Gabriel Matthew Granillo

Mary Martin Just Bought a Revolver 

I remember the first time I’d ever seen a gun. In person, I mean. I’d grown up watching John Wayne sling his six-shooters at bad hombres with even badder attitudes, my Dad cackling in the corner with his five o’clock shadow and his six p.m. beer. I remember watching Jack Ruby fire that single shot into Lee Harvey Oswald’s chest. On live television, no less, through the static of my parents’ old Zenith. 

They’d kept an issue of the Dallas Times Herald in a magazine rack in our bathroom, which had a photo of that very moment on the cover. Every time I went to take a piss I’d see Jack Ruby with his gun and Lee Harvey contorting his face from the impact of the bullet piercing his abdomen. I used to stand there with my dick in hand, a little gun of my own, and stare at the paper, wondering what the hell all those hapless cops were doing while Jack Ruby dashed across the basement of that parking lot with a revolver—toward a man who had just assassinated the president, no less. Truth be told, I hated looking at that thing and I once asked my parents if we could take it out, but Dad just yelled at me that it’d be a relic someday before making me mow the lawn. Never spoke of it again. Figured it was easier to deal with it than incur Dad’s wrath for questioning his and ma’s sense of home decor. When the time came to clean out their house after they’d passed—Dad first and Mom a few months after that—I cleared everything out but the magazine rack and that damn newspaper. I think I was afraid I’d hear my Dad’s sandals slapping my way against the hardwood floor and the verbal accosting that would ensue. 

But the first time I’d ever seen a gun in person was at a bagel shop of all places—Crusties. Gosh, I must have been fourteen, fifteen. Beck Rombauer and I had snuck out of PE, as we sometimes did back then, for a quick snack. Old Mr. Blump always looked at us all suspicious-like when we’d sneak back, but I don’t think he knew for certain, despite the fact that we’d always return smelling like onions and chives. But there we were, in our maroon-and-gray gym garb, standing in line waiting to order, when I gradually felt this presence tugging at me, like some gravitational pull. Eventually it led my eyes toward a portly gentleman in sky blue jeans, which were tattered around his leather boots, standing beside us. The sleeves of his plaid button-up were rolled past his elbows, and he had a faded tattoo of some emblem underneath his bushy arms. Beside him was a little girl, presumably his daughter, whose face reminded me of a peony, and I remember her mouth was slightly wet and blue, as if she’d just been sucking on a lollipop. Beside her blonde hair, so light it was almost white, half-heartedly done-up in a ponytail, was a holstered revolver the size of a butternut squash and the color of obsidian, casually hanging off the side of the man’s hip. I wasn’t the only one who had noticed the weapon because it suddenly felt as though the energy of the room had shifted. Like in a Western. Like when a stranger walks into a saloon and everything stops. 

The lady at the counter addressed the guy like an elementary school teacher might address one of her unruly students. She said, “Now, Frank, why in the goddamn hell did you think it necessary to bring a goddamn gun into a goddamn bagel shop?”

Frank brought his arm around the girl beside him and held her close to his body, so close her head was almost jutting up against the butt of the revolver, said he and “this one” were off to the range for some much-needed firearm safety training. I remember him saying to the cashier, “Besides, Penny—how you think them bagels get them holes in ‘em?”

Beck had always wanted to be a writer. Her name even sounded writerly, one of those names you had to say in its entirety. Beck Rombauer. She’d thought it was hilarious what Frank said that one day and vowed to use it in a story, even had a notebook of such observations: things people said, wore, or ate, the way they styled their hair or tucked in their shirts, little details in bus stops and buildings. About a year after the incident at Crusties she hopped a bus to Los Angeles to live with her aunt and that was that. I’d always hoped that our paths in life would cross again, but I suppose it just wasn’t in the cards. Before I’d retired, my coworkers at the library always suggested I looked her up on the internet, but I couldn’t wrap my head around how simple it would be to find someone. Truth was, I felt as though I’d’ve been a bother to her. That was, of course, if she even remembered me at all.

