Maternal Harbor by Marie F. Martin Page A

everything except the sweat darkening Bryan's shirt.  Cars and trucks whizzed by on the freeway.  A Chevy sedan loaded with a hoard of children and a harried mother parked by a pump.  Then a pickup with a couple of teenagers rolled down the exit.
    TJ lit another cigarette.
    Bryan was mentally kicking himself for offering a ride and calling about the gun when an old white Cadillac exited the freeway.  Right kind of car for the blonde, he thought.  He expected a long-legged ditz to climb out.  He stopped in his tracks when a gray-haired woman planted both feet on the pavement and pulled herself upright by using the door.  Chubby knees showed below walking shorts and her tank top stretched across a buxom chest and huge paunch.  Heavy with cosmetics, her round face held bottle thick glasses set crooked on her nose.
    Bryan turned away.
    “Hey.  Ain’t you the one?”  The woman's voice matched the one on the phone.  She peered at him and popped the trunk open.  Two-handed, she lifted the rifle out and pointed it his way.
    Bryan jumped aside.  “Is it loaded?”
    “How should I know?”
    Bryan took it.  “Is it stolen?”
    “It belongs to my worthless son.  He owes me so much rent money that I’m selling it.”
    The safety was off so Bryan opened the bolt.  It was loaded.  He ejected the single cartridge, closed the bolt and set the safety.  The wooden stock was velvet smooth, not a nick anywhere.  The barrel gleamed from careful oiling.  He sighted down it.
    The woman looked where he pointed the barrel.  “Nothing out there you can shoot with an unloaded rifle.”
    Bryan lowered the weapon.  “Know how old it is?”
    “My father took it off a Kraut in the Argonne forest.  Should've been mine, but my old man skipped me and handed it to the bum who invented the X generation.  So in fact, it's mine to sell.  And I ain't haggling on price.”
    Bryan controlled his eagerness, but the corners of his mouth twitched with pleasure at his luck.
    “What'cha need it for?”  The woman rubbed the toe of her dirty tennis shoe against the pavement.
    “ I'm heading to deer country.”
    “ That kid over there belong to you?”
    “ Just giving him a ride.”
    “ Put the rifle back in the trunk.  I don't want no damn kid getting it.”
    Bryan wanted to choke her for wasting his time, but instead replaced the Mauser in the trunk.  “You know, this whole thing has been like hiking ten miles in the desert and finding an empty beer can.”
    “Oh hell’s bells, give me the money and take it.”  She held out her pudgy hand.
    Bryan counted out seven twenties and a ten, handed them to her, and reached to retrieve the rifle.  She shoved him hard, slammed the trunk lid and dashed for the open door.  He stumbled, but caught his balance.  He stuck his boot in the opening just before it slammed.  He pulled.  She tugged.  He won and grabbed the hand still clutching the bills.
    “Lemme go!” she screeched, thrashing her fat legs.
    He pried at her fingers.
    Clenching tighter, she spewed blue filth, reviling him with every conceivable curse word.  She tried to twist away, spat at him.
    He jerked from her saliva and managed to pull the bills from her fist.
    “Dammit,” she shrieked.  “I need that money.  Give it back and I'll let you take the rifle.”
    Bryan shook the cash at her.  “No way.”
    “But you said you'd buy it.”
    “ You ding bat.  You just tried to rob me.  I should call the cops.”
    Her eyes watered.  “I got scared about what Billy Bob would do when he found it gone.”  Her double chin trembled, mascara ran under her eyes.
    “You're scared of your own son?”
    She blinked and snuffed.  “ I’m the one who raised him.”
    Bryan laughed.  “I see what you mean.  Okay, I'll give you two choices.  One, take the rifle out of the trunk.  Two, hand it to me.”
    “No way.  Then you'll have the money and the rifle.”
    “ I'll stick the money under the tire.”  Stupid