“Hey, Dad.”
He reaches out to my chin, to make me look up at him. He’s still panting a little from chasing me out of the building, but his blue eyes are sharp and clear. Did I even know he had blue eyes? “Hailey,” he says haltingly. “She’s dead.”
“Yeah, Dad. She’s dead.”
He nods. “How long?”
“Going on thirteen months now.”
“Did I know?”
“Dad.”
He shakes his head. “Did I know?”
“Sometimes you know. Most of the time you forget.”
He shakes his head and his eyes fill with tears. “What you must have gone through. What you must be going through.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
“And I haven’t been there for you.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I am so sorry, Doug.”
I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s reaching for me, and the tears fly out like bullets from between my soaked lashes as I let out a single, convulsive sob and fall into his embrace. He holds me like that for a while, rocking us gently back and forth, his chin resting on the crown of my head, his hand warm and dry against my neck. I think it’s the first time since Hailey died that I’ve actually cried into someone, and it feels different, more complete, and I weep like a motherfucker, I empty myself of tears, as if all the other times I’ve cried were just dress rehearsals for this one perfect cry into my father’s soft, sturdy chest. “You never cried when you were a kid,” he says when I’m done, stepping back, his hands on my shoulders. “We always thought something was wrong with you.”
“Something was.”
He shakes his head. “Come on back inside, Doug.”
“I will soon. I just need a minute.”
“You sure you’ll be okay?” he says, studying my face.
I nod, offering up a wan smile. “What choice do I have?”
“That’s the spirit,” he says, smiling warmly as he backs away.
A few minutes later I’m still standing there, staring up at the blue-black sky, still hiccupping from my recent outburst, when a figure steps out of the shadows of the parking lot. And I’m still a little light-headed and bleary-eyed from crying so hard, so it takes me an extra second to recognize that it’s Dave Potter. He’s dressed in suit pants and a T-shirt, and his hair looks like he stepped out of the shower and into a wind tunnel.
“Doug,” he says.
“You’re late,” I say.
And that’s when I notice that he’s holding a gun.
37
THE GUN IS A SIX-SHOOTER, A .357 MAGNUM OR A .38 Special, I don’t know, one of those revolvers that, after loading the barrel, you spin it like a wheel for effect before snapping it closed with a flick of your wrist. I picture Dave Potter standing over the rich mahogany desk in his study doing just that. Who the hell keeps a gun like that in the suburbs? The man’s got children in his house. Hasn’t he read the statistics?
He’s not pointing the gun, just kind of dangling it at his side, and for a second I dare to hope that he’s not going to raise the gun, that he’s already changed his mind, having cogitated long and hard on the viability of shooting me on the drive over. I wonder if he played the radio while he was driving, if he hummed along to the music, if he signaled his turns. Then he lets out a small, strangled noise and points the gun directly at my chest.
I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before, but like most people I’ve imagined it. I’ve pictured the angles, considered various disarming techniques, from Chuck Norris–style spinning kicks, to the quick grab and twist, employing a jujitsu armlock that allows me to simultaneously discard the gun and bring my assailant to the floor. And Dave is older and slower than me, so I should be able to take him. Except that someone’s been screwing around with my gravity, because suddenly I weigh a thousand pounds, and it feels like my shoes have been nailed to the floor, and my ass is clenched so hard I wonder if I’ll have to have it surgically unclenched. And all I can do is stare down the dark barrel of Dave’s gun, while pandemonium erupts in my stomach as my innards run for cover, diving headfirst behind counters, overturning tables, pressing themselves up against walls.
“Doug,” he says, again.
“Dave,” I say. “How’s it going?”
“Not so good.” His face breaks into a maniacal little grin that scares me more than the gun. “Pretty damn bad, actually, if you must know.”
I nod, studying his flushed, sweaty face. I need to get him talking, to put as many words between that gun and my chest as possible. It’s hard to kill someone in the middle of a sentence. That’s how James Bond always buys those extra few minutes he needs until the commandos show up. He shoots the breeze.
“Are you going to shoot me, Dave?” I say. Maybe hearing the words out loud will bring the insanity home for him.
“You fucked her, Doug!” he screams at me, making me flinch. “You fucked my wife.”
For one crazy minute, I consider the practicalities of a full-blown denial. What? I’ll say, my eyes wide with shock and hurt. I did what? Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Laney, but I never touched her, Dave. Never! And I’ll do it loudly, with the utmost sincerity, just enough to give him pause, and that will be enough. Because you don’t go shooting someone who just may have slept with your wife, do you? I mean, before you head down that road, you’d want to be pretty certain, I would think.
But I can see that he knows, that whatever Laney has said to him has left him with unshakable certainty, and my denial will only inflame him, will be just the push he needs to squeeze that trigger.
“Dave,” I say. “I don’t think you want to shoot me.”
“Well, no one’s ever fucked your wife, have they, so how the fuck would you know what I want?”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“God damn you, Doug.” He takes two steps closer—close enough now for me to see his jaw trembling with rage, to see the angry protrusion of thick veins running up the side of his neck—and aims the gun at my face. He is ten, maybe twelve feet away now. He won’t miss. “You fucked her, Doug. Like she was just anybody. You turned the mother of my children into a whore.”
