by Jean Austin
I’m downstairs. I’m not sure exactly how as I have no recollection of walking down the steps, but I’m standing beside the dishwasher. I like this dishwasher. It’s a good dishwasher. I’m going to miss it.
I open a drawer and pull out a wicker basket. Hidden beneath the basket is a 9mm Glock. My fingers wrap around the grip, feeling the weight of the gun in my trembling hand. I slip a magazine into the butt of the gun and pull back on the slide, loading a round into the chamber. The slide is kept well lubricated, the action is easy. Loading a bullet is as carefree as popping the top on a soda can. I really am going to miss my fairytale life. From here on out, nothing will be the same.
I’m a zombie. I shuffle back to the foyer and proceed up the stairs with the gun hanging tenuously from my fingers. My hand pauses on the doorknob. The bed is creaking. There’s no going back. I wish there was some other way, but for me, there isn’t. I wish I was one of those women that could endure such shame with dignity. If I were, I’d wait downstairs, maybe hiding in the laundry room until they left, but why should I hide? Besides, my car’s blocking the driveway. I could leave. I could grab Jilly and drive to Mom and Dad’s, but that’s not me either. Why should I run? I’ve done nothing wrong.
Yet.
I throw open the door, and it crashes into the doorstop with a thud, catching and holding fast.
“Emma!” Paul says, stopping mid stride, his hands still firmly fixed to Helen’s ass.
Helen swings her head around, clearing the hair from her face. She’s horrified, but somehow I doubt she’s as horrified as I am.
“Oh, don’t stop on account of me,” I say, waving with the gun and signaling for them to continue. “You were just getting to the good part.”
Paul withdraws. Helen sinks forward, pulling away from him—too little, too late.
“Please, honey.”
“Honey?” I yell in disbelief he could use such a term to describe me while literally boning someone else. I squeeze the trigger. The crack of gunfire is like thunder breaking inside the bedroom. A bullet punches through one of the down pillows and feathers explode into the air.
“Jesus, Emma,” Paul yells. He’s on his knees, perched on the edge of the bed, facing me in the nude with his arms raised in surrender. His stiff, proud penis wilts under my gaze. I could kill him. So easy. Just tighten my finger again, and he’s gone. Forever.
“Jesus isn’t going to save you, Paul.”
Helen reaches for her clothes, which include a belt with a police issue sidearm, Taser, handcuffs, radio, and pepper spray. I put a bullet through her discarded bra, puncturing the left cup, and she freezes. “Unless you want the next shot to line up, I wouldn’t.”
“Emma... I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t,” I say, looking down the barrel at her, my finger trembling on the trigger. Tears stream down my cheeks. It’s all I can do not to squeeze the trigger and drop her like a rabid dog.
“Emma,” Paul pleads.
“Out,” I say, backing up into the hallway.
Paul gestures toward his clothes. I suspect he simply wants his underwear, but what the fuck? Why the hell should I be considerate? The look on my face must suggest it’s not worth it.
“But our clothes?” Helen protests.
“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKING WHORE!”
I think that makes my position abundantly clear. Helen and Paul dart past me while I keep the gun trained on them. If either of them so much as thinks about trying to disarm me, I’ll fire and claim self-defense.
“Faster,” I yell, firing another shot into the ceiling above Paul’s head.
“Careful, you stupid bitch,” Paul yells, shielding his head from falling flecks of plaster.
“Bitch?” I yell. “From what I saw, she’s the one playing bitch.”
I fire another shot, this time into the floorboards. For all the rage I feel inside, my shots are deliberate and calculated. The angles are precise. I’m avoiding ricochets by firing into wood and plaster. Even the shot into the ceiling wasn’t haphazard. We have an attic, and I can imagine exactly how the bullet would have struck the underside of the planks forming the floor up there.
