With the crack of the shotgun as the dirge for the goose, Uncle Phillington boasted,
“Two for two, Clyde, I’m just a natural.” He handed me the shotgun, still admiring his newest trophy lying dead in the grass, “That’s how I got so successful. My blood is better, and so is yours. Show me what this said teacher has showed you.”
His gun was heavier than any one I had practiced with, but I sacrificed my pain and let my well-positioned legs, stiff arms, and steady finger burn.
“The bird’s up there. Go, I want that thing’s head above my mantle today.” Uncle Phillington lifted the nuzzle with his cigar. I took a step back, my face nearly in the gun.
“Don’t step back, you’re no coward, you’re a Phillington. That bird aint even half your size.” Crack. A single feather gracefully twirled its last ride on the wind before sliding onto the ground. “----,” he snatched the butt of the gun and trudged with it, as though it were a cane, to the fallen feather. He tapped his cigar over the feather and let the dusty ash turn the feather from white into gray. “You got all the help and training at your fingertips and that still aint enough to cure you.” He slammed the gun into the feather and pulled the trigger.
Five or six birds fluttered just across the sky, one after another; he turned to my dad and grunted.
“You’re boy sucks, Richard. Did you teach him?”
I saw a long shadow out of the corner of my eyes and turned. My father. Two white gloves held a day umbrella over his head while another two gloves held a silver dish beside him. He placed his drink on the platter and with a flick of his hand, both the dish and umbrella hurried away and he stood alone. He marched down the marble steps in a different suit than this morning. “No he aint. He’s just sick today,” He passed me but with eyes still fixed on his brother he said, “Clyde go inside and lay down by the window. Patrick give me that gun and let me show you who taught that boy.”