by Wise, A. R.
“Where are… What…” A growing pallor washed away the rose of anger on his brow. “Should we go to the hospital?”
“No, that’s not necessary. She’s going to be fine. She was more worried about you than she was of herself.”
“Like usual,” said the old man.
“She made us promise to come look after you until someone else could get here, or until she got home.”
“Why didn’t you say that when you got here?”
“Maggie said you’d be upset,” said Porter. “She was worried that you’d want to go to the hospital.”
“Should we?”
“No, of course not.”
“I hope she’s all right,” said Abraham. “She’s had enough trouble in her life. She doesn’t need more. Ever since we got word that my cancer spread, she’s been here, waiting on me hand and foot. If it wasn’t for her, I don’t think I would’ve made it this far. That’s the thing about getting old. At some point, your kids have to take care of you instead of the other way around.”
“If you’re lucky,” said Porter.
“Nothing lucky about it. Trust me. Makes me sick – sicker than I already am anyhow. Hearing her crying. She tries to do it quiet, but I hear her – going through all the old pictures. Drinking. Crying. She’s had a hard time of it.”
“It’s not easy to watch a loved one,” Porter settled on a phrase better than ‘dying,’ “going through what you are.”
“I know. She already had to go through it when her mom died, and now here I am doing it to her all over again. And, not to mention, she got divorced last year. She’s had a tough go. We’re all each other’s got these days. And my expiration’s about up. Going sour in my old age.” He grumbled and adjusted his position on the pillow. “Sorry for throwing that plate at you.”
“No problem. I’ve had plenty of dishes thrown at me in my time.”
Abraham chuckled, and then started to cough. What began as a tickle in his throat became a loud, guttural crash, and he sat forward as he covered his mouth.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Abraham waved away the offer. “No, no. I’ll be all right.” He coughed a little more, and wiped spittle from his lips. “Can’t even laugh anymore without it hurting. How’s that for a life? Can’t even laugh. Maggie and I used to laugh all the time. Not so much anymore. I try to get her to laugh here and there, but my brain’s not so good at remembering jokes these days. Wish I could, though. Seeing Maggie smile, or making her laugh – that’s all I live for now.”
“I’ve got an easy one for you. I bet you can memorize it for when she gets home.”
“All right, let’s hear it.”
“It’s about a Mexican magician.”
Day Two – 12:16 am
“What happened?” asked June when Porter emerged from Abraham’s room.
Red stood near the front door, acting like a spectator instead of a participant. Porter stared at his brother for a second, though it felt longer. Red’s dismay and distance concerned Porter. His younger brother would torture himself if he knew that they’d participated in Abraham’s daughter’s death.
“His daughter died,” said Porter in a whisper. He began to craft an all new lie to spare them the truth.
“Oh my God,” said June. “What happened?”
Porter looked away, and then back to Red. They locked eyes. “She died in a car accident a couple weeks ago. A full-time nurse has been taking care of him, but she hasn’t been back since yesterday. He didn’t know how bad things had gotten. He knew about the CME, but not about the bioterrorism.”
“What’re we going to do?” asked June. “We can’t just leave him here.”
Porter hushed June, and then walked towards Red, bringing the conversation away from Abraham’s door. “I don’t think he’s got a lot of fight left in him.”
“What do you mean?” asked Red, suddenly defensive.
“He’s dying,” said Porter. “He knows it. And without constant care, he’s going to waste away in there.”
“Then we’ll stay here and take care of him.” Red was defiant, as if participating in an argument that hadn’t started yet.
“Listen to me, Red,” said Porter, quieter than his brother. “He’s alone. His wife’s dead. He just lost his only daughter. He doesn’t have much to live for.”
“So you’re going to kill him?” accused Red.
“What?” asked June, startled by the thought.
“Would you keep your voice down?” Porter took his brother by the arm, but Red pulled away. “I’m not going to kill him, and I’m not going to just leave him here to die.”
“Then what’re you going to do?” asked Red. “Are we staying?”
“You know that’s not an option.”
“Then what’re you going to do?” asked Red again, this time angrier and more accusatory.
“He’s got enough morphine in there to…”
“Motherfucker,” said Red. “You are going to kill him.”
“I’m not…” Porter grabbed his brother’s arm again, tighter this time. “Listen to me, God damn it. I’m not going to kill him, but I won’t stop him from doing the same thing I’d do if I was in his shoes. Look around, Red. Look at the crosses on the wall. Look at the pictures. He’s a religious man. I know you don’t believe in heaven, but he does. He does. And if he believes that dying will get him back to his family, then I’m not standing in his way.”
“This is so fucked,” said Red.
“Keep your voice down,” said Porter.
“We’re just going to let him kill himself?” asked Red.
“If that’s what he wants, then yes,” said Porter.
“And what if that’s not what he wants?”
“Then we’ll leave him here.”
“To starve to death?”
“It’s not going to come to that.”
“Why not?” challenged Red.
“Because he’ll…” Porter didn’t want to say it. “He’s got a bottle full of morphine in there.”
