Harts Shooting
Copyright© 2025 by Gina Marie Wylie
Chapter 7
Tamara’s parents exchanged more looks, while Tamara sat patiently waiting. After a long silence, Tamara sniffed. “Dad, one mistake you made was sending me to a Catholic school. Holy Mary, mother of Jesus, was thirteen or fourteen when she got pregnant, fourteen when Jesus was born. I’m not planning on getting pregnant until I’m much older. Much older.”
“I admire your candor, dear,” her mom said. “This seems to me to have been on short acquaintance. Suppose she eats cornflakes with her fingers?”
As a freshman, Tamara had spent two weeks at a church camp. One of the girls in her cabin scooped her cornflakes from the milk-filled bowl with her fingers. When the girl finished the cornflakes, she slurped the milk from the bowl with loud slurping noises. Everyone in the cabin was grossed out, but no matter what was said to her, cornflakes were finger food, and the milk left in the bowl was slurped. Tamara had written home about it and spoke about it often afterwards for months.
She laughed. “I’ve watched maybe two hundred people eat breakfast in my life. Exactly one ate her cornflakes with her fingers. That’s what? Two hundred to one Astrid doesn’t? I’ll take my chances at those odds.”
“I’ll assume you will give the affair ... the matter some thought,” her dad asked.
Tamara smiled. “I told Astrid I’d kiss her to seal the deal. She said she had no intention of ‘suicide by mother superior’ and demurred. At that moment, I seriously considered kissing her anyway. It wouldn’t have been fair if I did, so I demurred also. Still, at that moment, I realized that Astrid was the woman I wanted to be with the rest of my life.”
Tamara’s mom started laughing; her dad had to slap her on the back to get her to stop. “Sorry, dear. I’m sorry, ‘suicide by mother superior’, how well I remember my concern...”
“My dearest Melinda, I always thought you were a superior student,” her dad said.
“I was, in high school and college, under the Jesuits. But I was a perfect terror to the nuns of the Magdalene Laundries in grade school.”
“It wasn’t actually like that,” her dad said weakly.
“We had no money, so we took a scholarship for me to a school of other scholarship students, all daughters of ‘fallen’ women. Pregnancies started early in sixth grade, and in eighth grade, ten percent of my classmates were pregnant, and I was scared you-know-whatless. Fortunately, at that point in my life, I trusted no one about anything.”
Her dad sighed. “Well, I look forward to meeting Astrid ... you said Jensen?”
“Yes, sir,” Tamara answered.
“As I said, her father is known to both of us.”
“What’s an ‘oligarch?’” Tamara asked.
Her mother spoke first. “Olig -- comes of ‘oleaginous’ -- meaning greasy.”
Her dad laughed. “It means a very rich former Russian with outsized political influence. Jose Cabrera would qualify for the title if he were wealthier and Russian.”
Tamara started laughing. “Astrid said the first boy to kiss her had his shoulder dislocated ‘by accident’ by one of her father’s men.” Tamara made air quotes.
“The young man should be grateful both his arms weren’t pulled off,” her mom said with heat.
“Astrid said she kneed him in the balls after he groped her; maybe her father’s man was trying to help him stand,” Tamara said.
Her dad was clutching his sides, laughing. “Her father is very carefully watched. He has never broken a law, not even spitting on the street, walking on the grass, or the most heinous crime of all: not policing his dog’s poop.”
Tamara looked at her mom. “Can you trust me?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. “Others ... I’m sorry, Tamara, it will take a while.”
“Treat Astrid as you do me, until she, not her father, not others, gives you a reason not to.”
“Melly,” her father said, “Once upon a time, I said almost the same thing about Tamara. Trust her as you would me. So far, so good. Trust Astrid the same way...”
“Peter, my love. I’ll try so hard.”
Tamara went to her mom and hugged her. She could feel her muscles tense when she did. “Mom, Dad explained a little about how hard it is for you. I’m so sorry; I must have driven you to tears or worse a thousand times, not knowing.”
Her mom had a wan, pale smile. “I know how many times I snapped at you, Tam. Nine hundred and eighty-seven. OCD is common among Aspies.”
Tamara was leaking tears. Her mom pushed her away. “Why are you crying, Tam?”
“I’m crying for the two of us, Mom. You just pushed me away when I was hoping for a tight hug. You don’t understand the tears, and I don’t understand being pushed away. Yet while we are speaking different languages, we were saying the same thing.”
“Melly, after a few years, Tamara understands you better in a few hours than I ever have,” Tamara’s dad said.
Her mom went to her dad and hugged him. “The wisest thing I’ve ever done was to trust you, Peter. First with my life as partners, then my heart as partners of a different kind. I’m still learning, Peter, Tamara. Please be patient.”
“Always.” Tamara and her father chorused.
On Friday, the last day of the week, Tamara watched Mr. Cabrera do the strange exercises and was the last to board the bus. Banzai smiled at him, and Mr. Cabrera laughed. “We’re still five minutes early, Banzai. No need to hurry on my account.”
“Miss Hart asked me not to speed; I threw in no lane changes. What would you like, sir?”
“The no lane changes sound attractive. I hate having to hold on with both hands. I have to hold my magazines closed between my knees.”
“Done, sir!”
Mr. Cabrera went towards the back of the bus, and Tamara took out her literature book and reread the story they were going to start discussing today. She applied herself because all night she’d dreamed of kissing Astrid and hadn’t gotten much sleep as she kept waking up.
The day was like the last three years, but the one: dull and boring ride. Banzai didn’t change lanes, but Tamara was aware his pace was faster than usual ... right up until just before they crossed the Columbia River. I-5 ran slow most days just over the river because three lanes of traffic were squeezed down to two. Residents north of the river had complained loudly and long about it; the mayor of Portland and the governor of Oregon threatened to make it one lane. Since Oregon in the 90’s had removed more miles of freeway than they’d built, it was a credible threat. Usually when Tamara took the first bus, which she had done today, the traffic was okay. Today, it was awful. In fact, they were parked a half mile north of the I-5 bridge, the traffic unmoving.
Tamara heard the phone ring in the bus and Banzai picked up. He said something, the other end something longer, and he said something short back. Then he switched something on the phone.
“The I-5 bridge has been closed. An east-bound barge carrying some sort of crane hit the bridge and I understand that there is a major dent ... on the traffic level. Since there is no north-bound traffic here, we are going to back up to the city center offramp, exit and then go north. I kid you not, they’ve routed us north to the 210, back south on the 210, and we’ll go west from one of the streets that goes through. I hope no one is going to be late for work.”