Sinfandel by Gina Cresse Page A

loose on Andy.  In the morning, after I fed the horses, I twisted an eye screw into a support post in the barn and cut a length of wire to secure the container’s handle to the wall.  The raccoon family would have to bring wire cutters next time if they wanted to take off with my cat food.  I filled the cats’ dishes and headed back toward the house just as Andy’s pickup pulled up to my gate.  I ran in the house, grabbed my purse and the shotgun and started back out when it dawned on me that he could be of help with my grape question.  I retrieved the Dash Zucker grapes I’d taken last night then headed outside.
    “Morning,” I said.
    “Morning.  Just put it in the rack there,” he said, pointing at the gun rack in the rear window.
    I handed him the baggie of grapes first.
    “What’s this?”
    “Can you tell what variety they are?” I said as I placed the gun in the rack and climbed into the passenger seat.
    Andy inspected the grapes in the baggie.  “Is this a test?”
    “No.  I just want to know if they’re Zinfandel or Carignane grapes.”
    “Where’d you get them?”
    “I’d rather not say.”
    He gave me a weary glance, as if he was too tired to pursue the answer.  “Well, without seeing the vines they came off of, it’s hard to tell.  You can send the seeds to a lab to find out, but that would take some time.”
    “So, if I got you some leaves from the vines, then you could tell me?”
    “It would be better if I could see the vineyard, but maybe, yeah, I could probably give you an answer.  I’d need stems and leaves.”
    “Okay, good.  I’ll get you some stems and leaves tomorrow.”
    Putting the truck in gear, he glanced over at me then pulled out onto the road.  “You want to tell me what this is about?”
    “It’s a project I’m working on for the State.”
    As we drove over the bridge, we saw the divers from the Sheriff’s Department descending on the pond and all questions about grape leaves were forgotten. 
    “Wonder if they’ll find anything?” Andy said.
    “The way my luck’s been going, they’ll probably find Jimmy Hoffa with one of my kitchen knives in his back.”
     
    The shooting range was a twenty-minute drive, near the Mokelumne River.  Andy handed me a pair of earplugs and goggles then he explained the shotgun’s safety mechanism and showed me how to rack a round of ammunition into the chamber.  At first I was intimidated and not forceful enough, causing the shells to get jammed halfway through the process.  He showed me how to eject them and demonstrated the proper method.
    “Do it like you mean it,” he said, wrenching the action bar back then pushing it forward again.  “Don’t baby it.  It’s not a damn flute.” 
    He unloaded the chamber and handed me the gun for another try.  This time, I set my jaw and took command of the weapon.  With the round ready to be fired, Andy nodded toward the cardboard target in the distance.  I raised the barrel and looked down the sights, holding it out away from my body. 
    Squinting at my pose, he waved his arms.  “Not like that.  You’ll bust your shoulder.” 
    He put his left hand over mine on the barrel and wrapped his right arm around me, pulling the stock into place tight against my shoulder.  “This thing kicks like a mule,” he whispered in my ear.
    Breathing in his Stetson cologne, I heard myself say, “Mmm….”  It was involuntary, like a reflex.  In a gallant save, I quickly followed it with, “…Mules sure can kick.”
    “Yes they can.  Now, don’t close your eyes,” Andy said quietly, then let go of me and stepped back.  “When you’re ready, just squeeze the trigger.”
    I counted to three in my head, then fired. 
    BOOM! 
    It was a noise I wasn’t prepared for and it left me stunned.  Even with the earplugs, I heard railroad crossing bells ringing in my head.  The smell of burnt gunpowder invaded my nostrils.  Up until that moment, I’d had no idea how much