Them (32 page)

When he went into the store, the owner smiled and patiently explained the range and power of his deadly stock, taking care to encourage Sean to hold and handle each gun he showed an interest in.

“This here one takes hollow points,” the man said, setting a cannon on the counter.

“What are hollow points?”

A city boy. A novice. The man's smile disappeared. He gently took the gun from Sean and returned it to the glass-enclosed case.

“Hollow points will drill a hole clean through a man to the other side, and tear up ever bita flesh and bone along the way,” the store owner explained. “It's what I use…”

After three trips to the store, Sean settled on a plain .32 revolver, which seemed a perfect fit for his smallish hands. The store owner noticed Sean's palms sweating as he tried to follow instructions on loading the weapon and locking the hammer.

Later, Sean spent some time practicing at a local range (he sneaked off whenever Sandy went to her meditation class). Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he practiced aiming on his own. So on his way home with Sandy that night, he felt fully prepared.

The footsteps behind him seemed closer still. Straining to hear, he estimated there were at least two people trailing. He could handle two. He slipped a hand inside his jacket.

Let them come. Fucking thugs. Let them come!

Silently, he began to count off numbers to time his move. One…two…He had practiced timing himself: One…two…three…now!

In a flash, he shoved Sandy aside. She shrieked and stumbled to the ground. In one fluid motion, Sean drew the gun, swung around and cocked the hammer.
Fucking thugs!

Sandy turned over, looked behind them and screamed. “No, Sean!! No!!”

Sean leveled the pistol and aimed to fire. He had the bastard right in sight.

“No, Sean, don't!!!”

Heeding his wife, Sean hesitated. He eased the tension in his trigger finger and turned toward Sandy. Before he could refocus his attention, he felt a heavy force pounce on him. The attacker yanked his coat over his head, so that he was trapped, arms and head straitjacketed by his own clothes.

A hand, strong as a vise, snatched the gun and raised it high, preparing to slam down and crush his skull.

Sandy sprang from the ground and rushed forward. “Please! It was a mistake! We're sorry! Please!”

Sean flailed wildly, struggling to disentangle himself. He heard a man's voice growl at him. “You better learn what to do with this…” The man tossed the gun to the ground.

In a moment, Sean wrenched himself free from his coat. He straightened up and regained his bearings in time to see that one man, not two, had walked in the darkness behind them. It was no predator. It was Barlowe, returning from his neighborhood safety patrol.

Barlowe stormed up the walk and went indoors.

D
ays later, Sandy was standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, when Barlowe appeared in his backyard. She watched curiously as he stood there, staring into space. He headed slowly to the porch, then reappeared. She watched him piddle around, unraveling the hose.

He seemed fidgety.

Sandy dried her hands and went to the front of the house, into the living room, where Sean had settled down to read the paper.

“Sean.” She plopped down on the edge of his chair. “Didn't you say you were going to the store?”

He kept his eyes glued to the paper. Ever since the near-shooting, he'd tried to manage his embarrassment by avoiding eye contact with her.

“I wanted to pick up something from the pharmacy,” he said, “but I decided it can wait.”

She smiled. “Well, actually, I need a few things for dinner tonight.”

He looked up at her. “I thought we were having leftovers.”

A few beads of moisture formed on her nose. “We can have leftovers tomorrow. I'm in the mood for something else.” She tossed him a pleading look. “Please.”

He crumpled the paper. “What do you need?”

“I thought I'd make spaghetti, but I don't have sauce.”

“Yes we do. I saw some in the cabinet this afternoon.”

He went into the kitchen. Opening the cabinet door, he pointed at the spaghetti sauce—a big jar, right up front.

“We need more than
this
?”

“Oh.” She looked sheepish. “I didn't see that. I guess that'll be enough.”

She moved to the refrigerator now and opened the door. She rummaged around inside and turned to him. “Peppers. We need green peppers, and dressing for a salad.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes. I think that's it.”

He slipped on a jacket and was out the door. As soon as he pulled out of the driveway, Sandy rushed through the house and went out back. Barlowe was still out there standing around.

“Hey,” she said, approaching the fence. “How you doing?”

“I'm doin.”

“I was about to start supper. Just thought I'd come out and say hello.”