The next time I saw a gun, in person, was about five decades later, when Mary Martin decided to pull one out at our weekly dinner party. Mary Martin. No relation to the actress. Used to be Mary Elizabeth, but after she married Jack, the name kind of stuck. Another one of those names you had to say in full. Our weekly dinners had become a ritual of sorts after Mary Martin’s husband Jack went and croaked. How he and Mary ever wound up together is as mysterious to me as the Mary Celeste. 

Jack was a car salesman. Daddy was, too. They both had that sycophantic salesman grin and a red, perpetually perspiring Irish head, no matter the season. I’d always known Mary Martin as the chamomile tea having sort. In fact, I think one of the photos they’d used at her funeral was one of her sitting behind her desk at the Hamilton Community College Library, delicately sipping tea from her “Bless This Mess” mug. Before Jack, she’d read period dramas, mostly from the Victorian era, and watch black-and-white movies from the 1940s. She was curious about food and cared about the quality and care with which it was prepared. She was a librarian, for Christ’s sake. She wasn’t interested in sports, especially not the primal bloodbath displayed for our amusement every Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! But a few months after linking up with Jack, I kid you not, I saw a photo of them wearing Arizona Cardinals jerseys, sipping beer through hot dogs they’d fashioned into makeshift straws. Soon after that she’d put up a calendar with Cardinals home games behind her desk. She’d even put up a bobblehead of Larry Fitzgerald, which stared right at me, his head always moving in the draft of the air-conditioned breeze. People change, I know, but such a change seemed so drastic and sudden, so atypical of her personality, her mode de vie. And when Jack died, bits and pieces of that remained, but she more or less returned to the Mary Martin we’d known. Though, there were some slight idiosyncrasies here and there. 

For instance, Mary had started sheltering newborn kittens in the room that used to be Jack’s studio—his “studio” being a place where he mostly kept sports memorabilia and precarious electrical parts. Problem was, Mary would never want to let go of the kittens when the time came, so we eventually made her stop doing that. Place still smells like kitty litter, which Alicia felt inclined to point out every time we’d have dinner at her place. 

Another odd thing Mary’d picked up after Jack died was that she got rid of all the paintings in her home and swapped them out for art she’d find at thrift stores and the like, real amateur stuff. Most of them were things you might find after one of those sip ‘n’ draw events downtown—a winter landscape, melted crayons running down a canvas. But there was one painting I did like. It was of Noah’s Ark and the animals, two of each, and it was as if some child had created it. All of the proportions for each creature were just slightly off. The monkey looked like a bear and the giraffe had the face of a lion. I remember looking at the painting that particular night and posing a question to the group. I asked, “Do y’all think, in this Noah’s Ark painting, that the storm is coming and all the animals are getting ready to board the ark? Or do you think the storm has passed, and all the animals are leaving?”

“It’s difficult to tell, isn’t it, Carl?” Mary had a small smile, the type of smile that had very little to do with the mouth and more with the eyes. They scrunched up from beyond her thin, wire-framed glasses, gleaming underneath her craftsman chandelier.

Our other two guests that night, and most nights for these dinners, were Alicia and Wim, both of whom worked at the college with Mary and myself, Alicia at the library and Wim at the student radio station. Alicia had a bob cut like Louise Brooks, but any allusions to flapper culture was undercut by her more rockabilly sensibilities—tattoos scattered across her arms, vintage cat eye sunglasses, and hotrod red accessories. Beneath those frames were eyes as big as an owl’s. They never seemed to blink when she’d address you, direct and powerful. Wim had a face like a bust. A jaw made of stone with a voice to match. As the station director, I’d often hear his voice on the radio, and he once revealed to me a little trick of the trade for getting rid of microphone pops—plosives, he’d call them, distortions caused by consonant sounds like “P”s and “B”s. He’d hold a pencil directly in front of his mouth, which he said would split the air and alleviate the pops. So whenever I’d feel intimidated by him, which was often, I’d imagine him holding a pencil in front of his lips. 