“I messed up, Dave. I’m sorry. I was a mess and I was still crazy from everything and—”
“Well, cry me a fucking river!” he shouts hysterically, jabbing the gun in my direction. “What is that, like a new stage of grief? Denial, anger, bargaining, and fucking your friend’s wife?”
“Calm down, Dave. Please.”
“Shut up!”
“You have kids who need you.”
“Don’t you dare mention my kids.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Shut up!” he screams again, almost pleading.
I shut up. Dave stares at me, the sweat on his face glistening under the awning lights, and I stare at the barrel of his gun. His finger is tight on the trigger, flexing unconsciously, and with a heavy sense of dread, I realize that he’s about to shoot me. I close my eyes and try to summon up an image of Hailey. If this is how it ends, then this is how it ends, but if I’m going to die it will be with her face on my mind, her name on my lips. “Hailey,” I murmur to myself, like a prayer, and I can see her on the backs of my eyelids, smiling at me, loving me, and I’m ready, I think.
“What the hell is going on out here?” my father’s voice jolts my eyes open. And then Claire screams. They are standing in the doorway, gaping in disbelief.
“It’s okay,” I say.
“It’s okay?” Claire says. “You can’t be serious.”
“Put the gun down, son,” my father says, slowly approaching Dave.
“Get away from me!” Dave swings the gun at him. My father raises his hands, but holds his ground.
“It’s okay, son,” my father says.
“He fucked my wife!” Dave says, and his voice cracks as he says it.
“Oh, fucking hell,” Claire says.
“Is th
at true, Doug?” my father says, never taking his eyes off Dave.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Okay,” my father says, taking another step closer to Dave, who now has the gun trained on my head again. “You’ve been wronged. You’re hurting. You want justice. It makes sense. But you know this isn’t the way.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you’re not,” my father says softly. “You want to, and no one can blame you for wanting to, but you’re too smart to think this is the answer. This is just your time, son, that’s all. Your time to hurt and bleed and tear apart your notion of what makes you who you are. Life knocks us all on our ass at some point. And then we get back up, and we make some changes, because that’s what men do. We adapt. And when we’re done adapting, we’re better equipped to survive.”
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Dave says, and now there are tears in his eyes, and the gun is starting to shake in his hand.
“That’s not for you to decide,” my father says. “You have much more important things to worry about. You have a family? Children?”
“Yes,” Dave says, and now his whole body is shaking with tension. But the gun is still up there, still aimed at my face.
“Then you worry about them first,” my father says firmly. “And then you worry about yourself, about the changes you’re going to make to survive this. Because you will survive this. But you pull that trigger, and survival is no longer an option. The only move left after that is putting that gun in your own mouth. Are you prepared to do that?”
Dave stares at me, trembling and sweating, and at that moment I wish he would pull the trigger, just so I won’t have to see the anguish distorting his face like a stocking mask, the pain I caused because I was too consumed with my own to care. “Doug,” he says, and now his voice is more of a whimper.
“It’s okay, Dave,” I say, meeting his gaze. “I understand. I’m ready.”
“Shut the fuck up, Doug! You are not!” Claire shouts at me, crying. “He is not!”
Dave looks at me for a long moment, and then, impossibly, his face relaxes into a sad little smile. “This is not how I pictured the day going when I woke up this morning.”
“That makes two of us,” I say.
And then, just as he’s lowering the gun, Russ suddenly materializes from the darkness of the parking lot and hurls himself at Dave, his outstretched arms reaching for the gun, and in the instant before his momentum knocks them both over, there is a deafening roar that blows every other sound in the world out of existence, and a brief muzzle flash like a magnesium flare, and then Russ and Dave are rolling on the floor in a sailor’s knot of limbs, and I can see the gun clattering across the cobblestone driveway, can see that Claire is shrieking, and my father is yelling and pointing, but there is no sound, everything has been silenced, and I’m wondering where the bullet went, and Russ is lying on the ground and he isn’t moving, and Claire is still screaming and my father is looking around, bewildered, and Dave is climbing to his feet with a dazed look on his face, and Russ is not getting up, oh Jesus, he is not getting up, and I can feel the scream building in my throat, and he needs to move, he can’t be shot, that can’t be how this ends, and I can feel the brick wall against my back, tearing into my suit jacket, and please move, Russ, just get off the fucking floor and show me something, I will buy you a car, I will buy you a fucking Ferrari if you would just move, and then, incredibly, he does, he rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up to his feet and looks at me, his eyes bulging with alarm, and I’m so relieved, so fucking happy, that for a moment nothing else matters, not a single other thing in the world matters, because Russ is okay, and then he starts to rise, floating up above me, and Claire and my father are rising too, like helium balloons, getting higher and higher, and it’s the strangest, most magical thing I’ve ever seen, my family rising up and hovering high above me, and then, just as the sound comes back in a loud rush of confusion, I feel the hot wetness spreading out from my side, radiating across my belly and up my chest, and I realize that I’m lying on the cobblestone driveway, staring up at the metal skeleton of the club’s white awning.
