by Charles Holdefer.
When the doorbell rang, Wayne stopped buffing and polishing and went to answer.
“Oh, it’s you.”
“I believe you know why I’m here.”
“Are you sure it’s necessary?”
“Honey, who is it?” Courtney called from the kitchen.
Wayne yelled over his shoulder. “It’s Nancy Pelosi. She’s come to take our guns.” He turned back to the Minority Leader. “I guess I’d better let you in. But I’m not happy about this.”
“I won’t be long.”
Wayne’s Ruger Redhawk lay on the coffee table, gleaming next to the summer issue of House Beautiful.
“Well, we can start with that one.”
Pelosi snapped open a pillow case.
“What did you say?” Courtney asked. She entered the room with a fresh mug of coffee. “Oh…I see.”
Pelosi eyed the rifle above the fireplace.
“That was grandpa’s .22,” Wayne explained. “His dad gave it to him when he was twelve years old. Used it for squirrels, mainly, and to develop his aim. He gave it to my dad, who later gave it to me. I’ve been saving it for my grandchildren. That gun has been in the family since the nineteenth century.”
The Congresswoman looked around. “Dianne!” she called. “Got another one for you.”
Senator Feinstein came rattling into the living room with a little red wagon.
“Huh? What?”
Pelosi pointed.
“Right, Nance. I’m on it.”
Feinstein trotted round the couch and reached above the fireplace and began to grapple with the gun.
“You got anything else for me?” Pelosi asked. “Shotguns? Semi-automatics? Hollow-point bullets and armor-piercing cartridges? Bump stocks? We sure appreciate it when citizens hand them in, I want you to know that.”
“Geez,” Feinstein puffed. “What’s with this thing?”
“Just a sec.” Wayne moved to help her. “It tends to stick.”
Courtney excused herself and soon returned with a snub-nosed revolver.
“Here’s our .357 from the night stand.” Pelosi opened her pillow case. Next Courtney retrieved her purse and, after rooting around, came up with a tiny nickel-plated Beretta 9000. “This was my Christmas present.” She dropped it in, too.
“Any long guns?” Pelosi pursued.
“Those are locked up in the basement,” said Wayne. “We’re responsible owners.”
“Could you get them, please?”
Feinstein lay the .22 rifle to rest in her wagon and smiled in satisfaction as they listened to Wayne pound down the basement steps; presently they heard him slowly pounding his way back up. He arrived with his arms laden. “There are only these four. The kids took the others when they went to college.”
The guns tumbled into the wagon.
“Thank you,” said Pelosi. “We won’t trouble you anymore.” She twisted the top of the pillow case but before she knotted it, she hesitated, looking back and forth between Wayne and Courtney. “Listen. You sure you’re not forgetting any? Give it a think.”
Wayne and Courtney were silent at first. Eventually Wayne blurted, “Oh, my goodness! Now that you mention it, there is one in the kitchen. Doggone!” Courtney sighed as he left them and moments later he returned with a box of cornflakes. He removed a .45 AMT Hardballer.
“Well well,” said Feinstein. “That’s some prize in your cereal!”
“If you want to know the truth,” said Courtney, “we hid it there in anticipation of a day when we might have to take our country back. But never mind. It’s too late now.”
The Hardballer dropped into the pillow case.
“Don’t worry, folks,” Pelosi said. “It’ll be all right.” She slung the bag over her shoulder. “Ho ho ho!”
The Congresswoman and Senator walked out the front door, and Wayne and Courtney fell into each other’s arms, their hearts beating fast as they listened to the squeak of wagon wheels growing fainter and fainter in the distance.
“I guess we always knew this would happen,” she said.
“It’s not our fault,” he said.
He pulled down the blinds and returned to her on the couch. For several minutes, they faced the windows in silence. What now? What was left? A tightness welled up in Wayne’s chest, and suddenly he clenched his fists and exclaimed, “I feel so infringed!”
Sobs shook him, and though Courtney reached out, she could not make him stop.