Prior to that night, those two’d been married for, gosh, six or seven years. They got a divorce about a week after the incident, which, of course, made sense. Considering.

 I didn’t see it that night, didn’t pick up on the cues, but they do say hindsight is twenty-twenty, and now it’s clear as day that they were never going to last, and that dinner was just the culmination of something between them that had been brewing for who knows how long. 

“Well, it’s obvious to me.” Alicia pushed her crumb-riddled plate toward the center of the table and dabbed the sides of her mouth with her kitchen cloth. “Look, there’s a rainbow and the clouds are parting. The storm’s over.” 

“I’m not so sure,” Wim chimed in, licking his teeth. He finished his Brown Betty, clanked his fork down on the empty plate, and dumped his crumpled-up cloth napkin before him. “Rainbows can happen before rain, too, you know. Those look like rain clouds, I think. And look at the animals. They’re looking every which way. Clearly, they’re waiting for Noah, waiting for someone to tell them it’s safe to board the ark.” 

“So Alicia says they’re going. Wim says they’re coming.” Mary took a sip of her pinot noir, which had a tendency to make her whole mouth purple, even if she’d only had half a glass. “What about you, Carl?”  

I shrugged it off and said I was unsure, and before I truly had time to pontificate, Alicia and Mary started going back and forth about the quality of the paintings. Alicia sat back in her chair and folded her arms, sighing at the paintings like a disappointed parent. “I don’t know how to put it nicely, Mary. These things are…unsightly. They’re really not good.” 

“And what makes a painting good?” Mary asked. 

“I don’t know. Form, technique, a basic knowledge of animal anatomy, especially if you’re depicting Noah’s Ark.” 

A satisfied grin unfurled upon Mary’s face, the kind of grin teachers give when they catch their students finally understanding the assignment. “The fact that we’re sitting here, asking ourselves if we think the animals are coming or going, leads me to believe that this painting does carry some merit, even if it isn’t traditionally good.” 

“Ugh. Coming, going. Good, bad. Who cares.” By then Wim had been stewing in something sour. Mixed with a growler he’d brought from the local pub, which he happily drank by himself, he appeared caught up in some internal entanglement. “Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“As a matter of fact,” Mary said, “I do have something I’d like to share.”

“I did sense something was going on.” Alicia cupped Mary’s hand in hers. “What is it, Mary?” 

“Oh, nothing crazy.” Mary ran her fingers down Alicia’s wrist, petting it like she used to those cats. “I bought something.” 

The guessing game had started immediately: A new car, more cats, an actual honest-to-god painting from a famous artist, a guitar, solar panels, and other items we knew Mary Martin had no business getting. But then again, what did we really know about her? Mary had eventually gone to her bedroom to retrieve the object of our curiosity while we simmered in the wake of the unanswered question. I remember catching a glance of the corner of her face before she whisked down the hallway, and she was smiling that slight smile with her wine-stained teeth. She seemed amused by her own spontaneity or the confusion she had caused. Or both. And while Mary was away, Wim and Alicia exchanged glaring glances at each other, spitting silent and invisible fire with fervid shakes of the head and raised eyebrows. I’m not sure if they had forgotten that I was there or if they simply didn’t care, but their quiet squabble had reminded me of the way my parents would fight and scream at each other. Whenever they’d argue, it felt as if they had known each other far too well or not at all. And maybe that’s why I’m not married now and never have been. Truth be told, after Beck Rombauer I never much had a mind to go that far with another person. 

Speaking of Beck, after our incident at Crusties, she’d taught me about something called Chekhov's Gun, said it was a writing principle about how every element of a story must be necessary to the plot. “So if there’s a gun in the story, it’s either gotta go off, or someone is thinking about setting it off,” I remember her saying. “Either way, that fucker’s gotta go off.” 

In the same way the gun at Crusties made Beck think of Chekhov, I, too, thought of that damn theoretical gun when Mary had displayed her actual gun for us at the dinner table. She unbuckled the case and swung it open like a magician revealing her missing rabbit. Tada! But instead of a rabbit out of a hat, it was a snub-nose revolver aimed directly at my chest. As Alicia recoiled into her chair, Wim let out a whistle and hovered over the weapon. “Nice. What kind is it?” 

