MOVING UP

The boy reached toward his new shotgun, a 20-gauge, the first scattergun he would call his own.

“It’s okay,” his father said. “It’s yours. You already know how to use it. It will stay in the cabinet with the rest of the guns. Just like the BB gun. Don’t you think it’s time we give that to Jon Jon?”

The boy stopped his reach, even pulled back slightly. His BB gun had been a gift from his grandfather, who said he had originally purchased it for the boy’s father. The boy had nailed bull’s-eyes with it. He had shattered glass bottles. He had knocked an apple out of a tree. He had killed his first rabbit with it. That BB gun had rust on the trigger guard. He could not count the times he had run his hand over the stock, its finish worn dull with scratches as deep as worm grooves.

“You mostly use the .22 now.”

But the .22 was not his. The .22 was his father’s. His late grandfather had not given him the .22. How could he pass the BB gun down to Jon Jon? His younger brother allowed his pet turtle to die. He broke his new skateboard after only a week. How would Jon Jon take care of something as important as Grandpa’s BB gun?

“You think he’s ready?” The boy had not touched the shotgun and struggled to turn his eyes from it.

“You think you’re ready?”

The boy turned to stare at his father as if the old man had threatened to give all his possessions to his younger brother. “What if I want to use it for shooting cans? He’ll never let me.”

“I’m sure if you give him a chance to use the .22, he’ll give you the BB gun.”

The boy refocused on the 20-gauge. It sat on the old dining table. The gun’s smooth finish, a little checkering on the pump stock, the barrel shining like a black mirror, and the scent of gun oil tempted his hand again. When he finally touched it, he forgot about the BB gun.

He no longer had to borrow Uncle Albin’s shotgun. He could shoulder his own weapon and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his father and uncle. Now, he could be one of them.

He picked it up. “Can I shoot it?”

His father placed a box of shells on the table and his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”