Blackburn

by Bradley Denton

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  For B.C.

  VICTIM NUMBER TWO

  Blackburn was surprised that it was so easy. He hadn’t thought he would be able to shoot another man. But here was Number Two trying to pull on his pants. The man was big, and his footfalls shook the telephone on the nightstand. A hole in his stomach pumped dark blood. The blood glistened on the man’s skin, on the bedsheets, on the floor.

  The woman on the bed was screaming. She scooted back against the headboard and stuffed part of the top sheet into her mouth. She screamed louder.

  “Don’t do that,” Blackburn said. His ears were buzzing from the gunshot.

  Number Two pulled his pants up as far as his knees, then fell. The telephone jumped. The man grunted. He lay on his side, and the blood ran down his belly to the floor. The woman continued to scream. Her screams were why Blackburn had come into the room. But there was no need for them now.

  “It’s all right,” Blackburn said.

  The woman screamed and screamed.

  “What else could I do?” Blackburn asked.

  Number Two began twitching. After a moment Blackburn realized the man was sobbing. He was in pain. Blackburn was sorry for that. He wasn’t used to the pistol. Until today, he had never fired a real gun. He hadn’t meant to hit Number Two in the stomach.

  Blackburn stepped closer to the man. “Don’t look,” he said to the woman. The woman pulled the sheet over her head. Her screaming was becoming hoarse.

  Blackburn pulled back the pistol’s hammer to cock it. Then he pointed the muzzle at the side of Number Two’s head.

  The man was sweating. His twitching had become a steady tremble. His eyes rolled up to stare at Blackburn. He moaned.

  Blackburn hesitated. It had been easy to shoot when he had seen the man beating the woman. It was not so easy now.

  He turned to leave. This man wasn’t Number Two after all. Wounding didn’t count.

  The woman’s screams stopped as Blackburn started for the door. She was probably already reaching for the phone. He would have to get down the road in a hurry. He hoped that the junk Ford pickup he had stolen would start.

  He heard the woman say, “Oh my God should I call an ambulance?”

  He heard the man say, “Get you for this, bitch.”

  The pistol was still cocked. Gripping it with both hands, Blackburn went back to the man and fired into his head.

  It was spectacular. Blackburn was shocked. He’d had no idea. The walls, the bed, the woman, his clothes. He’d had no idea at all.

  The woman was screaming again. “I’m sorry,” Blackburn said. He gestured at the walls with the gun. “About all this.”

  The woman’s nightgown was hanging askew, making her body look twisted. Her hands covered her face. She was trying to say something through her own screams. Blackburn couldn’t understand the words.

  “Hey,” Blackburn said. When she didn’t respond, he yelled. “Hey!”

  The woman stopped screaming. She uncovered her face and stared at him. Her hair was tangled, her face streaked. The flesh around her eyes was puffy and bruised. She was trembling just as Number Two had.

  “He was hurting you,” Blackburn said.

  The woman rose to her knees. She clenched her fists beside her face and shrieked, “He was my husband!”

  Blackburn was confused. “Did that make it okay?” he asked.

  The woman crumpled into a ball and wouldn’t say anything more.

  Blackburn went out. Some people.

  The lights were on in the motel office. The county sheriff’s patrol must be on its way. Blackburn sprinted for the Ford and jumped in. It started on the first try, and he tore out of the gravel lot onto the blacktop. Six hours remained before sunrise. He would have plenty of time to lose himself in the Ozarks.

  He had learned a lot since leaving Kansas that afternoon. He had learned that improving his aim was essential. He had learned that a .357 Colt Python packed a bigger punch than he had realized. And he had learned that when a man deserved to die, killing him was not hard.

  Only two cartridges remained in the Python. He would need more. His seventeenth birthday had been eventful, and he expected more of the same in the days ahead.