“It is…” Mary read from a manual she’d placed under the chandelier’s light. “It’s a Ruger L-C-R thirty-eight special.”

Alicia’s big old eyes had nearly popped out of her head. She grabbed the sleeve of her green cardigan hanging off our chair and held it under her chin. By the look of her startled countenance, you might have reasoned Mary Martin had just slapped a dead fish on the table, and to no one’s surprise—certainly not Wim’s, who let out a “here we go” underneath his breath when he eyed Alicia from across the table—Alicia had taken offense to Mary’s brand-new purchase, and she made her feelings known.

“Jesus Christ, Mary. You can’t be serious. Out of all the things you could have surprised us with, this is undoubtedly the worst. Please, take this thing off of the table. Better yet, do yourself, and society, a favor and smelt it down into something that’s actually useful.” 

“Don’t be dramatic, my dear.” Wim dumped the last of the amber beer from the growler into his cup. I remember watching it fizzle as he spoke. “Ol’ Mary here is just practicing her second amendment rights, isn’t she? Besides—It’s Maricopa, practically the Wild West. She’s a single woman. In her fifties. Cops can’t do nothing for you until it’s too late. Better to just protect yourself.” 

Wim had hardly finished his sentence before Alicia retorted. “ I’m not being dramatic, my love. A few drinks in, I’m sure you’re just a chill guy and nothing’s gonna bother you. But I, for one, have a pretty big problem with a gun suddenly being on the table.”

Something about the way Wim had chortled then made me think of a pig being kicked down a flight of stairs. He looked at me with that glazed-over sort of look, halfway here and there, but mostly amused by the conflict. He was one of those—loved to argue and play devil’s advocate, and it had a way of pissing off everybody in the room, especially Alicia. I could practically feel her radiating like a nuclear reactor. Wim held his gaze on me and let out a deep, deep sigh, rolling his eyes and shaking his head, as if to say, this fucking bitch, but what he’d actually said was this. “It’s just a gun, Alicia. It’s not going to magically go off.”

It was at that moment I could feel Alicia’s eyes like laser beams shooting in my direction, and before I knew it, everyone at the table was looking at me. Wim with his reddening face from the alcohol, (he’d tried his best to hide his buzz, but he’d looked like he was one hiccup away from bubbles lifting from his bald head glistening with sweat), and Mary with that quivering look behind her eyes. She was holding her frail arms in front of her chest, touching the tips of fingers together as she chewed on her lip. Alicia demanded an answer from me. “Do you have anything to say about this, Carl?” she said. 

Beck had been an admirer of sociologist Irving Goffman’s dramaturgical analysis, wherein he compares social interaction between humans to that of actors on a stage. In many ways, that night felt like a play, some strange ritual in which we all had our parts. Mary at the head of the table with her gun displayed before us, the inciting incident. Wim to the left of the table, Alicia to the right, opposing ends of some grand moral musing. In between them, and opposite of Mary Martin, was me. Who was I in this dramatis personae? Which part did I play? 

That night, and for most of my life, I simply played the part that I’d been typecast in. I was agreeable. “Some people,” I said, stumbling nervously around my words, “just want a gun.”

Amiability, above all other traits, was my great characteristic and, to me at least, the throughline of my life’s course. I can remember report cards from grade school with notes from Mrs. Jezewska, saying, “works well with other students,” despite the fact that I’d been getting bullied in her classroom. Mom and Dad’s number one rule before going out with what little friends I did have growing up: “Don’t cause any trouble.” It’s how I’d come to adopt the name “Carl” at the library, when, in fact, my real name was Carlos, though I’d hardly correct anyone so as to not cause a slight moment of tension or make anyone feel uncomfortable. 