“He’ll kill himself before he starves,” said June, interjecting an otherwise missing voice of sympathy into the argument.
“And you guys are okay with that?” asked Red.
“If that’s what he wants, then yes,” said Porter. “Of course I am.”
“He’s already on his death bed,” said June. “Literally.”
“It just...” Red struggled to express himself. “It feels wrong. It feels so fucking wrong. Doesn’t it? I mean, we’re here. We’re here in the guy’s house. We can’t just walk away.”
“What do you want to do?” asked Porter.
Red ignored his brother and asked June, “Doesn’t it feel wrong to you?”
“I don’t know how it feels,” she said. “It’s a fucked-up situation. I know that if I were in his shoes, I’d want to end it. I wouldn’t want to sit in there.”
“But, do you know he’s really going to kill himself?” asked Red. “What if he doesn’t, and he’s left here to starve and shit himself?”
“I’m not going to let that happen,” said Porter.
They both stared at him, gawking for a moment. June finally asked, “What’re you going to do?”
Red started, “You can’t…” his mouth stayed open for a moment, as if he’d been frozen in time. “You’re not planning on doing it yourself.” It was a desperate statement of hopeful fact instead of a question.
Porter’s failure to respond was answer enough.
“He’s not some fucking lame horse or rabid dog that you’ve got to…”
“Keep your voice down,” said Porter.
June clasped her hands to her head and muttered, “Oh God.”
“I’m just going to make sure he takes enough pain killers to do the job,” said Porter.
“This is so fucked up,” said Red.
“It’s for the best.”
“No, you don’t even know, Porter. You don’t even know how fucked up this is
right now. I can’t believe…” Red covered his mouth, and stared at his brother with wide eyes. He shook his head, and then muttered, “You’ve got no clue.”
“I know this makes you uncomfortable,” said Porter. “But I’m not leaving him here like this. It’s not the right thing to do.”
“And letting him die is?” asked Red.
“What else are we going to do?” asked June, taking Porter’s side to her boyfriend’s dismay.
“You’re okay with this?” asked Red of her.
“No, I’m not fucking okay with this. I’m… I’m being…”
“What?” asked Red, taunting her. “You’re being what?”
“I’m being realistic,” she stated firmly. “If he wants to die, then who are we to stop him?”
“Exactly,” said Porter.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” said Red, and he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” asked June.
“Anywhere but here.”
“Red, wait,” said Porter.
“I’m not staying here for this,” said Red. “You two can… You can do whatever. I’m not having anything to do with it.”
“Fine, but…” Porter couldn’t stop his brother from leaving.
“Don’t be mad at him,” said June. “He told me this made him think of your mom. He’s having a tough time with it.”
“Yeah, I know. I get it,” said Porter. “Mom’s set up was a lot like this. The bed at home, the hospice medicine. It’s all a bit too familiar. Do me a favor, and go talk to him. Take him to the truck, and make sure he’s all right.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” said Porter. “There’s a motor on that well in the front yard. Do me a favor and see if you can get it started. We could use as much fresh water as we can get, but it’s going to need to run for a few minutes to clean out the line.”
She nodded solemnly. She glanced at Abraham’s door, and then left as if fleeing.
Porter went to the kitchen to cut another pear. He salted the slices, and was about to take them to Abraham when he heard the rumble of an engine outside. He set the plate of pears on the counter, and went to the front window. He had to push aside the bed to see.
June had gotten the water pump started, and was on her way to the truck to sit with Red.
“It’s for the best,” said Porter to reassure himself. He got the pears, took a deep breath, and headed to Abraham’s room.
“I thought you might like to eat some of these instead of throwing them at me.”
Abraham smiled and accepted the food, but he handed it back just as fast. “I can’t eat right now. My stomach hurts. It always hurts these days.”
Porter took back the plate. He set it beside the medicine on the nightstand. His stomach churned and his heart raced. He wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans.
“Is everything all right?” asked Abraham.
“Yeah.”
“You sure? You look paler than me, and I haven’t seen the sun in weeks.”
“I’m fine. I just need to sit down.” Porter sat heavily in the rocking chair. He set his hand on the pistol’s grip at his side.
“Where did you say you’re headed?”
Porter’s sight had drifted to the bottles of medicine on the nightstand, and he snapped back to focus on the old man. “Texas, near the gulf.”
“That’s a long trip.”
Porter nodded.
“Do you know if the power’s out there too?”
“I’m sure it is.”
“No kidding?” Abraham attempted to whistle through his dry, chapped lips. “I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years. They’re going to have a mess on their hands if they can’t get the power back on in the next few days.”
There was no need to explain to him how bad things truly were.
Porter kept his hand on the pistol’s grip. “Are you planning on getting any more treatment?”
“You mean chemo?” asked Abraham, and then quickly shook his head. “No, sir. I’m done with that. Chemo, radiation, clinical trials, we tried it all. They even zapped my head once the cancer made its way there, but that’s quality of life stuff. There’s no fixing what I’ve got. Now it’s about making the most of the time I’ve got left.”