  ONE

  BLACKBURN AND THE BLIND MAN

  The day before the blind man came to school, Jimmy Blackburn’s father made his mother bleed. It wasn’t much blood, but Jimmy’s mother cried. His sister Jasmine screamed. Jimmy wanted to hit Jasmine in the mouth the way Dad had hit Mom. Jasmine’s screaming was what had started the fight in the first place.

  Dad went outside and drove off in his pickup truck. Jimmy would have gone outside too, but Mom said he couldn’t leave the table until he had cleaned his plate. He didn’t want to eat. His round steak and mashed potatoes were cold. But the longer he waited, the worse they would get. So he tried. Maybe if Mom saw that he was trying, she would excuse him anyway. Maybe she would even let him have some ice milk later on.

  Mom dabbed at her mouth with a dishrag. She was still crying a little. Jimmy was afraid she was a sissy. He had been hit harder than that before and hadn’t cried. Jasmine started pounding on her high chair tray, squashing her food, and Mom didn’t seem to care.

  “May I be excused yet?” Jimmy asked. Jasmine was making him sick.

  “Five more bites,” Mom said.

  Jimmy forced down five bites of meat, then left the table. Jasmine threw a blob of potatoes at him as he went by. It stuck to his shirt. He threw it back, hitting her in the face. She screamed louder than ever, and Jimmy was sure that he would get in trouble. But Mom only reached over with the dishrag and wiped Jasmine’s face. The blob of potatoes smeared and turned pink on the cloth.

  He went outside and sat on one of the tires behind the garage. The sun was setting, turning the western sky gold, red, and purple. Mom said that Kansas had the most beautiful sunsets on earth. Jimmy wondered how she knew, since she had never been anywhere else.

  The windbreak of evergreens murmured. Winter was coming. Jimmy couldn’t wait for snow, because snow would mean canceled school days. He hated third grade. Mrs. Porter was fat, and her breath smelled like burnt newspaper.

  A meteor streaked southward, its white trail pointing at the town of Wantoda. Jimmy hoped it would hit the grade school. He listened for an explosion, but didn’t hear one.

  After a while he got chilly and went back inside to watch TV. Mom gave him a bowl of ice milk, then made him go to bed at eight-thirty. She stood in his bedroom doorway and listened while he knelt and said his prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mom and Dad and Jasmine, in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  Jimmy got into bed and under the covers. Usually Mom said good night and closed the door as soon as he did that, but tonight she just stood there, centered in the rectangle of kitchen light. Jimmy’s bedroom had once been a pantry, and it had no windows to let in light from outsi
de. He couldn’t see Mom’s face. Only her shape against the yellow.

  “Remember, Jimmy,” she said. “A prayer isn’t just something you say. It isn’t like a poem you memorize for school. It’s what you use to talk to Jesus.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jimmy said. “I know.”

  “I’m sure you do. But sometimes we forget that we know something. So be certain to remember what Jesus said about praying: Anything you ask in His name will be granted.”

  “I know,” Jimmy said again. “They told us that in church. On Easter.” Easter was months in the past, but he still longed for the taste of malted-milk-ball Easter eggs.

  “Yes,” Jimmy’s mother said. “Yes, they did.” She started to close the door. “Sleep tight, honey.”

  “’Night, Mom.”

  “Good night.” The door closed. The room was black except for yellow lines marking the door.

  As Jimmy lay waiting for sleep, he heard Dad come home and say he was sorry. Jimmy listened hard, holding his breath, but didn’t hear Mom answer. That made him mad. She should say something. Dad didn’t like it when she didn’t say anything.

  Jasmine started crying then, and Jimmy heard Mom hurry to Jasmine’s bedroom. But Jasmine only screamed. She was probably seeing monsters again. Stupid three-year-old brat. She would make Mom and Dad start fighting again.

  And she did. It was worse than before. There was yelling and crying. Then something made of glass broke.

  Jimmy put his head under the covers and started praying. He didn’t pray in a poem this time. He prayed straight to Jesus and asked Him to make Mom and Dad stop fighting.

