Come Sundown, fiction by Shari Held

Monday afternoon

Emma carried her father’s clean laundry to his room and opened his bureau drawer. The gun lay there as if it were still part of his daily life rather than a remnant from his years as Sheriff Claud Gillespie of Morgan County.

She ran her fingers through her bedraggled hair and bit her lower lip. No matter where she hid the gun, he always found it. So far, it had never been loaded. Maybe his dementia had robbed him of the ability to remember how to load it. He’d declined during the six months she’d come back home to Indiana to care for him.

I’ll have to hide the gun again soon. But where?

She’d tried the top shelf in the linen closet, the kitchen pantry behind the flour canister, underneath the loose board in the dining room, even her bedroom closet. He’d found it every time, without her even realizing he’d been searching. It was as if he and that gun had an unbreakable bond.

She should get rid of it. But she couldn’t bring herself to do that. The gun evoked too many fond memories, like the evenings when he’d sit in front of the fireplace and clean it. He’d taught her how to care for the gun from the time she’d barely reached his shiny silver belt buckle. Her job was to wipe it down with a clean, dry cloth, usually his worn-out underwear. She used to giggle about that. Emma closed her eyes and could almost smell the sweet and spicy fragrance of the Hoppe’s No. 1 gun oil he’d favored. It was their special time together. Her gaze dropped to the piece of metal in her hand. If he could recall those times at all, she couldn’t take that away from him.

His gun might also remind him of the time when he was powerful. The protector. The deliverer of justice. She hoped so. Now, the only thing he controlled was the TV remote. And ownership of some items he stubbornly refused to let her sell—his stamp collection, some original Victorian furniture, and the Studebaker he used to tinker with. Soon she wouldn’t be able to keep him at home. When that time came, she’d need the money from the sale of those items to place him in a dementia facility.

The oven timer buzzed, and she returned the gun to the drawer and traipsed downstairs to retrieve her blueberry muffins. As she was removing them from the pan, Wendall, the local jack-of-all-trades she’d hired to perform some repairs, popped into the kitchen.   

“I’ll be taking off now, Ms. Gillespie,” Wendall said. “Be back tomorrow around eight.”

“Fine. See you then. And it’s Emma. Not Ms. Gillespie. Here, have some blueberry muffins.” She placed four muffins in a brown bag and handed it to him. “Leave the bag open. They’ll get soggy if they don’t cool down.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Wendall tipped his ball cap to her and let himself out the back door.

Emma placed the remaining muffins on a rack to cool, then returned upstairs. She put away the rest of her dad’s laundry but left the gun where it was. She’d deal with it later.

The kitchen screen door banged shut and Emma jumped. It must be Joe, the neighbor who took her dad to his physical therapy sessions, bringing her dad home. No one locked their doors in Camby. It wasn’t unusual for visitors to make themselves at home until the owner arrived. It had taken her a while to get used to that again. But now it was second nature.

Joe’s voice boomed. “Em? We’re baaack.”

Emma ran downstairs to greet them and hear Joe’s report on how her father had done.

Her father pointed a finger at her and headed toward the bottom of the stairs at a turtle’s pace, his cane tapping the linoleum as he approached. “Who are you?” he asked in a quivering voice.

She froze. “Dad, it’s me, Em.” She said the words that ripped at her heartstrings. What the heck are heartstrings, anyway? I don’t know. All I know is they ache with a primeval pain when Dad can’t remember who I am.

She slowly approached him and watched his face morph from skepticism to acknowledgement. She breathed a sigh of relief. His confusion and irritability were worse come sundown. Keeping him on a regular routine helped, but he was always slightly off-track the days he had physical therapy.

“Thanks, Joe. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“No problem. I enjoy hanging out with Claud. Encouraging him to do one more squat or another five minutes on the treadmill. He did the same for me when I was recovering from that bullet in my leg.”

“How’d he do today?”