Beck Rombauer left for Los Angeles back in 1971, and I used to tell myself that if I had just worked up the courage to tell her how much I loved her, she’d still be here. But thinking back on it, what with her being a writer and all, she would have hated the passive protagonist I’d become. In reality, I hate guns. I hate the way they make small men feel big. I hate the way they sound after they’ve been fired, sucking up all the air in a place and leaving only a chasm of dangerous silence. I hate the way we protect them like children whenever a child has been shot by one. But I was congenial that night because, if Beck Rombauer was right, and every minute of every day was just acting, saving face, then damn if it wasn’t exhausting having to act. So I played my part. I deflected, ping-ponging the conversation back to the others to say their lines. And they did so with unrehearsed fervor.

For a moment, the conversation lingered on me. Alicia threw her hands up in confusion, as if to say what the fuck kind of an answer was that? but what she had actually said was this: “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Normal people don’t just suddenly want a gun, Carl.” She then proceeded to deconstruct Wim’s argument about Mary practicing her constitutional right, how owning slaves was technically permitted by the constitution. “But does it make it any more right or ethical to do so?” 

Wim guffawed. “You cannot seriously be comparing owning a gun to owning slaves, Alicia. Guns can be used for hunting. Self-protection. Besides, if you go far enough left, guns are necessary. C’mon. Let’s use that master’s degree of yours, huh.”

Before Alicia could get a word in, Wim asked me if I had a master’s degree as well, to which I nodded. “Library sciences,” I said.

“God. I can’t believe you guys need a master’s to work at a library. Can’t be that hard to alphabetize books, can it?” Wim smiled.

“A lot harder than pushing buttons on a computer and reading ads for McDonald’s, dear.” Alicia smiled back, but it was quickly wiped away by the sight of the revolver lying upon the table.

“That’s very good, dear,” Wim said, “but let’s hear from Mary Martin, yeah?” Mary had thrown her arms back and gasped, as if Wim had startled her from a dream or caught her hands in the cookie jar. I wasn’t sure then but I’m damn sure now: she’d been reaching for the gun. “Well, how about it, Mary? Why d'ya get it?” 

I’m convinced that any answer Mary could have given that night would have driven Alicia mad and sparked the argument that ensued. Looking back at it now, it seems like the events of that night were preordained by some power beyond our understanding. But of all the things Mary could have said that night, she said, “I can’t tell you why I wanted the gun. It’s just, every day after work, I drive by this pawn shop that sells guns, promises them on a big green neon sign and everything. And I always think to myself, ‘well, what if I just bought one?’”

“Well, what if you just bought one?” I could hear the wood stretching and squeaking as Alicia gesticulated in her chair. “Mary, this isn’t a stand mixer. It’s a fucking gun. You don’t just buy it on impulse and then take it out during dinner like it’s a show-and-tell item.”

“So what if it was an impulse buy, leave her alone,” Wim said. “Just ignore the damn thing, holy cow.”

“God damnit, Wim!” Alicia grabbed her napkin and squeezed it so hard I could see the whites of her knuckles. “You just don’t listen. You just don’t give a shit, do you? Mary Martin just bought a revolver and we’re all sitting around here like it’s not a big deal. I know you might not think so, over there with your shit-eating grin and your sudden desire to honor a constitution written by slave-owning plutocrats, but it’s a big fucking deal. And Carl over here is either too feckless to disagree with you or too witless to agree with me—he’s so vapid he can’t even decide whether the storm is coming or going on this shitty painting—but I can see it in his eyes. Mary’s little surprise terrifies him. And if you weren’t such a knuckle-dragging contrarian, like you always fucking are, you’d use the few brain cells you have left, the ones you haven’t drowned in alcohol, to agree with me because you know I’m right.”

Wim slammed his palms on the table, slammed them so hard he’d knocked over Mary’s wine glass which shattered on the ground. He threw his chair back and stood up, towering over the table, his shadow suffocating Alicia as she watched him with her big eyes. We sat there in silence, listening to the giant breathe, and when I looked over at Mary, I could see she was touching the revolver, tracing the outline of its handle with the tip of her finger. But the strange thing was that her eyes remained fixed on Wim, and it was as if her hand was acting on its own accord. 

