Pearl the Pistol

Prompt: Natalie arrives home from work and is perplexed that her dog is not there to greet her as usual.  In fact, he is nowhere to be seen or heard.  Even more disturbing is the semi-automatic pistol sitting on her coffee table and the sound of running water from the kitchen.

Now I’m going to come out and say it – I was excited about this prompt, but I spent a lot of time working on this and am not very happy with what I came up with. The past few days have been not so great and I just couldn’t get this story to go where I wanted it to (or really, anywhere. It has a beginning, but not much of a middle or end.) Maybe I’ll revisit it again, but this is far from my best. But that’s the point of Sarah and I having this blog, right? Here’s to trying new things and learning from our misadventures!

I pull into the driveway of my house and sigh. Long day. Good day, sure, but long. It was one of those days with perfect weather that was completely wasted on a Thursday when most people are stuck inside a stuffy office somewhere and can’t enjoy it. But that’s okay because I’m home now. Time to relax.

I call out a hello as I open the door, but except for the sound of running water the house is silent. Weird – usually that part’s just a formality. Roscoe, my Yorkie puppy and adorable sidekick, is always here to say greet me. “Roscoe?” Still nothing. I kick off my shoes and go to coffee table to set down my keys and purse when I see it: the semi-automatic right at home on top of last week’s issue of People. I wince as I reach for it, open the chamber, and sigh. Thank God it’s not loaded. Not that I thought it would be, but with my family, you have to double check.

And at least now I know what’s going on. It can only be one thing: Aunt Pearl.

“Pearl!” I yell out, wandering around the simple ranch house trying to find her. When she’s finally spotted I laugh. Her back is to me as she washes dishes in the sink, her iPod on at full blast. She sways her hips and hums along to the pop song, all decked out in her cut-off shorts, leather motorcycle vest, and American flag bandana which acts as a headband keeping her waist length gray hair out of her face.

I try again, tapping her on the shoulder this time. “Pearl!”

Thankfully it’s only Tupperware in her hands so when she jumps at my touch, squeals, and drops the bowl no damage is done. “My Natalie! Surprise, my girl!”

We hug and I take in her sweet scent of lavender and motor oil. “What brings you here? And where’s Roscoe?”

She hands me a towel so I can dry. “Your mutt needed a fixin’ up, and that’s something coming from me considering how long I’ve been married to Eddie with his wild beard. I dropped him off at the poodle place and he should be ready soon.” Aw poor puppy. Sometimes I think Roscoe’s part cat with how much he hates water.

But more to the point. “Thanks. But seriously, what brings you to town?”

“Can’t an aunt just see her niece just because she wants to?” She can, of course, but there are two things about this that aren’t fitting together. Firstly, Aunt Pearl technically isn’t my aunt. She’s a friend of my grandma but don’t tell my employer that for all the times I’ve had to use sick time to take care of her after one of her wild adventures.

Secondly, there’s that look in her eye. “Wait a minute,” I think aloud. “Did you get a new RV? Is that yours across the street?…” She smiles, and that’s all the answer I need. “Oh…my. Are you all here? Where is everyone? What’s going on?”

Pearl throws her arms wide, the yellow rubber gloves really adding to her macho look. “Happy graduation, sweetie! The gang’s all here!”

I’m touched by the gesture, but it’s so not practical. I graduated three years ago. I have to work tomorrow. I have errands to run and I don’t need a party and…And my opinions fall on deaf ears.

Pearl pushes me down the hall into my bedroom and charges over to my closet. “What happened to my sunshine girl? We need to find her so she can celebrate.”

“We can tomorrow…” But there’s no point. I dip, duck, and weave to avoid the contents of my carefully organized wardrobe fly across the room. She’s annoyed, but I can’t help but smile while she criticizes the complete ‘sensibleness’ of my clothes.

Finally, she stops when she spies a simple green cotton dress I haven’t worn in years. “This. This is my Natalie,” she says with satisfaction.

I only shake my head. “That was,” I say, fingering the fabric while a million memories from wearing that dress come flooding back. “But that was a long time ago. Ow!” She whacks me upside the head.

“Now you listen here, missy. My Natalie has gotten lost somewhere and that’s why I’m here. You don’t send letters or postcards-“

“I email!”

“You don’t paint. You don’t write. Your guitar and piano are covered in dust. You have a house that hasn’t become a home yet. My Natalie would never do that.” She wraps me in a hug. “My Natalie is pure sunshine. I know that I should be around more, but I’m here now and I promise you we’re going to make it right.”

The sadness in her eyes, her pity, is overwhelming. “Aw, Pearl. I’m fine. Ever hear of if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?”

She whacks me again. “Ever hear of listen to your elders? Trust me. You get dressed. I’ll get your dog and some real food. I won’t let you poison your uncle with turkey burgers.”

Nodding is the only option. “Take my car.” She grins and scurries out, but I call out after her. “But don’t take the gun!”

In the course of a few hours, being with the people who I love and who love me back has me feeling more like myself than I have in years. I’m relaxing on a Thursday, my hair long and loose, I’m not wearing ‘sensible shoes’ because I’m barefoot in a sundress, running around and laughing so hard my sides ache.

And I’m not the only one having fun. Roscoe is being adored by big burley men who look like they want to kill you but are actually as sweet as can be as long as you don’t mess with their bikes. Pearl is in the midst of telling a tall tale to my neighbors who are completely enchanted. The music is loud, the conversation is flowing, and everyone is having a great time.

I’d expect nothing less from these people, my family. My wacky, not joined by blood but by something much deeper, Irish-American motorcycle gang (kind of) family that runs under the leadership of a 75 year old woman who runs around with an unloaded gun.