Smith & Wesson

Tess chooses the gun for its ugliness. Its repulsiveness comforts her. She insists there be no nuance between this weapon and its true nature. Unlike a human menace, the gun offers no expensive dinners while presenting an attractive facade. The Smith & Wesson tenders no pretense of interest in her character of her body of work either. This translates into a respite from the inward spiral of her thoughts, which she sorely needs.

For this rendezvous with the gunsmith, Tess has refused to bathe or perfume herself. Neither has she plucked her unruly brows, shaved her legs or girded herself in mascara and silk. She ignores the gunsmith's attentive look. Let him see her for what she is--what she has become.

Before she purchases the handgun, Tess procured a concealed weapon permit. This involved a background check and finger printing. Even though the sheriff's deputy gave her industrial-strength wipes to remove the ink, her fingers still feel tacky. Of more import, she feels culpable for deeds yet to be committed. Tess studies the relentless directions that come with the gun.

READ THE INSTRUCTIONS AND WARNINGS IN THIS MANUAL

CAREFULLY BEFORE USING THIS FIREARM.

A tremor runs through her. Did her actions precipitate the professor's attack? Was it the clothes she wears, her wild hair, her favorite essential oils or a cascade of do-me pheromones over which she has no control? As though she raped herself. If she practiced Catholicism like her geographically distant friend Sheila, she could confess to her bizarre guilt. But Tess is not Catholic. She does not come clean.

NEVER PLACE YOUR FINGER INSIDE THE TRIGGER GUARD

OR ON THE TRIGGER UNLESS YOU INTEND TO FIRE.

She faces the gun vendor, a retired lawman, in her oldest jeans, a loose and paint-spattered sweatshirt, her hair drawn back into a ponytail with a face free of artifice; this from a woman who approaches clothing as wearable art. Tess has ever been a woman who eats, breathes and dreams color and form in context of light and shadow. To be severed from her passion makes her understand the rage and terror of the newly blinded, paralyzed or deafened. Yet in this deep camouflage, she gains a neutral look from the man, thus her skin does not crawl.

She raises her chin and tenders the cash. Heart in throat, she carries the case to her Subaru. Backing out of his driveway with the false aplomb of a good citizen, she drives a quarter of a mile to the first turnout and pulls over. Head against the hot steering wheel, she tries without success to swallow nausea. Finally she throws the door open and struggles from the car, barely in time to splash her scant bagel and cream cheese breakfast onto the rocky ground. Supported by her hands where they grip her knees as her ribs heave for air, she remains earthbound.

The Montana sun tries to beat her into submission. Finally she straightens. Tess notes the grandeur of her surroundings with a new detachment: vast mountains young in geological time, the wild river paralleling the road, and Ponderosa pines supporting an endless sweep of sky. Instead of saturating her with beauty, the splendor conspires to make her feel tiny and vulnerable. Yet the glory of Montana has laid claim to her from the beginning.

City grown, she arrived unprepared for natural predators, much less for the unnatural ones. Mountain lion, coyote, bear--even yellow jackets and hornets lurk in shadows. She tried to protect her young cat Rafael, a nocturnal hunter himself, but he defied her and refused to come into the house. Tess called and called to him. She heard the bell on his collar, placed there to protect birds as Raphael slunk through bunched grasses around their cabin. That night, she dreamed his last run toward home, then awoke to the celebratory yips of coyotes, their sign of a successful hunt. He was a predator's first victim.

Tess returns to her car and opens the gun case. The 9 mm Smith & Wesson Sigma winks. Sleek and deadly with no natural wood to soften its intent, it beckons. She feels no need to stroke it, simply clenches the manmade handle and lifts. She leaves the empty clips in the box. Turning toward the river, Tess snugs her hands around the grip as she was taught in the handgun safety class. Her diaphragm tightens as she realizes how well the gun fits her hands. She quickly pulls the slide back and releases. If she loaded a full clip, the action would have stripped a bullet from the magazine and ejected it into the muzzle. Sighting down the barrel at a log, she squeezes the trigger until it gives with a click. Unlike some semi-automatics, the Sigma requires equal pressure each time. When Tess fires it, she makes the decision to do so--each time.

