Falling by Anne Simpson

there a safety on that thing?
    But Elvis was looking down the barrel of the gun. What’s a safety? he asked.
    Christ, don’t
do
that.
    Why?
    It could go off and you could lose your head. And if you point it at me, I could lose my head.
    There aren’t bullets, said Elvis, still looking down the barrel. Roger told me that there weren’t any bullets in it. Did you know that a Winchester 30.30 shoots bullets at two thousand feet per second?
    Why does that make me feel even more nervous?
    Elvis turned the gun over and stroked the polished wood of the handle. Roger said that it’s a Trapper Carbine. He said that it’s a Trapper Carbine and that it’s an antique and what did my mother need with a gun anyway. That’s what he said.
    I’d really appreciate it if you put that Winchester Trapper Carbine down.
    Elvis dropped his arms down, but he still held the gun loosely.
    Thank you, said Damian, bending and putting his hands on his thighs. His heart was doing acrobatics. Maybe you could put it away. In a locked gun rack or something.
    I wasn’t going to shoot you.
    Elvis’s sandy hair had been brushed up like a crest on top of his head, and he had the sleepy look of a small boy. He had large eyes, with eyelashes and eyebrows that were so pale they could hardly be seen. There were entire galaxies of freckles all over his body; his face and neck, especially, were covered with ginger-coloured speckles.
    His blue pyjamas had small sheep and ducks printed on them. They were a little too small and he’d left the top unbuttoned. For some reason, Elvis’s chest surprised Damian, just as it had the first time he’d met him. His chest was aspale and hairless as his face, except for a few sparse curls of sandy-coloured hair; nevertheless, it was a man’s chest.
    I wasn’t going to shoot you, he said again.
    Well, good, because it scared the bejesus out of me.
    For the first time, Damian looked around. He’d never seen a place like this before, filled with things from top to bottom. The glassy yellow eyes of a snowy owl were fixed on him; the bird had been stuffed and put in a huge mahogany case, lined with black velvet, on top of a cabinet. There was a small brass plate in front:
Nyctea scandiaca
. The creature’s feet were downy with soft feathers, making it look as though it was wearing delicate boots, but its wings were outstretched in an ominous way. It wasn’t an owl – it was a dead thing – but Damian couldn’t help thinking it was real. Such yellow eyes.
    Where did all of this come from? asked Damian.
    It’s Roger’s stuff.
    There was a three-legged table on top of a marble-topped sideboard, and on top of the spindly table was a birdcage, spray-painted with gold. Books were stacked in piles, with old, yellowed newspapers beneath them: there were Bibles and dictionaries, musty with age, and a full set of the
Encyclopedia Britannica
. A cabinet held treasures behind glass: a rock on which nested tiny ivory birds in ivory nests, and beside the birds, a miniature scene of Santa’s workshop made to look as though it was a cave of ice, where thimble-sized elves were busy swinging hammers and using saws, and a Santa Claus waved his arms as if he were conducting a symphony.
Santa’s Animated Workshop – $78.00
. Next to it was a pair of horns from a two-headed ram, according to the label, and a Ghanaian gold weight of a dancing woman. The gold weight held open the table of contents ofa book written by Siamese twins
(The Left Page Being the Work of Simon and the Right Page Being the Work of Albert, Dated This Year of Our Lord, 1789)
. Overlooking Simon and Albert was a pink music box, with the lid raised and a pink ballerina tilted precariously against a mirrored backing.
    In an umbrella stand were five walking sticks, and Damian pulled one out, idly; it was an ebony and brass stick with a carved ivory handle that unscrewed and revealed a unicorn hidden inside. He put it back again, making a clatter. Lisa would have loved