"Yes, she is. I am, too, for that matter. My late husband used to call me Hell on Wheels, get it? 'Hell on.' Helen."

"I got it, Granny. Who's Freida? She likely to be popping in here unannounced?"

"Freida's my neighbor. She lives two doors down with her friend, Minnie Paxton, but they're out of town right now. Hasn't anyone ever said, but I think them two are sweet on each other. Anyway, we had us a rash of burglaries about four months back. That's what they call them, a 'rash,' like somebody caught a disease. Two nice policemen come down to the neighborhood and told us about self-defense. Minnie learned to kick out real hard sideways, but Freida fell flat on her back when she tried it."

Ray fixed me with a look, but I couldn't read the contents. Probably simple despair at the banality of their exchange.

Gilbert laughed. "Jesus, I'd like to seen that. How old is this old bag?"

"Let's see now. I believe Freida's thirty-one. Minnie's two years younger and she's in much better shape. Freida cracked her tailbone and she got mad. Whoo! Said there had to be a better way to fight crime than tryin' to kick some fella in the kneecap."

Gilbert shook his head with skepticism. "I don't know. Bust a guy's kneecap, that can really hurt," he said.

"Well, yes," Helen said, "but first you'd have to get close enough to kick, which isn't always easy. And then my balance is not that good."

"Freida's balance ain't good, either, from what you said. So what'd she suggest?"

"She suggested she make us each a rack and bolt it onto the bottom of the table, where we could keep a loaded shotgun about like this." Helen turned slightly sideways as she rose to her feet. She took a long step away from the table, pulling up a twelve-gauge side-by-side shotgun with twenty-six-inch barrels. She pinned the butt stock between her forearm and her side, letting the butt stock rest on her right hip for support. The four of us stared at her, riveted by the sight of a gun that unwieldy in the hands of someone who, a nanosecond before, seemed so harmless and out of it. The effect, unfortunately, was undercut by the realities of age. Because of her poor eyesight, she was aiming at the window frame instead of Gilbert, a fact not lost on him. He made a face, saying, "Whoa! You better put that gun away."

"You better put that gun away before I blow you to kingdom come," she said. She backed up against the wall, all business, except for the problem with her aim, which was considerable. The heavy flesh on her upper arms shook, and it was clear she could barely keep the barrel up, even if it was pointed in the wrong direction. I could feel my heart begin to thump. I expected Gilbert to shoot, but he didn't seem to take her seriously.

"Gun's pretty heavy. You sure you can keep it up there?"

"Briefly," she said.

"What's that weigh, six or seven pounds? Doesn't sound like much until you have to hooolld it up for long." He dragged out the word "hold," making it sound exhausting. I got tired just hearing it, but Helen didn't seem dismayed.

"I'm going to shoot you long before my arms get tired. I feel it's only fair to warn you. The one barrel's loaded with number nine birdshot. The other's double-O buck, tear your face right off."

Gilbert laughed again. He seemed genuinely tickled by the old woman's attitude. "Jesus, Hell on. That's not nice. What about your arthritis? I thought you had arthritis so bad."

"I do. That's right. Affecting all but the one finger. Watch this." Helen shifted the gun to the left, drew a bead on him, and pulled the trigger. Ka- blam ! I saw a few bright yellow sparks. The blast was deafening, filling the room. A shock wave of air and gas spread out from the muzzle, followed by a faint doughnut of smoke. The mass of bird-shot blew by his right ear, continuing on past him at an upward angle, shattering the kitchen window. Stray pellets tore his earlobe and the top of his shoulder and the spreading fingers of the trailing shot cup raked his neck, painting it with blood. Laura screamed and hit the floor. I was down before she was. Ray's startled reaction tipped his chair over sideways. Gilbert screamed in pain and disbelief, his hands flying up. His handgun flew forward and skittered across the floor.

The muzzle jump had knocked Helen back against the wall, the butt stock slamming into her right hip as the barrels whipped upwards with the recoil. She recovered and lowered the gun again, prepared to fire. Gilbert's right cheek was already peppered with red, like a sudden rash of acne, and blood was seeping into the hair above his right ear. The air smelled acrid, and I could suddenly taste something sweet at the back of my throat.