Finally Wim leaned underneath the light of the chandelier. He hovered over the table and stared at Alicia for a while. He spoke calmly and low, almost as if he were reading one of his ad spots on air, and I pictured him then with his pencil in front of his lips. “I don’t know why I married you, Alicia. I don’t know if you’ve always been this person and I was just too stupid and in love to see it, or if you’ve become someone else entirely since we first met. But I don’t like this. I don’t like you. Not anymore. I don’t like myself around you, but maybe I simply don’t like the person I’ve become, and maybe that’s something I need to reflect on. But I think, when this whole god-awful night is over, you and I should have a serious conversation about our relationship.”

In moments such as that one, I might have been inclined to let my mind wander off, think about things as uncomplicated as love. And I do remember then feeling a breeze wafting through Mary’s old house. It was one of those first few days of the Arizona fall, just after monsoon season, when it was just cool enough to leave your windows open at night. Those first few nights always feel so special, so welcome a reprieve after a long and arduous summer, which seems to be getting longer and longer with every passing year. It almost makes living here worth it. Almost. But before my mind had a chance to wander, I remember getting that same feeling I’d gotten at Crusties so long ago, like the air in the room had been squeezed out, and all I heard was Wim’s voice. “Carl,” he said. “Do not move.” 

Before I could ask why, I heard Mary whimpering from across the table, and when I looked up, she was aiming the revolver at my face. Suddenly I was in a staring contest with the black hole of the barrel, afraid that if I’d looked anywhere else, even for a split second, the thing would take my head off. 

“Mary, put the gun down.” Wim held his palms out, one at me and one at Mary. Alicia shook nervously, bouncing her leg up and down. I remember the sound of her shoes clicking against the chair and thinking of one of those old school metronomes wagging uncontrollably with its mad tempo. 

“I can’t,” Mary said. 

“What do you mean you can’t? Just do it,” Wim said.

“See, this is exactly why I wanted us to put the fucking gun away.”

“Not now, Alicia.” Wim aimed a finger at Mary. “Mary, I’m not going to tell you again. Put the goddamn gun away. Now.”

“But I can’t. I don’t know what’s happening.” Tears had begun streaming down Mary’s face. She could barely speak without dribbling on her own snot. “I swear I’m trying to.” 

“Don’t try, Mary, just fucking do it,” Alicia said.

“I can’t,” Mary screamed, after which she whispered “I’m sorry” over and over again. 

“I swear to god, Mary, I’m giving you to the count of three to put the gun down. One…” I don’t think Wim had a real plan then, but it was better than mine, which was to hope and pray that whatever was compelling Mary to aim the gun at me had suddenly commanded her to put the thing back in its case and pretend like nothing had even happened. But instead, she proceeded to click the hammer back on the revolver. Wim brought his fist down to the table but thought better of making a sharp and sudden noise just before striking it. “Godddamnit! Mary, listen to me. That is Carl. You’re going to shoot Carl.” 

“Carlos,” I said, still in my staring match with the gun. In unison, everyone’s head turned my way. “Alicia, you misheard me when I first started working at the library, and you called me Carl and I just never corrected you. But now, with Mary Martin aiming a gun at me, I felt like I should tell you. Also, I think the storm’s leaving. God, I hope the storm is leaving.” 

Wim pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus H. Christ. Thank you, Carlos, for correcting us after all these years. Now how about this. Mary, put the fucking gun down or I’m going to make you put the gun down. Two…”

In those last moments, staring down the barrel of the revolver, I remember Mary whispering “I’m sorry,” repeating it over and over like she’d gone desperate and mad, barrelling through beads on a rosary. Her finger squeezed around the trigger ever so slightly, pulling it back, and I remember finally breaking away from Ruger’s eye and looking at Mary. God, she looked like hell. I obviously couldn’t see my face then, but I imagine it had some sort of combination of shock, concern, surprise, and confusion, which is what Mary’s face had looked like then. Red and diaphoretic, caught in some mental battle. Was she really unable to control herself? Had she really been trying to put the gun down, and if so, why in the goddamn hell was it so goddamn hard? I never did find out, and now that Mary’s dead I suppose I never will. I know I should have asked her these things, and I guess my response to that is, it’s hard to think straight when you’ve got the wrong end of a gun staring at you. Wasn’t even thinking about the piss running down my pant leg until the whole thing was over. The only thing I said, the only thing I could say at that moment, was one word. “Don’t.”

