“So, call me Frank,” he said with a half smile on his face. ”I’m going to tell you straight.”
I stood there and listened carefully. I mean, you listen carefully when a revolver is pointed at your face. Or even your general direction.
Frank chewed something in his mouth as he stood in front of me. We were standing outside my cabin in the woods behind Bend. The green fir trees surrounded us, bark dripping with the smell of Christmas. He then spit something dark out and on the ground and cleared his throat.
“Are you going to tell me your name,” asked Frank. ”I don’t believe we have…met?”
I closed my eyes briefly. That’s probably another thing that you shouldn’t do when someone is pointing a gun at you. While my eyes were closed, I replied real soft, “William.”
“What’s that, I couldn’t hear you,” Frank said.
I repeated myself, only louder, and opened my eyes. I hadn’t realized he was leaning forward, until he leaned back a little. He seemed satisfied. As satisfied as a man holding an antique six-shooter can. Which is to say, pretty smug.
“Well, William, can I call you Will—” Frank paused. I nodded my head. ”Okay, Will it is! Anyway, Will, can you tell me something?” I nodded again. ”That’s good of you. To be willing to tell a perfect stranger something. Even one whose has his gun pointed at his face.”
Frank paused for a few seconds while he seemed to collect his thoughts. ”Can you tell me, in as few words as possible, what you are doing here on my land?”
Before I could catch myself, I said loudly, “What? Your land? What do you mea—” and caught myself. ”Well, what do you mean?”
Frank frowned fiercely at my outburst, and his finger tightened slightly over the trigger of the gun. You can tell how tense a shooter is by how white the finger gets over the trigger. That’s something I learned online, on the Internet, in some Guerillo webpage where they also told you how to build a doomsday shelter and liquor stills. In any case, back to Frank. He was still shaking his head. Then he started to talk.
“Will,” he began, and lowered his revolver slightly. ”In the little time that I have gotten to know you, I’ve grown quite fond of you. I hope that the feeling has been somewhat mutual, minus the natural effect of me, a perfect stranger you have only known for, what, five minutes, threatening you with potential grievous body harm. I would hate for our great friendship to be soured by petty things like anger, resentment, death, and all that foolishness. So, let me ask you again, what are you doing on my land?”
It was in that moment—that tense moment where Frank watched me with those dead eyes of his—that I realized that his question was very legitimate; because out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that my cabin was no longer there, and that, in fact, there were only trees as far as I could see.
I was no longer at home.