Helen sprints down the stairs and runs out onto the lawn. Paul stumbles on the steps, tripping and falling against the wall. A carefully aimed shot into the doorframe at the front of the house helps focus his mind and he runs out after Helen, yelling, “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy?” I scream, running down the stairs after him. “I’ll show you crazy,” and I line up a shot on his bouncing ass cheeks. My breathing slows, my finger tightens around the trigger, but I can’t fire. It’s just not in me to willfully inflict pain, regardless of what’s been done to me.
The last I see of them is a naked couple running down the middle of the street. Befuddled pedestrians and a guy in a delivery van look on with amusement.
“And don’t come back,” I yell after them.
The adrenaline fades, and I’m left feeling empty, standing in the doorway with the smell of gunpowder lashing at my nostrils. My neighbor from across the road peers from behind a curtain. In the distance, a police siren sounds. Pleasantville just went ghetto.
Mondays. Always on a Monday. I need to ask my mom, was I born on a Monday?
Tiny fingers take hold of my hand.
“Hey, Jilly,” I say, wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand, my fingers still wrapped tightly around the gun. I crouch beside her, resting the gun on a small table by the door.
“It’s okay, Mommy. Everything’s going to be all right. I know it is.”
What did I do to deserve a kid like this?
Chapter 02: Mom & Dad
“Is anyone home?”
“Come in, Frank,” I call out, recognizing the voice.
Before he walks into the living room, Officer Frank Zambero looks at the gun on the table by the door and asks, “Is this the firearm in question?”
“Yes.”
“And are there any other guns in the house?”
“Frank,” I say from out of sight in the kitchen. “You know there are more firearms in this house.”
“Where are they, Emma?”
“Am I armed?” I ask, knowing this is what he wants to hear. “No. I’m not armed. I’m in the kitchen with my daughter.”
There’s silence for a few seconds as I let that sink in.
“There’s a Mossberg shotgun in the hall closet under the stairs, and a Beretta in the master bedroom upstairs, on the far side of the bed in the drawer. Oh, and there’s a .308 hunting rifle in the basement, I think.”
Like every good cop, Frank takes nothing for granted. A quick peek around the corner, leading with his gun raised, and he confirms I’m unarmed in the kitchen. I have my hands up, with my open palms clearly visible.
“And there’s no one else here with you?”
“No,” I say. “Just me and Jillian.”
He lowers his gun, but doesn’t put it away. Behind him, the lights of his patrol car paint the curtains red and blue.
“Did you have to park on the lawn?”
“You shot at a police officer,” he says.
“Funny,” I say. “He didn’t look like a police officer. He looked like my scumbag husband banging a blonde bimbo.”
“I have to take you in,” Frank says, edging toward me, keeping his arms straight, but directing his gun at the polished wooden floor.
“Can you wait until someone gets here to take care of Jilly?” I ask. Jilly’s sitting in her booster seat eating a tub of yogurt. Frank looks flustered. He’s not sure how to handle this. It’s not every day the daughter of the police captain shoots at her husband, a ten year veteran on the Force. Frank’s only in his second year. His wife, Deborah, is a good friend. We first met at the Christmas party, and the two of us were like long lost buddies catching up. She’s pregnant with their first child, so I’ve given her Jilly’s stroller and a bunch of practical things—baby monitor, Snugli, high chair, etc. Poor F
rank. He’s trying to do the right thing, but he’s not sure what that is exactly.
“Yeah, we can wait,” he says, and he talks into the microphone slung over his shoulder, confirming that he’s on site and that he’s secured the area—whatever that means. He pulls out a pair of handcuffs.
“Can we do that outside?” I ask, nodding toward Jilly, not wanting to upset her. If anything, I’m surprised by how well she’s taken to seeing Daddy naked and running for his life. Most kids would be severely freaked out by the deafening sound of gunfire in the sanctity of their own home. The raw violence unleashed by a single shot is enough to make most adults quiver, let alone several shots in rapid succession.
