiffen as I seemed to screech to a halt. The basement was dim and I squinted to adjust my eyes to the silhouettes of old dressers, desks, tables, and chairs all littered in the space. My shotgun lay sadly in the corner.

Well, can't say I didn't try, I told myself when extra shoves and twists wouldn't propel me any further forward. My large rump and bulbous legs futilely jiggled outside, and I only kicked up clumps of dirt the more I dug my sneakers into the grass. The only way to will myself to stop the feeble attempt to stuff myself through was the obvious idea that if my belly wouldn't fit all the way in, my fat ass wouldn't get close. So I begrudgingly began to slide myself backwards out of the window, only to realize I couldn't slide back at all.

"Shit," I whispered to myself. I pulled, hard. My wide torso was like a cork lodged in a wine bottle's neck. I pulled again. My body wobbled but wouldn't budge. "Shit!" I cried out again, louder as if trying to declare it to no one in particular. "I'm stuck!"

I wasn't exaggerating. I had been so hellbent on sanctuary that I had almost literally put myself in a pillory. As a result, I was now hopelessly jammed in a tiny basement window, unable to go in or out. I tugged, pushed, twisted, squirmed, and strung so many cuss words together that it was like I was unraveling a sweater by pulling on a loose, neverending thread. But I couldn't move. I must have looked like a complete moron. At least, that's what my sleepy sister told me after I had screamed for help for about an hour only to wind up with a sore throat, with no one else responding or coming to my aid.

"You're a moron," she laughed as I flopped around trying to squeeze myself out. Okay, so she was a little more direct regarding my blatant lack of smarts.

"Stop stating the obvious and help me!"

"Christ, look at you," Emma replied as if she didn't hear me, and she couldn't stop giggling - she was probably thoroughly amused by my flailing legs. "You're practically bulging around the edges."

"Shut up."

"Seriously, it's like watching a pillow being stuffed into a gopher hole."

"Shut up!" I snapped. "You gonna get me out of here or not?"

"You know, this isn't exactly the best welcome home present. I'm exhausted, you know. I'd rather just go inside and sleep."

I sighed and felt a sharp pain lance through my chest as a result. I felt constricted. And Emma's snarky comments weren't helping.

"Look, Em. I'm really stuck in here. I can barely breathe. Please get me out before I suffocate or break a major blood vessel or something."

Silence, then another sprinkle of laughter. I wondered how weary-eyed Emma looked despite her apparent mirth.

"Relax, Leslie, you'll be fine. Just take some deep breaths and try again."

The hyperventilating done away with, I shuffled and groaned and struggled with no success. My belly still remained firmly wedged in the window. So I yelped as Emma's ice cold fingers closed around my exposed ankles and yanked, resulting in much protest from me and a very sore abdomen.

"Jay-sus, Leslie! I always knew you were big, but this is ridiculous!"

"Don't rub it in," I grumbled. I was growing tired of seeing the same old furniture in front of me for the past hour or two.

"And you're positive you don't want me to call the fire department?"

"Don't you dare. I'd rather not be in the news tonight, thank you very much."

"But they could bust you out of there!" Emma protested. "Take an axe to the wall or pull you out with ropes. Something like that."

"Oh, yeah. 'Obese Town Girl Stuck In Window Causes Property Damage: Parents Notified." I pictured, with a grimace, my mother's face after seeing a chunk of her home ripped away. I also finally discovered that this was the fullest conversation Emma and I had had in months, maybe years. All over me being trapped in a fucking window. How convenient. I tried to inch out again, but my waist squeaked loudly against the pane, and I let out a small, sharp cry of pain. "Ow! Fuck!"

"Wait." I could almost hear the light bulb clicking above her head. "I'll call Cody. Maybe he can help."

"Are you joking?"

"No! He could totally swing by! It'll take at least two of us to hoist you out of there, anyway."

"You're seriously telling me," I retorted, "that you're going to wake Cody up, on a Saturday, at eight in the morning, to get your sister out of one of the stupidest situations ever?"

There was a slight pause after my bold inquiry, and I heard the crackling of leaves outside. Then the single, lonely: "Yeah?"

"Oh, for the love of..."

"Unless you'd like to just lie there until you shed off a few diner visits, that's fine by me, too," Emma said, more jokingly than angrily. "I'm just trying to help."

"Why?"

"Because you're my sister. And you saved our hides when we screwed around with your shotgun."

