The lift stood on four round wooden pilings, eaten at the
water line by wood-boring insects that mimicked the damage caused by beavers.
Eventually the pilings would fail, but not for a few more years. Manaloosa’s
tranquility was in more imminent danger of collapse.
John Maynard sat on the edge of a weathered dock next to the
lift in Chuck’s back yard. He held a bolt-action 22 caliber Remington rifle the
boys found in the back of the shed where Mr. Allen kept his lawn mower. Chuck was gathering oranges from a nearby
tree.
“Toss one in the water Chuck,” said John. “Chuck it…” he laughed.
Chuck obediently lobbed a ripe, baseball-sized orange into
the canal.
John stood, lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired at
the floating fruit. The bullet splashed about a foot from its target as John
felt a slight kick to his shoulder. Hardly anything.
“This gun sucks”
“Maybe you suck”
In the time it took John to fumble with another bullet and
load it into the chamber, the orange sped out of range on the outgoing tide.
“Gimmee another.”
Chuck tossed a larger sphere into the canal.
John compensated for the errant sighting of the old rifle
and slowly squeezed the trigger like his uncle had taught him. As he did, he
exhaled and counted to three.
“Got it!,” he shouted as the slug spattered bits of orange peel, spinning the orange in the water and causing it to submerge briefly and then surface with a splash like a struggling fish.
The boys took turns with the gun, tossing and shooting
oranges with increasing success.
“You boys keep it in the water!” yelled Judd Randall from across the canal. He watched from his own dock two houses down. He knew from his own experience how the excitement of target practice could result in overlooking the trajectory and background objects, like his own boat and jet-skis.
Judd was in his 30s, heavily tattooed, and unimaginably old
to John and Chuck. He was a fearsome presence to a 14 year old.
“Yessir Mr. Randall,” yelled Chuck. “We’re being careful!”
“Don’t forget to lead. Time the current,” said Randall. He half wished he could bring out his own 44 and show them a thing or two.
“We’re being careful Mr. Randall,” John mocked Chuck under his breath. “Fuck you Mr. Randall. We oughta shoot you.”
Chuck shot a fearful glance at John. Sound carried across
the canal like wind across the open plains. Randall stood glaring for a moment
and then turned away.
“I wonder what it’d be like to shoot a man,” said John. “I’m tired o’ oranges.”
John pointed the gun at Chuck. A bullet was in the chamber.
Late afternoon clouds billowed over the palm trees behind Chuck.
The daily thunderstorms so typical of Florida summers were building. Sweat ran
down his temples. His curly blonde hair looked like an oozing sponge.
“Cut it out dickwad,” he yelled at John.
“Are you talkin’ to me?”
“Yeah, cut it out.”
As much as Chuck liked hanging out with John, it was not
without reservations. Chuck drew power from John’s risk-taking and adventurous
nature. But there were times when he revealed a darkness, the only John Maynard
that many people saw.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“It’s my dad’s gun. Put it down.”
“You say another word and I’ll shoot you in the head.” The gun was leveled straight at Chuck’s face.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Chuck opted to
continue the banter, neglecting the imbalance of power that gripped the moment.
He hesitated, appearing to consider the various outcomes,
and then threw down the gauntlet.
“Word!” he said defiantly.
A crack of summer thunder masked the sound of John’s rifle. He laughed nervously at the look on Chuck’s face when the bullet hit him between the eyes, just above the nose, lodging in a sinus cavity where it would remain for the rest of his life. Mystified, cross-eyed, but feeling surprisingly little pain, Chuck just said, “Aw shit Johnny” and passed out cold, face first into a concrete sea wall. The bruising and bloody scrapes on his face were more disturbing to the casual observer than the clean and relatively bloodless bullet hole.
John still had enough conscience at age 14 to know that he needed to get help, no matter how much trouble it meant. Still, he walked slowly to where Chuck lay with his head cocked awkwardly to the right, eyes open but unseeing, and kicked his leg above the knee.
“You ‘wake?” he said to the motionless body.
“Wake up Chuckie. We’re in deep shit,” he said louder.
“You alive?” he laughed as Chuck groaned and rose to all fours.
“Fuck Johnny, you shot me!”
At this point Chuck assumed the bullet had hit him hard enough to knock him out, but didn’t realize that the slug had penetrated his skull.
“My head hurts,” he said, “And my face, dammit.”
“I had to call for help. You’ve got a hole in your face asshole,” said John. “I told you not to say another word.”
He was still holding the rifle when the Manaloosa County sheriff arrived.
“Put the gun down son!” said Tom Farrell when he saw the rifle in Maynard’s hand. “Now!” His own weapon was drawn.
John showed no signs of agitation, handing the gun slowly to the officer, stock first, with no more emotion than if it was a baseball bat. Farrell radioed for an ambulance and backup. He handcuffed Maynard to the boat lift and tended to Chuck until help arrived.
The beating John received after bail was posted that night was no worse than those delivered for lesser previous offenses. Countless beatings in a countless series of sweltering summer afternoons. It was just another night at the Maynard house at the end of Palm Drive, and the rage within John Maynard grew like a tropical breeze, discomfiting and damp. He wore it on the outside like a protective radioactive mist, and his reputation around town solidified that afternoon, growing by word of mouth the way legends often do.