Death Takes A Break

There’s no mistaking the sound of a shotgun being engaged.

Cha-chuck.

Christie sat bolt upright and sought the source of the noise. Nothing she could see with a glance around. She struggled to unwrap the sheet tangled around her from in the night while she slept on the rust-coloured tweed sofa. Oblivious to the fact that she only wore an extra-long Cowboys jersey, she scrambled over to the open front door. Peeking around the corner, she saw her father, R.C., with his shotgun at his side. It pointed to the ground, and Pop’s finger was off the trigger.

Looking toward the driveway, a man stood on the packed earth leading up to the porch. Pushing the red curls from her face, Christie subconsciously tucked the hair behind her ear. A sound caught her attention. Glancing to her right, she saw her father’s dogs, Mutt and Jeffrey laying on the porch, their heads moving back and forth between Pop and the stranger. As they did so, their tails went up and down in a half-hearted attempt between being friendly and hesitation. The rescued labs were good dogs but weren’t used as much as guard dogs. People had to be bad for them to bark at them.

Christie’s attention returned to the man as her father spoke. “You can tell your no-account boss that my answer’s the same. I ain’t selling my property, and that’s final.”

Selling the property? Pop had said nothing to her about that. Christie moved closer, and the man’s head swivelled over to where she stood behind the screen door.

“Christie, come on out here,” her father intoned.

She opened the screen door but stayed inside. The man pushed his lips together, bowed his head and looked at the ground. Embarrassed, she realized she had been standing there in the skimpy top.

As a hospice nurse, Christie had seen and heard almost everything possible, but appearing half-naked to a stranger wasn’t a great way to start the morning.

“Just a minute, Pop.”