“What’re you hoping to do before you… you know.”
“There’s not much I can do,” said Abraham. “You saw what it was like when you got here. I can’t even make it to the bathroom anymore.”
“It might be too late for skydiving,” said Porter.
Abraham chuckled. “Little late for that sort of thing. No, nothing like that. I’m just here for Maggie now. It’s nice to spend time with her.”
“Is she your only family around here?”
“Only real family. Only one I care about.”
Porter got up suddenly, and headed for the door. “I’m going to get something to drink. Can I get you anything?” he asked over his shoulder, without looking at the sickly old man.
“Maybe some water.”
Porter closed the door behind him, and paced the living room. He glanced out the window again to make sure Red and June were still in the truck, and then headed for the kitchen. June had brought in one of Maggie’s grocery bags, and Porter got a bottle of water out of it. He drank greedily, and then searched for a glass for Abraham.
His hands trembled.
“Just walk away. Just leave,” he muttered. “Just leave.” His heart beat so fast it felt like he was getting sick. He spit into the sink, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
He reached down and unclipped the fastener on his holster, freeing the pistol. He shook his head, and pleaded with himself, “Don’t do this.”
“You have to.”
He held his breath, and headed for the bedroom.
“I’ve got good news,” said Porter when he went back into Abraham’s room with the glass of water. “I think Maggie’s here.”
“She is?”
Porter nodded. “There’s a car pulling up the driveway. I can’t imagine who else it’d be. Here, sit up and take a drink.”
Abraham grunted as he forced himself up. He was clearly in pain, but still managed to smile at the prospect of seeing his daughter. He took the glass with both hands, like a tiny child, and sipped the water.
“Keep sitting up,” said Porter. “I’m going to prop up your pillows.”
“Are you sure it was Maggie?”
Porter got behind him, and drew his pistol. “It must be.”
“I hope her back’s okay, and her leg too. The last thing she needs is something else to worry about. I hope she’s not on crutches.”
Porter held his breath, debated his actions, and then moved fast to lessen the agony of the moment. He put the pistol to the back of the old man’s head, near the top of the spine, and angled the barrel up. Not a second passed between the barrel touching flesh and the trigger’s pull.
Day Two – 12:48 am
Porter vomited again. Half-digested pears clogged the kitchen sink drain from the first time he threw up. All that came now was bile.
The home stank of gunfire. An acrid stench that clung to his nostrils along with the cloying, metallic scent of blood.
Crucifixes stared down at him from the walls.
“It was the right thing to do,” he said.
Porter’s hands still trembled.
“Get it together.” He was breathing heavy and fast. His brow was mopped with sweat, a side effect of vomiting.
He went to the gun cabinet, and took out the shotgun and rifle. He set the weapons on the grocery bag, and then went for the ammunition.
Porter needed to get his mind off what he’d done. He started to talk to himself about what supplies he should search for.
“Canned food. A couple good knives. Can opener. Aluminum foil.” He searched the cabinets, and grabbed what he thought would be useful. There were several good kitchen knives that he tossed in the bag along with
a sharpener. “Flashlights,” he said, and continued searching. “We’ve got tools, but we need flashlights.” The horror of what he’d done hit him with near physical force, causing him to double over as if in intense pain.
“Get it together,” he demanded of himself. “Clothes. We need clothes and blankets.” The bag on the counter was already full. He headed to the bedroom to get Maggie’s spare bag with a fresh patch on it.
Abraham’s body was on the floor beside the rocking chair. After the gunshot, his corpse had slumped to the side and fell with a sickening thud to the wood floor. His blood was thick and dark, like oil seeping from an old wreck. There was less of it than Porter expected, just a small pool beneath the head. Crimson had sprayed out across the bed, floor, and wall. Gore dripped from the splatter on the wall, slow like molasses.
Porter stepped over the dead man, and collected the clothes near the window. He stuffed them in the grocery bag, and then went to the bathroom. He was weeping, but tried to ignore the shame and sorrow that threatened to cripple him. “Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Soap. Washcloths. Towels.” On his way out of the en suite, he snatched the medication from the nightstand and tucked it deep inside the bag, beneath the blankets and towels.
There was more he should’ve grabbed, but he needed to get out. He got both bags, and headed for the door. He paused, looked back, and said, “I’m sorry.”
June and Red were waiting in the truck, oblivious to what Porter had done. He kept his head down as he approached. He put the stolen supplies into the back, but took out a washcloth, a bar of soap, and a towel.
The pump was running, and spurts of well water splashed into the basin. He heard the truck’s door open, but ignored it as he headed for the basin. He had to hop over the fence and then quickly wet the cloth. He pressed the cold washcloth to his face and vigorously wiped away the tears and any sign of his mental anguish.
“What happened?” asked Red as he approached the fence between the truck and the basin. “Did he take the morphine?”
Porter nodded, but didn’t answer.
They were silent for a while. Porter took off his shirt and jacket. He dipped the cloth into the growing water in the basin, and then rubbed the bar of soap on it to create a lather.