Frank puts his handcuffs on the marble counter in front of me, saying, “For later.” I nod in agreement, and he seems to relax a little. He’s still holding his gun, but the rigid, stiff tension has dissipated from the muscles in his arm.
“Coffee?” I ask, which must seem surreal to him. “Just brewed a fresh pot.”
“Sure,” he says, surprising me. It seems the circus has come to town and the clowns are running the show.
I pour him a cup, asking, “Sweetener? Creamer?”
“Nah, as it comes.”
There’s something utterly insane about the mundane way we’re treating each other given what’s happened, but the routines of life are all I have left.
I sit the cup in front of him, and pick up my own mug. Coffee soothes my nerves. Normally, caffeine makes me hyper, but the familiarity of coffee on the day my life has been turned upside down is quietly reassuring. Maybe it’s the taste.
I grab a wet wipe and clean up the mess made by Jilly.
“How are you doing, young lady?” I ask, ruffling her hair playfully. Our eyes meet. Out of the three of us, I suspect she’s the most grounded right now. I lift her out of her chair and say, “Why don’t you sit in the living room and read a book while I talk to the police officer.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
For now, her fever is gone, the Tylenol did its job. She’s a little dull and lethargic, but she’ll be fine. Her body is fighting off something at a microscopic level. Perhaps that’s dulling her perception, which helps her cope with Mommy’s meltdown, as I suspect regular Jilly would be freaking out.
Another police car pulls up outside. Doors slam. Boots pound across the lawn. There’s no caution. Officer Brine Jackson runs in, coming straight for me. Brine has been a police officer longer than I’ve been alive. She’s a legend in the community. African-American and as skinny as a rake. I’ve heard tales of her taking down men easily twice her weight. She bounds up to me and I’m unsure what’s going to happen, but she throws her arms out and hugs me.
“Are you all right, Sweetie?” she asks, which isn’t the, Take her into custody, Miranda rights speech I was expecting.
“Yeah. A little shaken up,” I say, being honest.
Brine pulls back, holding me by the shoulders. Another officer stands by the front door, resting his hands on his belt. I don’t recognize him, but he seems to know me.
“Hey, Emma,” he calls out in a voice that is far too friendly given the circumstances. “Captain’s asking about clothing.”
“Upstairs,” I say, sounding more relaxed than I am.
Brine looks deep into my eyes as she says, “You were in shock. You reacted, but you weren’t aware what you were doing. You didn’t hurt anyone. You didn’t mean to hurt anyone. Okay?”
I nod.
“That’s what you tell them. You stick to your story. You keep it simple. You don’t elaborate. You don’t change the details. Just say the same thing over and over. Understood?”
Again, I nod, appreciating her coaching me through this. She squeezes my shoulders. “We’re going to help you. No one’s been hurt. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I seem to be nodding an awful lot, but the truth is, I’m embarrassed, overwhelmed, ashamed. No one got shot, but someone was hurt. Me. Brine must sense that, as she gives me another hug, holding me tight for almost a minute. I sob into her shoulder. I’m not sure why. I guess it’s the release of emotion. I’ve been doing all I can to hold myself together, to pretend everything’s okay, but it’s not. I’m a wreck.
“Well,” she says, letting me go. “There are already photos all over social media.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah, naked couple chased down the street by a crazy woman with a gun—that trends instantly on Facebook.”
I laugh as she pulls out her phone and brings up a photo. It’s from a distance, so the image is fuzzy, but Paul and Helen are both naked and running hard down the middle of the street.
“Twitter is going into a meltdown,” she says. “Hashtag—RunningNaked. They’re calling you a hero.”
“A hero?” The world is seriously messed up. I’m a flop, a failure. There’s nothing heroic about walking in on your husband screwing another woman.
She says, “I think there are a lot of women that see your response as fitting—courageous even. They love the way you ran them both out of the house naked.”