Wim also said a single word. He said “three” and then dashed for the gun. Alicia covered her ears and brought her head down to her chest. I closed my eyes thinking that that was it, and in that split second of time, I thought about going to Crusties with Beck Rombauer, and the way she’d smile with a mouth full of cream cheese, and her little blue book of observations by her side, and the way she’d pull the hair back behind her ears, and the way she’d watch the cars on Loyola St., dreaming of some other place. 

And then I heard the stale click as Mary pulled the trigger, and the hammer slapped against the empty cylinder of the revolver. Silence ensued, and we all sat in it for a while like bones in tar. Mary had eventually set the Ruger back in its case. And I suppose it was only then that any of us had noticed two fully stocked speed loaders sitting like stones beneath the gun, still cupped in place by the foam case. Wim never sat down, just stood, staring at nothing in particular. Meanwhile, I couldn’t take my eyes away from a lukewarm stick of butter, and Alicia sat there shivering in her jacket. When Mary had finally stopped crying she closed and buckled the case, giving it a little nervous pat as she informed us there were brownies and ice cream in the kitchen if we had room in our stomachs, to which Alicia and Wim denied. They left shortly thereafter, and then it was just me and Mary, staring at each other for a while, both unsure of what to say or who should go first. So we said nothing. And instead, Mary brought out the brownies and ice cream, and we ate it silently in the kitchen. I ate it so fast I got a brain freeze. Hurt so bad it made me laugh, and my laughter caused Mary to join in and suddenly we were laughing like hyenas.
When we were through with our dessert, Mary walked me to the door. “Carl,” she said, as I walked out, “I mean—Carlos.” 

It was then I finally noticed I’d pissed myself, and I was trying everything I could to hide that fact from Mary. So I turned my head and watched her out of the corner of my eye.

“I miss Jack,” she said.

“I miss Beck.” I started to walk away but she called out to me again.

“Carl? Damnit, I am so sorry. Carlos?” I said nothing and waited for her to come out with it. “Do you forgive me?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “Good night, Mary Martin.”

We never spoke of that night again. But before Mary Martin had passed—cancer, no less—I visited her in the hospital. I held her frail hand the entire visit and I listened to whatever she wanted to talk about, which was mostly the new Cardinals roster. But before I left, she’d mentioned a book which she thought I would love. “I thought about having my niece order one for you, but then I thought, ‘What the hell—I’m not going to be around my longer, he can just have mine.’ It’s by an author I think you might like. But, Carlos, promise me you won’t open it until you get home.”

From behind her pillow she retrieved a book adorned in bright green wrapping paper which featured an image of Jolly Old Saint Nick and Mrs. Claus, smiling as they consumed milk and cookies, snowflakes and candy canes abound. “Sorry,” Mary said. “Only wrapping paper I could find.”

Though we never addressed it, we shared this feeling of knowing forgiveness. I suppose it had felt odd to try to say, “I forgive you for almost shooting me all those years ago,” so I just let it ride. Some things are easier left unsaid, anyway. 

I honored Mary’s wish and I waited until I got to the driveway of my home before unwrapping the gift. It was a book called Spontaneous, about a young girl growing up in rural Texas. The author: Rebecca Rombauer. I turned the book over to examine the author photo and there she was. Beck. Older, obviously, but there she was. Her debut book. At 58. 

Inside, Mary’s handwriting was on the half title page. She’d written down an email address, with a note. It read: 

To Carlos, 

Shoot your shot.
With love and many, many apologies. 

—Mary Martin