“Good. He’s regaining his strength after that fall. Quite a tumble he took. He’s walking better unassisted. His physical therapist and I ganged up on him to get him to do more than he’s ever done before. Just so you know, his Wednesday class has been rescheduled to Thursday. I’ll be picking him up then.”

Emma nodded and handed Joe a bag of muffins as he headed out the door. “Here, have a couple muffins, with my thanks.”

She could tell her dad was worn out. She led him to the living room and watched as he settled in his recliner and reached for the remote. She decided to wait until after supper to broach a discussion about the gun.

“Dad, we’re having mashed potatoes and chicken and noodles tonight. One of your favorites. Supper will be ready soon.”

He grunted and clicked the button on his remote. The strains of Gunsmoke sounded loud and clear. Marshal Dillon was his hero. The Marshal would get his man and all would be right in the world. It never failed to amaze her that her dad could click his way through the complexity of streaming channels to find the shows he wanted, when some days he couldn’t figure out how to put on his shoes and socks. Or remember his only child.

She busied herself in the kitchen. Earlier, she’d made the noodles from scratch the way her mother taught her years ago. The chicken was cooked and shredded and the broth strained. All she needed to do was add the noodles to the pot and let it simmer until they were tender. Maybe she could edit a few pages for a client before it was ready.

Supper was a success. Her father ate well and seemed to enjoy it, although he never complimented her on her cooking. He rarely participated in conversation. Mostly he responded to what she said. They talked about the weather, her makeshift garden, and the local news. A cow was missing. The Skinner twins were caught trying to sell Seth Johnson’s John Deere in the next county. Sarah Simmonds’s cat Sparky gave birth to a litter of seven kittens and Sarah wondered if she’d like one. The usual kinds of things.

Emma put the leftovers away while her dad went upstairs to change into his pajamas. After a few minutes, she went upstairs and knocked on his door to see how he was doing. She had to rebutton his pajama top, but otherwise he’d managed well.

“Dad, I was putting your laundry away this morning and I found your gun in your sock drawer. You know we’ve talked about that. It’s not safe for you to handle a gun now.”

He stared at her blankly, not saying a thing.

She walked over to his chest of drawers and opened his sock drawer. The gun wasn’t there. “Dad, what did you do with the gun?”

He shrugged, all innocence.

She could feel the heat travel from her neck to her face. “Dad, give me that gun. I mean it.” He didn’t budge or even acknowledge she was talking. She wanted to shake him, to take out her frustration on him. Then she felt guilty. Being an only child and a full-time caregiver was a curse.

Emma slammed the drawer closed and marched down the stairs. He didn’t join her. In a moment of defiance, she turned on a rerun of Sex and the City. Since she’d been home, she hadn’t watched any of her programs—at least not the ones he wouldn’t like. She’d take advantage of their spat to indulge herself.

#

Wednesday. Late afternoon

Emma had tidied the kitchen and the stuffed green pepper cups and baked potatoes for supper were ready to pop into the oven. Her dad was home today, reading upstairs, instead of at physical therapy. She sat in her mother’s floral armchair in the living room, slipped off her shoes, put her feet on the ottoman, and closed her eyes.

An hour later, she awoke when she heard the kitchen screen door slam. Could her dad have sneaked outside? There wasn’t much traffic on the gravel road in front of the house, but it would take only one reckless driver to cause an accident. If her dad were hit, he might not survive.

She rushed to the kitchen and nearly ran into a masked figure. With a gun pointed at her head.

Her first instinct was to run, but her shoes might as well have been super-glued to the floor.

“Don’t say a word.” He motioned her toward a chair with his gun. “Sit.”

Her mouth was so dry, she couldn’t have spoken if he commanded it. Sitting down worked for her. She wasn’t sure how long her legs would keep her upright.

The intruder placed his gun at the far end of the kitchen table. Then he unwound a coiled rope, hanging from his belt, and tied her to the chair.

It was absurd, but she was relieved to be tied up. She hoped that meant he wasn’t going to assault her. But what if her dad showed up? She prayed he wouldn’t hear anything and stay in his bedroom.