ALWAYS BE SURE OF YOUR TARGET

AND WHAT IS BEYOND IT.

Like the Sigma, the nurse who helped her with the rape kit tolerated no-nonsense--a kindness in itself. She refused to counsel Tess either way when an officer asked if she intended to press charges. As artist-in-residence at the local college, Tess has considered applying for a soon-to-be-vacated position. Before the incident, she thought she might put down roots here and make art worth keeping. Now she cannot stomach the idea of endless chance meetings with her assailant, his smug, I-gave-you-what-you-asked-for looks and smirks...

She pulls the trigger. Click. An unsatisfactory nothing happens.

Before Rafael, Tess' cats have died of old age. After he goes missing, she allows her grief and distraction with four-legged predators to obscure the threat to her. Who will take the word of a transient artist over that of a much-published and married professor?

As it turns out, no one. A colleague, a tenured professor in his own right, counsels her against bringing charges. 'The kiss of academic death' he calls her intent. When she looks into nationwide cases of rape, Tess learns about the low rates of conviction, about victims who suffer relentless bullying. Evidently her cat learned the hard way and so does she. Of course, she still lives.

Tess grasps the gun's slide and draws it back before releasing it again. She aims and pulls the trigger. No bullet discharges. 'Bang' coalesces in a cartoon balloon over the muzzle. A grimace stretches her face and she realizes anew how long it has been since she smiled. Or laughed. Or felt safe. Or clean. With new determination, she strides back to her car and replaces the gun in its case. She slips behind the wheel and heads for home.

Tess pulls onto the primitive road that leads to her cabin. Isolated and snug, this cottage suggests a perk during her yearlong residency. She lives five miles from the hamlet grown up around the college. As she eases into the circular drive, contrived to allow a snowplough to navigate the space in winter, she sees her easel, forlorn and unused these last weeks. The framework stands in a copse of evergreens. Since the attack, she rejects her art as an outlet. Her abstinence suddenly strikes her as arrogant, an act of self-persecution.

Brewing a pot of spiced plum tea, she leaves the gun case on the table. She knows she needs to take it to a near-by slope littered with stumps and practice her technique. For now, Tess decides to take her pain, her chaotic emotions, and her need for revenge into her art. She gathers a newly stretched canvas and a basket of paint supplies, then heads for the easel. Late afternoon light fills the air with an illusion of sanctuary as she sets up.

No sooner has she done so than the jingle of a tiny bell penetrates her conscious. A flare of hope stirs; after all she saw neither fur nor claw of her lost Raphael after that night. She trains her eyes to penetrate the golden light and arrests her urban impulse to rush forward.

Thus Tess waits as a coyote, spare yet densely furred for the coming winter, crosses the clearing below her cabin. Slanted rays pick up tones in his coat and amplify them until he seems a creature of pure light. Mid-clearing he pauses, one dainty foot held as though en vogue. He turns his lupine head and smiles, all tooth and tongue. Then he shifts smoothly into a hunter's trot. Rafael's bell jingles in his gut.

Tess briefly considers her gun. Yet a bullet will not bring back her cat. Lack of righteous anger shocks her. Who will avenge Raphael if not Tess? Yet she knows this specific predator eats only to survive. Easy prey is simply that; Coyote takes no more than his due. Unlike the two-legged sexual animal, who garbs himself in chic rags and comes uninvited. She closes her eyes and goes still.

USE THE CORRECT AMMUNITION

FOR YOUR PARTICULAR PREY.

Tess lets the vision permeate her. In broad swirls, she superimposes the rapist's face over Coyote's. A suite of paintings takes form, personification of the violence and cruelty Inherent in sexual terrorism. She envisions the speculation that will occur during her one-woman show and later, when her work is hung at the school. Few factions embrace gossip as thoroughly as bored academics.

With a toothy grin all her own, Tess realizes that revenge takes many forms. Tomorrow she will return the Smith & Wesson to the dealer. She picks a brush with a 9 mm diameter. Then, wishing an affliction of hairballs on the coyote, she dips bristles into acrylic paint the crimson hue of retribution.