by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 42: BRENDA
It was awkward when Zeke arrived. I guess I invented a story about how Adam ran to the store and would be back any second. On impulse, I told Zeke I needed to take a shower and begged him to stay.
It’s still early. I’m still counting my regrets and going over the what ifs. The biggest being: what if I had just done it? Just shot Zeke as soon as he had walked through the door? Wouldn’t that’ve resulted in a happy ending for all of us?
I stood in the shower and let the hard stream of hot water beat my chest until a red splotch formed. Then I made splotches on my arms, legs, wherever.
I doubted whether I could go through with it. “Through with it” is the way to put it, because I instinctively knew I would come out the other end a different person, either slightly or radically. I had Zeke. I had the gun. Everyone was waiting for me to combine the two. For the millionth time that morning, I squeezed my brain for a way out. Nothing.
I supposed I had reached the praying stage. It didn’t last long. I couldn’t believe in a deity that would shift pieces of the world for me just because I asked him to. Not only do I think such events never happen, but if they do, they don’t happen for people like me who’ve made the choices I’ve made.
So I had to do it. Like in the alley, I had to do it.
That was my bravest moment. If I got myself into the mindset I had in the mouth of the alley, maybe I could be brave again.
I entered the alley. Like, three feet ahead, I saw an empty whisky bottle. It was as if the world had placed it there for me, knowing I required a weapon. I picked it up. A few steps later, there was a beer bottle. Walking home later, it dawned on me the guy might’ve had a gun and my two bottles would’ve been useless and my life would’ve ended because I tried to save another’s, but in the moment I was on automatic. I tuned out from all the contingencies and plowed ahead.
I reached the dumpster. Four legs kicked and flapped on the other side. I turned the corner. I smashed one bottle across the man’s head. He collapsed and groaned. Then I brought down the other bottle and he went silent. The woman pushed him off. She had bits of broken glass over her face and in her hair.
She didn’t thank me. I’m not sure she noticed me. I held out my hand but she stood on her own. Twinkling shards fell from her. She gained her balance and commenced to kick the shit out of her attacker.
I walked away. Meaty thumps followed me out of the alley.
Back on the sidewalk, I swear, swear, I heard a burst of applause. I now know someone had their television turned up loud, but at the time I thought the world or God or whatever was congratulating me for stepping up and doing the right thing. The applause slightly embarrassed me. After I accepted I was absolutely going to save the woman, the execution was mostly easy.
So I reviewed this story in the shower and the lesson I took away was that I needed to begin. I needed to pick up the Ladysmith. Easy. People pick things up everyday. Then the rest would follow, flow naturally from that first step.
The mirror was fogged when I got out. I wiped it and my reflection was wet and distorted. That always happens, right? I can never wait for the steam to evaporate. I must wipe. It’s a strange compulsion. And for what? I can never see my reflection clearly. Rationally, I know from past experience, a wipe won’t clean the mirror, but that doesn’t stop me from trying one more time. Just in case this time it’ll be different? Insane.
I dressed and combed my hair for I don’t know how long. That’s a meditation exercise you never see in books. Become one with the hair.
I eventually came out of the bathroom and called for Zeke and he didn’t respond. I ran to the living room. He wasn’t there. I nearly wet myself.
Regret. Is there no greater cause for self-loathing than a missed opportunity? If he left, what could I dangle to entice him to come back? If he was gone, he was gone. Then Adam would be gone too. All because I didn’t pick up the Ladysmith, didn’t take the first step.
So I was sick with relief when I saw smoke drift past the kitchen window. You’d think I would’ve rushed to the fridge and blam. No. I was arrested by the orchid in the window sill. It was silhouetted by orange light. The tiny buds lapped the sunrays. The image was too beautiful.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon. I tore myself from the orchid and blew out the candle. What do you think the melted red wax reminded me of?
Zeke came in. He’d been wanting to get something off his chest all morning. Why tell me? I don’t know. I bummed a cigarette and lighter off him and promised I’d give him my undivided attention after I enjoyed a smoke. He wasn’t going anywhere. I told him to watch TV in the living room and I’d be right with him. That satisfied him.
Oh yeah. I also said I wasn’t sure what was talking Adam so long. Traffic?
I’ll admit the shower was stalling, but the cigarette break I’ll defend. It was necessary and fair. I hadn’t smoked one in years, and if any time deserved a cigarette, this was it.
So I sat back and reintroduced my lungs to the joys of tobacco. In the same wicker chair where hours earlier I had converted screaming children into singing angels, I now imagined Zeke keeling over dead, but not in the abstract as before. Now, I filled in the rest of the scene: the living room, couch, television light. I visualized myself dragging his body to his car and driving to the address they had given me. In the safe, simple landscape in my head, each step was very easy.
I examined the script closer. My arms ached when I considered the real problem of hauling someone his size. I thought if I could get him into his car, somehow convince him to drive to the location, I’d shoot him there. Ug, what a mess. It made me queasy. And how could I go through something so gruesome and come out sane on the other end? I’d completely crack and none of the king’s horses or men could ever put me together again. I finally admitted that I couldn’t do it. Are you tired of this back and forth? Can you sympathize with what I was going through?
Yeah, I beat some perv in an alleyway, but I didn’t kill him. The connection I had made between that situation and this one was false. Taking a life? Look, I hate Zeke with every ounce of my body. But that’s today. Yesterday, I simply disliked him immensely. He didn’t deserve to die. Or if he deserved it, it wasn’t because I said so. Also, I was raised Catholic. You can lapse all you want but the idea of hell is ground into you forever. You can take the girl out of the church but you can’t etcetera.
So to think up an alternative, I tried a new technique. Instead of trying to force a brilliant solution, I went the other direction. I succumbed to the nicotine buzz that was softening my brain and tuned out.
It worked. Eventually. The answer came to me as I reached the end of the cigarette.
And just to be safe, in case the spies were losing patience, I leaned over the patio and yelled, “Here I go.”