“Where’s the stamp collection?” the guy asked, his voice muffled.

“Stamp collection? I don’t know.”

I can’t let him take that. That’s for Dad’s care.

The man moved closer. The pungent odor of cigarette smoke filled her nostrils. She tried not to breathe. Not that she was relaxed enough to do much of that anyway.

“Like hell you don’t. If I have to convince you to tell me, you won’t like it.”

Emma swallowed hard. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. Truly.”

She heard a noise. Her dad. She scooted her chair sideways so it scuffed the floor and hoped her assailant heard only her.

Don’t come downstairs, Dad. Please stay where you are.

The man pulled up a chair next to her, and lowered his face so they were eye to eye. Emma’s eyes watered. His breath made skunk smell good. He gently brushed her hair out of her eyes. She was totally unprepared for the heavy, open-handed slap to the side of her face. She gasped. In the mirror facing her, she saw that the left side of her face was apple red.

“Now, let’s get down to business.”

“How did you hear my dad has a stamp collection?” Emma asked.

“Everybody in town knows about it.” He raised his other hand. “Now, you gonna tell me where it is, or you want matching bruises?”

She stared him down.

He dropped his hand. “Fine. I’ll find it myself, and you have my promise I won’t be neat.”

He stood and grabbed the Pillsbury doughboy cookie jar off the refrigerator and peered inside. He reached up to put it back, then dropped it. “Oops.”

There was no way her dad hadn’t heard that. Emma needed to get the intruder out of the house. Fast.

“Okay. The stamp collection is in the deepest drawer in the living room bookcase. Take it and leave.”

Her assailant headed to the living room. Emma tried to loosen the rope, but it wouldn’t budge. When he returned a few minutes later, his arms were filled with acid-free cardboard albums. He opened the top one. “Now, that’s better. Too bad we won’t have time to fool around a little before Joe brings the sheriff home. I’ve heard the old fool doesn’t know where he is half the time. Serves him right for poking his nose in my business. For arresting me.”

A tapping noise came from the stairs.

The man turned his head. Her father was on the landing. With a gun pointed at her assailant’s head. “Put your hands up, Templeton,” he said as he hobbled down the stairs. “I’m going to untie my daughter and you and her are going to trade places. You understand?”

The man glanced at his gun lying on the table.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Her father used one hand to loosen Emma’s ropes so she could free herself, while keeping his gun trained on the intruder.

“Sit down, Templeton. I thought you weren’t due out of prison until sometime next year. Emma, you hold the gun on him while I tie him up. Then call the sheriff’s office.”

#

After the new sheriff hauled Templeton away, Emma and her dad retired to the living room. He placed the gun on the coffee table, poured whiskey into two glasses, and handed her one. After taking a deep gulp, he smacked his lips. “Haven’t had one of these for a long time. I’d almost forgotten how good it tastes.”

Emma took a sip, coughed, then downed it. “Dad, were there bullets in that gun?”

“Nope.”

“What if he’d shot you?”

“But he didn’t, now, did he?” He poured another whiskey. “I did good, Honey, didn’t I? Just like the good old days.”

Emma gave him a bear hug and brushed a tear from her eye. “You did, Dad. Marshal Dillon couldn’t have done better.”

“Damn straight,” he said standing a little taller.

The setting sun hit his face and for a moment she saw him as he was twenty years ago. Sheriff Gillespie. A man who protected family and community. She grabbed his hand in hers and pulled him close to kiss his cheek.

He jerked away, giving her a fearful glance as if he thought she was going to harm him. Then he shuffled to his recliner, muttering to himself, and fiddled with the remote. Soon the familiar theme song for Gunsmoke sounded throughout the house.

Shari Held is an award-winning fiction author who spins tales of mystery/crime, horror, romance, humor, and fantasy. More than three dozen of her short stories have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Hoosier Noir, White Cat Publications, Yellow Mama, Asinine Assassins, and Murder 20/20, for which she served as co-editor. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and the Short Mystery Fiction Society.