Bridge of Sighs

stared at the weapon, fascinated by how small the hole was that the bullet would have to squeeze out of.
    “That’s not what it’s for,” she told him.
    My father and I stared at each other.
    “It’s an air gun,” she explained. “It only shoots pellets.”
    At that moment, right on cue, the same dog came trotting back down the hill, flanked now by two other mangy curs. They trotted in formation right down the middle of the street, paying no attention when my mother rose from the steps and headed across the intersection to meet them. The lead mutt trotted right up to the same fruit bin, but when he lifted his hind leg this time, there was a muffled pop and he leapt like a circus animal, hanging there in the air, contorted, for a full beat. He returned to the sidewalk no wiser, though, frantically chasing his haunch and growling frightfully, as if whatever had bitten him might still be there with its mouth open. The other two dogs were surprised, but neither seemed to connect this sudden fit of madness to the object my mother held in her hand, now pointed at them. One of them watched curiously as the first continued to growl and chase his tail, then grew bored and lifted his own hind leg, whereupon there was another discrete pop and then there were two dogs dancing and spinning and yelping in front of Ikey Lubin’s.
    The third dog now regarded my mother and the gun with genuine suspicion. You could almost see the animal’s thoughts scrolling slowly across his feeble, conflicted brain. On the one hand there was the very real need to pee, not to mention the deep and abiding habit of doing so in our fruit bin. On the other there was the fear born of recent, albeit secondhand, experience. He looked back and forth between his suddenly lunatic companions and my mother, started to cock his leg, then reconsidered, staring at this woman for a long time before trotting off down the block, checking over his shoulder every so often to see where she was. His companions followed along, deeply resentful at this inexplicable turn of events.
    When they were gone, my mother returned to where my father and I sat on the porch regarding her, at least in my case, with new eyes. “Don’t let anybody pee on your melons, Lou,” she said. “That’s my last bit of advice for today.”
    And with that she went inside.
             
     
    A FTER DINNER that night we all watched Ed Sullivan together, like the family we used to be. When it was over, my father grew restless and took the transistor radio out on the porch to listen to the country music he favored. After a while we heard him turn the radio off, and then the porch steps groaned under his weight. I went over to the window and peered out through the blinds and saw him pass beneath the streetlamp on the corner, fishing his keys out of his pocket and letting himself into Ikey Lubin’s. I waited for the lights to come on and was surprised when they didn’t. I could tell my mother knew exactly where he’d gone without having to look.
    “What’s he doing?” I wondered out loud.
    She continued to stare at the television screen. “Just looking at it,” she said. “I suspect he’s really seeing that store for the first time.”
    I didn’t like her implication that my father didn’t really see what was in front of him, and I felt some of my recently surrendered resentment return. I did want to know more about what she was thinking, though. “Will it be okay now? The store?”
    “No,” she said without hesitating. “It just won’t fail as fast.”
    “I think it’ll be a success,” I said stubbornly.
    “I hope you’re right,” she said, sounding like she meant it. “He doesn’t know what else to do, anyhow, so I guess he’ll have to do this.”
    “You could help,” I said.
    She looked at me hard, then. “I
am
helping,” she said. “You must know that much.”
    “I mean help him,” I said, knowing exactly what she was getting at, “at the store.”
    “I can’t help him, Lou,” she said. “I have to help
us.
”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “Please don’t ask me to explain what you already understand,” she said, meeting my eye. I was the one who looked away.
    That night, in bed, I heard my father return, and shortly thereafter my parents’ voices began to filter up through the heat register. I heard only part of what was said, but enough to know that their conversation meant the end to the worst of their recent conflict. Their new