22

 

       JOHN PLUMMER

 

    She turns out the last light.  Her hand rests for a second on my shoulder.  John?

    Um?

    You staying up?

    For a while.

    Well, I have to be down to the store early.  Eileen's taking off, and I have to work the pharmacy.  Good night.

    Good night.

    Her anger has passed.  She leaves me there beside the window, staring from one darkness into another.  There is a warmth in her voice as she calls, Good night, again from the bedroom.

    The porch light goes on across the street.  The rifle leans against the concrete block steps.  My heart still pounds from what I've just witnessed.  What if he'd have killed the old man?  How would I feel then?  I just sat there while it happened, while he pointed that gun at his grandfather.  And if he'd pulled the trigger?  Smiling and talking, he lifts the old man and carries him like a child into the house.  Another light--the kitchen--goes on and I know from the shadows on the blinds what he's doing.  In my mind, I can see it as clearly as the dozens of times I've sat there in that kitchen and been a party to it.  He's dropping the old man's drawers and holding him up, bodily by the armpits, while he relieves himself in the toilet.  Now he's picking him up and carrying him to the bed in the living room.

    Thinking about it, I'm as embarrassed as when I've sat through it in person, a fan of cards in my hand, waiting for the game to resume.  A man should be able to do that by himself.  The idea that a life can be spent like that            There ought to be more.  I avert my eyes, looking into the blackness of my own living room, no cards to busy myself with.  When I look back, the lights are out, and Doug is walking, rifle in hand, to his car.

    I know, know inside myself, that I would have been happier if I hadn't seen what I did, if I'd have gone to bed when night first fell.