I shake my head. For the public, my life is a curiosity, a sideshow to pique their interest for a few minutes. My heartache—my family in ruins—and they want to grab some popcorn and watch. Courageous? Really? I think that’s sick. A marriage has been torn apart, a family ruined, and they want to applaud as though I’ve accomplished something other than the destruction of everything Paul and I have built over the past decade. They have the luxury of watching from afar, and then going on their merry way. I’m a byline today, a ghost tomorrow. It is I who envy them. They’re able to switch from one juicy morsel to the next, but I can’t. I’m stuck in this nightmare.
My dad comes running in, making straight for me.
“Are you okay?” he asks. Social norms dictate a nod even though I’m not. My lower lip quivers, but I keep from breaking down. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re okay. Don’t worry about anything, okay?”
Dad turns his attention to Officer Zambero, who’s taking notes on a computer tablet.
“Okay, what we have here is the accidental discharge of a firearm within city limits.”
Dad’s saying okay an awful lot, and I suspect he’s trying to convince himself of this as much as me. Frank nods, tapping away at his tablet.
“Minor misdemeanor,” Dad says. “No harm, no foul.”
Frank nods.
“I want you to bury the report. Don’t lose it, but I don’t want to see it surface for at least a week, okay?”
“Okay,” Frank replies, and I marvel at how Dad’s marshaling his team behind me. I feel bad putting him in a position where he feels he needs to protect me from my own stupidity. He’s risking his career for his little girl. I’m tempted to say something, to try to stop him, to tell him he doesn’t need to cover for me, but I’ll mess this up even more. Even though this is Paul’s fuck up, I feel as though I’ve stained my dad’s integrity, and that leaves me feeling like shit.
“If the media asks, investigations are ongoing and charges will be forthcoming in due time. Once the heat blows over, we’ll process the paperwork quietly.”
“Understood.”
“Give us a minute,” Dad says, and both Brine and Frank leave. Dad waits until they’re well clear of the front door before saying. “Jesus, Emma. What the hell?”
“He was screwing her, Dad—his own partner—in our bed.”
Dad runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “You could have killed them.”
“Oh, the thought crossed my mind more than once,” I say. “I had a great shot lined up on his butt. Could have given him a second asshole.”
Dad breathes deeply and exhales, puffing his cheeks, trying to release the tension we both feel.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he says, resting his hand on my shoulder. “It just—it complicates things, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll have to step aside
from any investigation.”
“I know.”
“Paul’s pushing for attempted murder.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. Dad continues.
“We can beat it. There’s not a jury in the land that will convict. They’ll realize you could have shot them both but didn’t… But it’s going to be messy—for you and the kids. I’ll talk to the D.A. Given her track record on women’s rights, I doubt she’ll be sympathetic to his plight. She may even throw it out of court.”
A single tear rolls down my cheek. I should have gone to work. I should have dropped Jilly off at daycare and kept driving. It would have been better not to know. God, I hate Mondays.
“Hey,” Dad says, wiping the tear away with his thumb. “Give it time. We may even be able to reach some kind of out of court settlement.”
“No!” I cry in an explosion of passion. I don’t want my dad offering that jerk any money just to avoid the prospect of public humiliation. It’s Paul that ought to be ashamed, not me.
“Just… We’ll get through this—we will”
I nod.
“Get some clothes. Bring the kids over to our place.”
I shake my head, knowing how it will muddy the situation further to run to my daddy. My dad has been a police officer for over thirty years. I don’t want to see him ruin his career over me.
“Summer vacation starts this week,” I say, thinking on my feet. “I’ll take the kids away for a break. Just the three of us. We’ll go and see Aunt Louise in Montana.”
“People will think you’re running from something,” Dad says.
“I don’t care what people think. I—I need some time—some space.”
“I can make that work,” Dad says. “I’ll delay any formal charges, but you need to talk to Paul.”
My lips tighten.
“You have to talk to him,” he says. “At least through a lawyer. Jilly and Jimmy are his children too. According to the letter of the law, you have to make your intentions clear. You have to be accessible. He needs to be able to reach you and the kids.”
