Los interdictos por disipación declarado judicialmente

Background checks required. Ammunition not included.

“But the expense,” Virginia protested.

“I could cancel some magazines for this.” Virginia raised her eyes in doubt. “I could. I know I’ve tried before, but this time I will. I can think of at least three magazines about guns and shooting. What will I need them for now that I’ll be shooting myself? The whole premise behind this living library dictates that we stop reading about subjects and start experiencing them.”

Virginia, hesitancy in check, agreed.

Two weeks later, they stood in the back yard, an open box at their feet, Chinese Throwing Stars in their hands. Virginia’s initial reservations had returned. The day’s weather seemed incongruent with their enterprise. The sun shown brightly and with confidence, but the air remained slightly cool, a perfect summer day minus the discomfort of perspiration. Virginia thought that Mother Nature should make her weather less conducive to violent acts. She

remarked on the day and made the impotent suggestion of starting a notebook that records the weather. Harold saw the suggestion for what it was and said, “Don’t be afraid, my dove. We’ve watched the DVD.”

Harold had assigned Virginia the pet name “dove” when they bought this house.

and perched on every roof’s peek to sound their morning calls. Virginia had quickly made a priority of planting additional horticultural cover and setting out feeders, making the potentially controversial claim that the birds had as much right to the land as they. Harold had transformed this claim into an endearment.

For Chinese Star practice, Harold tacked a paper target to a tree across the lawn. As instructed, he paced fifteen steps back from the target. Harold tried to form the grip they’d seen on the television screen: thumb and pointer spread wide, fingers pinching the center for ideal rotation. Virginia commented that the Chinese Stars could be ornamental if hung from strings.

“These aren’t decoration,” Harold said, making a show of positioning his feet. “These are our American duty.” He forgot to release on the first propulsion of his arm. On the second, he released, and the star went low and wide, nowhere near the target. A sound rose from the bush that the weapon’s inaccurate and amateur trajectory had targeted. Virginia investigated and found a dead dove.

“Oh, Harold. We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Harold stood behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. If Virginia had turned to look at him, she would have seen a war waging amongst his facial features. Clearly upset, he

struggled not to appear so. Virginia went into the house and came out with an empty shoe box and some paper towels. The bird’s blood, splashed about the ground and the star, darkened from reddish to brown. The small volume of blood surprised Virginia; something that makes such a compelling noise, owl-like to the untrained ear, should need more blood with which to make it. Without intending the implications of her actions, she rose and went to her notebook to record the observation before it escaped her.

“Quite right,” Harold said. Virginia’s action eased his inner turmoil. Preserving the moment in a notebook would give it meaning. He bent at the knee and pulled some feathers from the bird. They didn’t want to be pulled. Two strong yanks were required for the plucking. “Tape these in.”

The feather plucking horrified Virginia, violence layered on top of violence, the

desecration of a dead body. “No.” She set down her pen. “This notebook is finished. This club is finished.”

“Dove . . .,” Harold started, paused, and then re-endeared her, “Angel, we must continue. You know we must. We’ve canceled other subscriptions to start this one. How can we leave the book blank? This bird’s life must be in service of something.” Virginia was shaking her head but also making eye contact with Harold. He said, “We’ll be more careful in the future. We will.”

Virginia knew enough to know that her argument was lost, that canceling was out of Harold’s consideration. She picked up her pen and asked Harold what other notes about the experience he would like to record. She did not contribute any more of her own impressions, and Harold, not wanting to press too adamantly, let her write just his. That evening, when Harold came to the room where they slept after arranging and rearranging the upstairs piles, Virginia lay turned with her back to him and her eyes closed.

*

As Harold had promised, more care was taken with subsequent weaponry. They went to firing ranges for both handguns and crossbows. The low-grade explosives were detonated in a vacant concrete lot, meticulously swept and scanned for any life forms, in the company of a hired

ever-so-slightly singed on that day. The very adversity inherent in this club convinced Harold that continuation and completion weren’t just pleasurable emotions to be sought but life principles of religious proportion. For Virginia, each murder-free weapon ‘tasting’ alkalized a portion of her acidic dislike of the weapon club, but her earlier feelings of partnership and collaboration with Harold dissipated like smoke from a fired gun. She now found the most mundane moments of their life the most pleasurable. She relished the grocery shopping and the laundry folding. And so it was unfortunate when Harold noticed the flyer wedged in their front door before Virginia upon a return trip from the pharmacy. It read: