by Jordan Sweet
“I don’t know about that, Everett. But, I hope you’re right. I hope he doesn’t come back, ever,” I say decidedly.
I lay back down on the couch and try to get some rest. The house remains quiet, but for Everett sitting at the other end of the couch, quietly blowing notes through his hands. He has a knack for being melodic and that helps make my mind rest a little easier. After a while, I am able to relax a little more. My foot isn’t shaking anymore, and my lips are quiet too.
I drift off. And then I hear rustling. Close to where it was before. I look over and Everett is asleep himself.
I see a flash of light out back and before I can get the word “Everett” fully out of my mouth, the window shatters everywhere and glass flies onto the floor. Shards hit the couch and Everett jumps up immediately.
The brick crashes down and screams across the floor, leaving its mark all along it. I’m in total shock and can’t move.
Everett is moving to the window, but then steps back and comes to me. He motions me to move and says, “Get up. Get behind the couch. Now.”
I do what he says immediately for fear that my dad is coming…
Everett turns to face him. I can see the redness in his eyes is only deeper now and a darker red than it was before. He is sweating and he looks murderously high. I envision that that was what he looked like moments before I found him with the needle in his arm.
I move to the hall and reach the alarm keypad. I randomly press buttons, hoping something happens. But nothing. No alarm goes off. I desperately look at the thing and I see the word “Alarm” on one of the buttons and I press it hard. Again nothing.
“Get out of the fucking way,” my dad screams at Everett.
“Just settle down, old man,” Everett replies. “There’s no need to go any further with this. You don’t want to end up back in jail do you?”
“Don’t tell me what I want to do. Just get out of the way and let me take my little girl home- back to the east coast where she belongs.”
“Ain’t happening old man,” Everett returns.
I feel as if I’m sitting in a movie theatre now, unable to participate in the action, even if there was anything I could do. And then terror sets in when I see the size of the knife my dad is holding.
It’s not really a knife after all. More like a machete. “Jesus Christ, Dad,” I yell, “What are you doing? Put that thing away. No one wants things to end like this.”
“Looks like your buddy here wants to have us a little knife fight. What do you say, Everett, you going to stand there and be gashed or are you going to do the right thing and GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY?” His eyes bulge and that vein looks like it will come through his forehead at any moment.
“Just take your daughter’s advice old man. Put it down and let’s just talk,” Everett tells him.
In the distance, the sirens are audible. They are moving closer. My dad stops, cocks his head to the side as if to be able to hear them better, and then looks directly at me. “C’mon Cora. Let’s go.”
He’s somehow calmed himself now. Like the amplification of the sirens had an inverse effect on his level of anger.
“This isn’t the end, Everett. This isn’t the end at all. I’ll be back for you. And you better be ready next time.”
Everett says nothing. He just stands there calmly, eyes fixed on my dad. His hair still looks like he just stepped out of a Hollywood makeup room and I can’t help but be impressed by that.
My dad takes a step back and then another. Each step in cadence with the approaching sirens. And then he’s out the back window. Moments later, the police pull in.
I grab Everett’s hat and walk to him amongst the broken shards of glass. I place it on his head, run my finger down the middle of his chest and whisper in his ear, “I guess you don’t have to sing for me now.”
He looks me in the eyes, runs his finger down my cheek and replies, “I’ll sing for you any day, Cora.”