  The yelling became louder. Mom was almost screaming like Jasmine. Jimmy realized that he wasn’t praying properly. He got out of bed and knelt again, putting his hands together with the fingers pointing upward. That must turn them into an antenna, he thought. Beaming prayers to Heaven. He imagined his body as a radio transmitter. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed the same prayer over again. Please make Mom and Dad stop fighting. Please make them be happy.

  There was a smack, flesh on flesh, and a thump. Then the front door slammed and the pickup truck started. Its tires spun on the gravel, throwing some against the house. It sounded like BBs hitting a sidewalk. The pickup roared away, the sound fading fast, leaving Jasmine’s screams. Then those faded too, leaving Mom’s sobs. Bawling, Dad would call it.

  Jimmy stopped praying without saying amen. Something had gone wrong with his transmission.

  He got back into bed. He was mad, but he wasn’t sure at whom. Everybody, he decided. Every stupid body.

  * * *

  The first, second, third, and fourth graders filed into the auditorium, their teachers leading them to their seats. There were rustling and squeaking sounds as they sat. The teachers took the aisle seats. Somebody laughed, and a teacher gave a warning. Then, except for coughs and sniffles, there was silence. The principal, Mr. Sturner, climbed the steps to the wooden stage and stood in front of the curtain. He announced that the school had a special guest who would present a special program. It was important, he said, that the children be quiet during the program, because the special guest relied upon his sense of hearing. Any chatter could result in serious consequences.

  Mr. Sturner left the stage. The brown velvet curtain opened, revealing the blind man standing at the rear of the stage. He was wearing a blue suit and black-framed sunglasses. Sunglasses indoors looked pretty strange, Jimmy thought. The blind man put down his long white cane, then walked toward the front of the stage. He raised a hand in greeting.

  He walked steadily. His head was tilted upward. He didn’t slow as he approached the edge. It was four or five feet to the concrete floor. He couldn’t see that he would fall.

  Jimmy wanted to yell “Stop!” The girl beside him gasped, and so did others. Then they held their breath. They were afraid for the blind man. But no one said anything, because no one wanted serious consequences.

  Somebody had to tell him, Jimmy thought. Somebody had to warn him that in two more steps he would drop off the stage. Why didn’t one of the teachers do it? Why were they sitting with their hands folded, waiting for him to fall?

  The blind man stopped with his toes at the edge of the stage. He smiled. The children let out their breath and murmured to each other. The teachers glared at them, and there was silence again.

  The blind man spoke. His voice was loud and rhythmic, like an auctioneer’s.

  “I just heard a voice,” the blind man said. “A soft yet commanding whisper in my ear. Do you know who it was?”

  The children, fearful of the teachers, said nothing.

  “It was the Lord Jesus, children,” the blind man said. “I cannot see with my own eyes, so I rely on Him to guide me. And He never fails me, so I never fear. Just now He warned me to stop lest I fall and do myself injury. So tell me, children: Where on the stage have I stopped?”

  “Right at the edge!” Jimmy shouted. Mrs. Porter glanced at him, but her expression was only the usual frown.

  The blind man turned toward Jimmy. “Thank you, young man. I didn’t doubt it. Jesus let me get as close to you as I could without falling.”

  Jimmy was amazed. He’d had no idea that Jesus spoke to anyone who wasn’t in the Bible. He had seen blind people on TV, so that was no big deal—but not even on TV had he ever seen anyone that Jesus had whispered to.

  “And I’m glad to be as close to you as I can,” the blind man continued, “because I’m here to show you that you can succeed in this world no matter what your human limitations may be. I, for example, cannot see; and yet I live a full and productive life. Some of you may have your own handicaps as well. Some of you boys may not be as strong or as smart as others, and some of you girls may not be as pretty as your friends. But with hard work and faith, those limitations don’t matter.

