The Sixth Idea by P. J. Tracy

and punching in Otis’s number.
    Otis was her geriatric handyman, whom she was certain didn’t have a name for his penis or his guns, although the veracity of that particular speculation wasn’t one she wanted to dwell on for more than the millisecond it had taken for it to pop in on her thoughts like an unwelcome guest.
    â€œOtis.”
    â€œHey, Lydie, welcome back. How was your trip?”
    â€œGreat. Warm. I brought you back a shot glass.”
    â€œAren’t you a peach! I only got two states left and my collection is complete.”
    â€œWhat are you missing?”
    â€œRhode Island and Nebraska.”
    â€œSorry, but you’re on your own with those. Hey, Otis, do you have to clean your gun after you shoot it?”
    â€œYou sure should.”
    She thought of all the old movies, where pioneers and cowboys were shooting their guns all day and night, and you never saw them cleaning their weapons. “Really?”
    â€œDon’t tell me you finally dusted off that little mite your uncle gave you.”
    Lydia sighed. “Yeah. And I’m having some trouble. Is it too late for you to come over?”

ELEVEN

    L ydia loved Otis. He was an unabashed chauvinist, as old-school as they got, and he could fix anything, build anything. In spite of his age, he was still strong and straight, and his mind was sharp. She paid him, of course, but he refused to take the current market rates for skilled labor, so to make up for the paucity of pay, she baked him pies. And she made great pies—a legacy from her mother, Alice. It was a perfect barter, a true symbiosis, and they were both happy with the bargain. Besides, it was a little window into the way things had been way back when. Men did stuff for women they couldn’t or wouldn’t do for themselves and women did stuff for men they couldn’t or wouldn’t do for themselves. Everybody had a job, a place in the larger scheme of things, and there was perfect balance.
    She watched as Otis briskly took the gun apart, cleaned it, and got it back together within the space of a few minutes. “Wow. You’re good.”
    â€œI did it fast, so you could see how easy it is. Just takes some practice, and I’ve had plenty. Now let’s see if you can do it. We’ll take it real slow.”
    It took an hour, but she eventually got the hang of it, felt comfortable doing it on her own. Lydia Ascher, soon-to-be-gunslinger beyond compare, could take apart her weapon, clean it, and put it back together again. Astounding. Psycho serial killer was in big trouble now.
    They celebrated the milestone event with strong coffee and the lemon meringue pie she’d baked as a thank-you to Otis for keeping an eye on her place when she’d been in L.A. When they ran out of rural life small talk—the snow that was coming, the cold snap, the gardens they would plant when spring eventually arrived—she told him about her wild meeting with Chuck Spencer and their shared family history.
    Otis loved every minute of it. “Well, my goodness, young lady, you’ve got yourself quite a pedigree.”
    â€œWell, maybe an ignominious one.”
    â€œI don’t know what that means, but there’s gotta be the hands of fate tangled up in there somewhere.”
    She smiled and shrugged. “Not really. It’s just the six degrees of separation. Which is getting smaller by the minute.”
    â€œI suppose so. But I do wish you an enjoyable lunch tomorrow. I’m glad you’re taking the time to revisit family history with this Chuck fella. Those times are long gone now, and it’d be a damn shame if everything was forgotten. My Pop served in the big war. Never got much out of him until the end, and even then it was sparse, but I still keep everything he told me close, as a memory.”
    As she was wrapping up the rest of the pie for Otis to take home,he came into the kitchen and touched her shoulder. She