'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.'
~Matthew 5:5~
It was hard to tell which was hotter, the August afternoon or Georgette's temperature. The window was needlessly open, mixing the house's stuffy oxygen with the stiff outside air. It had her sweating like the hogs out back and huffing worse then the cows. But none of that mattered just now... the good Lord had given her business that she needed to finish. Georgette pushed her damp sheets back and drew her legs over the side of the bed. She hadn't done so for near two weeks and her knees quivered the second she put weight on them. But Georgette gritted her teeth, gripping the nightstand with her clammy hands.
Lord, Georgette swallowed desperately. Give me the strength, be You willin'.
There were moments in life that truly meant life or death, be it physical or metaphorical. This was the moment for Georgette. And no way or no how did the good Lord intend for her to lay flat on her back while it up and passed. With such purpose looming before her, the quivering lessened and Georgette straightened herself to a standing position. Her bedroom swirled, the cloth of her nightgown drooping against her sticky skin. A new rank of perspiration broke along the line of her rusty-gray hair. Georgette closed her eyes and counted to ten, opening them to find almost all the objects and their dainty colors back in their places. With that, she slowly but surely took the few steps out into the hallway.
With no lights along the narrow passage, it was somewhat cooler. It did Georgette more good then she could say; yet the awful churning in her stomach persisted. It lunged threatening every time she moved. She fought it off though, shooting whimsical eyes over the hall table. On the lace dolly her husband, Ira, smiled at her from their wedding picture and again, from among the silly grins of their four children.
Their sweet images, kept sharp and protected within their frames, gave Georgette the next fire of gumption to force down the ill bile in her throat. She reached above the table and clamped her weary hands around Ira's hunting rifle. Plenty old, but sturdy and polished. And loaded. Had been since the day Ira had brought it home, just before the depression hit. Georgette remembered him saying how its decorative outlook would only be a decoy, should the occasion ever arise. Not that he'd lived to put his trap to the test. But Ira had kept it clean and Georgette had carried on the tradition after he had passed. She took care of it the way they had taken care of each other for fifty years; with patience, passion, and a tender touch. However, that tender touch was about to show its ruthless side!
Harsh sounds from out front of the house aroused Georgette's ears and she stumbled into the foyer. She forced her fogged focus on her front screen, pausing only to wipe the nasty sweat from her eyes. This valley's naggin' hard on me Lord... jus' a few minutes if You please.
Still half-blinded with sweat and fever, Georgette used the barrel of the rifle to swing open the screen, cocking it at the same time. The sight that met her wasn't unexpected. A spit-n-shined '51 Bentley cluttered the throat of her driveway. Its owner, Mr. Arnold, leaned against the gleaming hood with his elbows. His three-piece suit resembled a strait-jacket in the heat, a limp cigarette hanging between his thin lips. And his eyes- cold, green-gray, like a garter snake's- followed in sick amusement the scuffle that was tearing on between them. A muscled man rained down on the leaner, yet smaller build of her youngest son, Harlan. An equal mass of a man held fast to her daughter-in-law Rose, who kicked and screamed for the fight to stop.
It was at the man's overgrown feet that Georgette let off the rifle's first round. The scurvy ape jumped about a mile plus an inch, releasing Rose. Harlan and his brute froze. Georgette's arms shook with her legs now at the long forgotten kick-back of her weapon, but she only cocked the gun again, raising it back to her shoulder.
"It's sighted rite 'tween yer eyes, Mr. Arnold!" Georgette announced. "An it'll stay there til ya an' yer hounds git off my land!"
Mr. Arnold's face, white in surprise and shock, relaxed, lowering his cigarette from his mouth carefully. "Ms. Westmore..." He looked her up and down, the amused expression returning. "Ma'am, I heard you'd taken ill. If I may, you're looking awful poorly..."
"Doc Mills don't know my body better then me." Georgette spat out. "Takes lot more then food poisonin' to rest my head."
"Food poisoning?" Mr. Arnold's eyebrows rose dramatically. "Why Ms. Westmore..."
"I don't wanna hear none of yer excuses or denials." Georgette shook her head, hoping to chase some of the cloudiness away. "Greedy hogs always leave their stench when's they've been in the kitchen."
Mr. Arnold's face lost all of its innocence then. The cigarette hit the ground, disappearing under the heel of his shoe. "It's only fair to remind you, Ms. Westmore that I've been more then generous in my offers on this place. To you and your son. Why either of you should stand in the way of human progress..."
"Don't go tryin' ta spin more lies 'round my head, Mr. Arnold." Georgette stopped him, gripping Ira's rifle tighter. "I've had 'bout all I can take of yer grubby hands tryin' ta steal my land. My husband's father built this house from the dirt up, passin' the wood, the paint, an' the pride down to Ira, when it was time.'
"Now Mr. Arnold I've tried ta be Christian with ya in the spirit of my husband an' his father. But ya taken it too far. An' I swear by Soddom and Gomorrah, I'll blast yer head clean o'er the hooda yer car if ya don't git off my property!"
Georgette's breathing was far beyond labored by the end of her threat and she could feel the worry in Rose's eyes, staring at her. Well, it wasn't her that the girl need to worry about. Mr. Arnold's 'employees' had already started for the Bentley, putting distance between themselves and the crazy, gun-wielding country widow. Except she was only half-crazy; the other half of her knew how to shoot.
Mr. Arnold glared at her from under the shadow of his fedora. "Negotiations remain open, Ms. Westmore."
Not anymore then don't." Harlan stepped in, much to Georgette's thanks. "Ya heard my mother. Y'all can leave with the reassurance... " His jaw set the same way Ira's had. "That ya won't need to come back."
Mr. Arnold's eyes flickered a moment back to Georgette, but she hadn't removed the rifle from him. Not even an inch. Then, as a rattler would recoil into its hole, he retreated around his car and got in. The engine coughed alive, a final pluck to the tension-tied strings of the blazing afternoon. But Georgette didn't ease Ira's rifle from her shoulder until the Bentley had hit the main road and became nothing more then a speck on the wavering horizon. With it, all her strength, all feeling left her hearty soul. Rose just managed to catch her before she collapsed onto the porch.
"Easy Mama..." Harlan rushed up the steps to help ease her down. Georgette took notice of his cut lip. "Need to be puttin' some salve on that."
Harlan shook his head, wiping Georgette's forehead with his sleeve. "Jus' sit an' rest a minute."
"I'll git her some water." Rose said, sprinting into the house. Georgette stared off past her son, up the driveway. A thought came to her and she giggled.
"Mama?" Harlan's brow furrowed as she continued to giggle. "Take a breath... Mama, what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" Georgette about snorted. "Nothin' It's jus' funny is all."
"What is?"
"Twenty-four years," Georgette covered her mouth to compose herself."Twentyfour years... an' first time that rifle had one shell in it!"
THE END
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