  “I lost my sight when I was in the second grade, and the years that followed were difficult. I remember one time that some boys spun me until I was dizzy, and I walked into the girls’ rest room by mistake…”

  Some of the children gasped, and others laughed. Some of the teachers laughed too. No one got in trouble. The blind man went on with his story.

  Jimmy was impressed. Here was a man who was brave and funny, who made teachers forget that they were supposed to make kids shut up, and to whom Jesus talked directly. Here was a man who knew some things, a man to be listened to. When the girl next to Jimmy started whispering to the girl next to her, Jimmy punched her arm to make her shut up. Mrs. Porter didn’t see him do it.

  The girl rubbed her arm and glared at him. “I’m telling,” she whispered.

  Jimmy knew she was lying. If she told, she would have to admit that she had been talking. He punched her again. She yelped.

  Mrs. Porter glared down the row of seats. “Cynthia,” she said, “hush.”

  The girl’s eyes welled up. Jimmy was disgusted. What a sissy.

  The blind man retrieved his cane and demonstrated how he used it to avoid running into streetlights and mailboxes. Its metal tip scratched back and forth across the stage. “And if I become bored,” the blind man said, “I can always pretend I’m Zorro.” He raised the cane and slashed an invisible Z in the air. Everyone laughed.

  When the blind man finished his talk, he asked if the children had any questions. After some hesitation, quite a few raised their hands. Principal Sturner called on the ones he wanted to, since the blind man couldn’t call on them himself. Jimmy noticed that Mr. Sturner only called on the teachers’ pets.

  The first question was “How do you eat without missing your mouth?” and the second was “How do you drive a car?” Jimmy was peeved. It was obvious that the teachers’ pets were all going to ask really stupid questions.

  He had a question of his own, and it wasn’t stupid. It was, he thought, the only important question anyone could ask the blind man. But he didn’t raise his hand. He was afraid to ask the question in front of everyone else. Mr. Sturner wouldn’t call on him anyway
.

  The last question asked was “Do you have a job?”

  The blind man smiled. “Yes. I am an evangelist. That means that I spread the good news of Jesus and His love to everyone I meet. You see, despite all that I’ve had to learn in order to live without eyes, the fact is that none of it is worth a plugged nickel without the help of Jesus. His voice guides my life, and I assure you that I listen.”

  He pointed his cane at the children. “As should you all. Thank you for your kind attention.”

  The curtain closed as the lunch bell rang. The children and teachers applauded. Jimmy watched the curtain sway as he waited for Mrs. Porter to herd them out of the auditorium. His question would have to remain unasked.

  * * *

  It was a miracle. It was as if Jesus had known what Jimmy wanted, and had given it to him. But Jimmy hadn’t prayed for this. So how had Jesus known?

  The blind man had come to eat lunch with the children, and he was sitting right next to Jimmy. His white cane was propped against the bench between them. Its handle was wrapped in red tape, darkened where the blind man’s hand had gripped it.

  Everyone watched the blind man eat. He opened his mouth wide and brought a spoonful of macaroni to it as if his arm were a machine. He chewed with his mouth closed.

  Jimmy could see behind the left lens of the sunglasses. The blind man’s eyelids were closed, the skin around them dark and puckered. Jimmy wondered if there was any eye in there at all, or just an empty hole. And if it was a hole, would the brain be exposed if the eyelids opened?

  Mrs. Porter sat at the end of the table. She was watching the blind man too. She was also watching Jimmy, and scowling. She didn’t want him to say anything to the blind man.

  He would do it anyway, but he was scared. It would have been easier in the auditorium after all. Up close, the blind man was big, bigger even than Jimmy’s father. And he had an odd smell. Jimmy thought it might be soap, but he wasn’t sure.

  The blind man swallowed and turned toward Jimmy. Jimmy saw his own face in each lens of the sunglasses. “And what’s your name, youngster?” the blind man asked.