For the first time in quite a few hours, I laughed, no matter how much it hurt. "Aw, how sweet."

"Don't get used to it," Emma warned. "The last thing I need is an even nicer reputation."

***

Cody rode by on his bike and had his fair share of guffaws upon seeing my predicament, but he was more than happy to help me out after the shotgun incident, too. I had gotten used to his frequent cracks about my hair and my clothes and my weight, and while he still made plenty of those, the fact that he was up early for this at least seemed more like a favor to me than to Emma. He said he'd pull my legs while my sister, who never let her copy of the house key get away from her person, let herself inside and down the stairs to the basement.

The whole time she was pushing on my shoulders while I pushed against hers, I couldn't help staring at her face. She was filled with this strange determination, especially about what seemed to be a rather humiliating and silly task. But it was almost like she were saving me from drowning. Or lifting me out of a bank of quicksand. Such brooding intensity in her porcelain face. It threw me off.

It took a lot of shoving, a lot of tugging, and a lot of banter and yells among all three of us to get me out of that that window. My T-shirt was covered in dust and cobwebs, and I saw red bruises spiraling in hideous rings above my hips as I rubbed the chafed skin with an open palm. Cody bowed and claimed his work was done before hopping back on his bicycle and heading home for another two or so hours of dozing, and Emma led me inside and made me a cup of hot chocolate, which was a weakness of mine.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked as I took the steaming mug from her. "And for that matter, why are you still awake?"

"Too wired to sleep now."

"Okay, then let's look at the first question. Why are you being nice to me after all the trouble I just put you through?"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "What trouble?"

I smirked. "I don't know. Getting my fat ass stuck in a basement window, maybe?"

Sighing, my sister sat across the way from me. I realized she was still wearing her recital dress, that frilly purple one Mom had bought her a week before. She must've jumped right back on the bus home and fallen asleep in it.

"First of all, Leslie, you're not fat..."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, you're not that fat. You're just a heavier girl."

"I hate it."

"Give some of your flab to me. I could use it."

"I hate who I am."

"Don't." Her voice was suddenly hard and flat against my ears. "Don't ever say that. Ever."

Her intensity startled me so much that I forgot about my hot chocolate. When I finally started drinking it, it was bitter and lukewarm.

"Well, don't you ever wish you could be someone else?"

"I wish I could do certain things I don't," Emma replied, and for a second I thought I saw her eyes watering. "But I don't wish to be any different."

"But do you like - "

"I like piano and I like ballet. I like all of it. But I also like the stuff you do. Why else do you think I grabbed your stupid gun?"

I saw how white her hands really were. How long and callused her fingers were. I debated grasping them, but I decided against it.

"Please don't say you want to be like me," I muttered.

Emma laughed. "You're funny. You're smart. You have tons of friends. You're like a freaking cowboy. I'm jealous of that."

"...I'm not smart."

"You're smart enough. You just never give yourself any credit."

"Let me repeat myself," I sneered. "I got my stupid ass stuck in a - "

"And I shot a shotgun without a good stock and nearly flew into space. How does that make me any better?"

I wasn't used to this kind of discussion, especially not with Emma. Our family was very collected and calm and didn't try to speak much. At the same time, this was equally unnerving and comforting. I moved my mug to the kitchen counter and stood over Emma's chair.

"I just wish I could be as free as you are," Emma whispered, her voice strained. "Not worrying about my appearance. Not worrying about my weight. Not worrying about impressing anybody. I feel under pressure every day."

"I worry about everything."

Emma sniffled and smiled. "Then you hide it very well."

I didn't know what to say to that. I knew Emma didn't have anything to say, either. I thought of catching her in my arms that day, when the pigeon shot away from the bullet and the shotgun dropped to the ground. I saw panic in my sister's eyes melt like ice. It was like watching a movie. I found my hands straying to her shoulders, giving her some sort of awkward massage.

"Want to ride with me on my motorcycle at some point, then?" I heard myself saying. "I could help you with driving it."

"...That'd be nice."

I grinned. "Pay me back by teaching me some cool instrument? Like guitar or something?"

"There's piano..."

"Please. I'm not Mozart."

"And I'm not Jerry Garcia."

The conversation went like this for another ten minutes before we both excused ourselves for a late morning nap. With the sun beating against my worn out face and sore belly, I fell asleep with a smirk on my face.

The prompt for this week's Storyteller was provided by Antony Walsh.