“Doug!” Claire screams, falling beside me, her hands on my shoulders, and I want to tell her to calm down, that I actually feel strangely fine, comfortably numb, that it feels okay, that it feels like two Vil Pills washed down with a bottle of wine and three puffs on a water bong all wrapped into one, that I can see her hair actually growing in its follicles, can see the sweat emerging and spilling out of my father’s pores as he gets on his knees to lean over me, can see the vein in Russ’s temple throbbing to the beat of his heart, and it’s all okay.
I’m dimly aware of new people, of a crowd forming around us on the driveway. “Call nine-one-one,” my father says to Russ, who is staring down at me, frozen in place. “Russ!” my father shouts at him, and this time Russ blinks and then reaches into his suit pocket for his cell phone.
“It’s okay,” I say, but no one seems to hear me, and I wonder if I actually said it, or just thought it.
Claire is crying and my father grabs her hands and pulls them off my shoulders, and then pushes back my jacket and opens my shirt. “Let’s have a look,” he says calmly. His hand on my bare skin is like fire, and I recoil so fiercely that I bang my head on the cobblestones, and his other hand, now covered in blood, comes down on my chest. “Hang in there, Doug,” he says, holding me down firmly. He tears a piece of my shirt off and uses it to clear away some of the blood pooling on my belly. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” I say, my own voice sounding hollow in my ears.
“Good. Listen to me. You’re going to be okay. I just need to roll you a little bit for a second—Claire, put your hands under his head so he doesn’t bang it again—Claire! Pull yourself together and do what I say!”
I can feel his hands under my back and then he rolls me and the pain is every color of the rainbow, sudden and complete, and then he rolls me back, and Claire’s tear-soaked face is hovering upside down above mine, her hands cradling the back of my head, and my father is gently pressing some cloth against me, just above my right hip. “It’s a clean exit wound,” he says, nodding. “Went right through you.”
And then Russ is on the ground next to me, crying, and I want to tell him not to worry, that I’m fine, but I can’t seem to find my voice anymore, and Claire won’t stop crying, and I can hear my mother’s voice, shrill and verging on hysterical, and then the paramedics are there, and my father is giving them instructions, speaking authoritatively in medical jargon that makes me proud, and the flashing lights from the ambulance spin and blink, bathing everything in their kinetic red glow, and even though I can’t see them, I’m aware of everyone standing around me, Debbie, who is crying, and Mike, who is holding her, and Mike’s asshole brother, and all of my relatives, and everyone I’ve ever known in my whole life, and this seems like as good a time as any to disappear, so the next time the red light spins past me, I catch hold of its edge and ride it like a wave into oblivion.
38
I WAKE UP AS THEY’RE WHEELING ME INTO THE EMERGENCY room, two paramedics, one on each end of the stretcher, and my father, walking between them, his hand resting proprietarily on my arm. A young female doctor in blue scrubs and a white coat falls into step with us as soon as we clear the sliding doors.
“What happened?” she says to the paramedic closest to my head.
“It’s a single gunshot wound to the lower left stomach with clearly visible entry and exit wounds,” my father says. “Vitals are stable, no signs of any internal bleeding. Start an IV, irrigate with five hundred CCs of saline, and get me a CAT scan of the stomach and pelvis to rule out solid organ damage.”
“What he said,” the paramedic says to her, rolling his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she says, confused. “Who are you?”
“Dr. Stanley Parker. I’m his father.”
“Well, Dr. Parker, I need to call up for a surgical consult.”
“Dr. Holden. Stephanie Holden.”
“Well, Dr. Holden, you just had your surgical consult. Now, who’s the attending on call?”
“Dr. Morris.”
“Sanford Morris?”
“Yes.”
“Go wake him up and tell him that Stanley Parker’s son is bleeding all over his ER.”
I am supposed to lie still for the CAT scan, but my wound is throbbing now, hot and itchy, and I just can’t seem to stop twitching. When it’s over, Dr. Morris tells us that the radiologist has confirmed no solid organ injuries, but cannot rule out the bullet’s possible entry into the peritoneum because I was moving too much. They’ll keep me overnight and do a repeat CAT scan in the morning.
“Here’s my pager number,” Dr. Morris says, handing my father a card. “I’ll be here all night. You page me if you need anything, okay?”
“Thanks a lot, Sandy.”
“Anytime, Stan. It’s great to see your face. We miss you around here.”
“I miss it too.”
When my father wheels me back into the room, my mother is waiting by the window, Claire and Debbie are lying on the bed, and Mike and Russ are on either arm of the large reclining chair in the corner. Russ is still looking pale and scared, and his fear touches me even as I feel a sharp pang of guilt for putting him through this.
“Hey!” my mother says, running over to me. She bends down to kiss me and then starts to cry.
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“I was so scared!”
“He’s fine, Evie,” my father says, gently pulling her off of me.
“He could have been killed!”
He leads her over to the window, where she collapses against him, and he holds her tightly, murmuring quietly into her ear.
Debbie and Claire climb off the bed to help me into it, and then climb back on to lie next to me. “It always has to be about you, doesn’t it?” Debbie says, kissing my cheek.
How to Talk to a Widower Page 24