“Hi.”

His mood was low. She could tell. She moved closer to the fence.

“Barlowe.”

“Yeah?”

“Look, I'm
really
sorry about what happened the other night.”

His eyes turned sharp, angry. “I coulda been killed, you know? I could be dead right now.”

“I know. I know.” The gravity of the incident came back to her. “You have no idea how bad I feel. I think Sean feels bad about it, too.”

“I suggest he stay clear a me. I ain't responsible for what I might do.”

They both remained quiet, thinking. Then Sandy said, “You've gotta admit things have been pretty uptight around here. There was a mugging, you know? Everybody has been on edge.”

Barlowe chuckled. “On edge.”

“Listen,” she said, “before the other night, I had decided to pull back a bit. I was tired and feeling somewhat overwhelmed by all that's been happening. But after the gun incident I realized I can't pull back now. I'm in too deep—we all are—whether we want to be or not.”

Barlowe leaned forward and peered in her eyes, recalling the stories his daddy used to tell when he was a boy. “Men have been killed over the likes of
you
.”

Her face pinched tight. “That's not what the other night was about. And nobody's ever been killed over
me
.”

“Coulda happened the other night.”

Sandy's face flushed. She grew visibly upset.

“Could you handle a man bein killed over you?” Barlowe asked.

“Look, I said I'm sorry…Why would you ask me such a thing?”

“Because. It coulda happened.”

“No, it couldn't have happened. I wouldn't have let it happen.”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “The man drew a gun on me. What could
you
do?”

“You're being awfully mean today,” said Sandy. “Maybe I should just go back in the house.”

She waited, hoping he would apologize. She wanted him to ask her to stay and talk some more.

Barlowe said nothing. He just stared at her.

“Well, I guess we'd better talk some other time,” said Sandy.

“Yeah.”

She left. Once indoors, she began taking out food for dinner. She busied herself chopping onions. While she worked, she thought about Barlowe. He seemed so troubled, annoyed. She felt tortured, stuck and at a loss. It was strange. She was sure that on some level she was in touch with him, the essence of who he was. At the same time, she had never felt so close to—and simultaneously distant from—anyone before. With Barlowe there was always that wall, ever standing, that she couldn't breach.

She stood at the sink, measuring the range of her conflicted emotions as she ran water into a pot.

Then a voice from behind startled her. “Did you enjoy your little neighborly chat?”

She jerked around. “Sean. I didn't hear you come in.” She wondered what time it was. How long had she been outside? Sean had already taken off his jacket and set the store items on the counter. She hadn't noticed the groceries when she came in.

Sean stared at his wife. His face was red, livid. “What is it, anyway?”

Sandy turned her back and began rinsing green peppers. “What is
what
, Sean?”

“You know what. What is it with you and the guy next door?”

“I told you, his name is Barlowe.”

“Whatever.” He pounded the countertop. “Answer my question.”

“We talk, that's all.”

He looked at her strange. “About what?”

“About…
things
.”

“What kind of things?”

“I don't know.” She thought for a moment. “We talk about the way things are.”

Sean pointed outside. “And what does
he
know? No, lemme guess. He's a nice guy, caring, like you, right.”

“Oh, don't be sensitive, Sean. It doesn't wear well on you.”

He exploded. “Actually, I've got good reason to be sensitive right now: My neighborhood feels like goddamned Iraq and my wife is suddenly sending me on bogus errands so she can sneak out for intimate chats with the
black
guy next door!”

“Sean, you almost
shot
the
black
guy next door! Remember?”

“Whatever. In any case, there's a lot to be sensitive about.”

She stopped cleaning peppers and turned around, facing him. Her eyes were moist.

“What's the matter with
you
?” he asked. “
I'm
the one who should be crying.”

She grabbed him by both arms and looked into his eyes. “Sean. You're scaring me.”

“Scaring you? How?”

“You didn't even tell me you owned a gun! How could you buy a gun—a gun!—and not tell me?!”

He looked away. “Because. I knew what you would say.”

“See? That's what I mean, Sean. I'm no longer sure you're the person I thought you were.”

“And I'm no longer sure I
want
to be.” He paused, seeming to stumble. “What I'm saying is, maybe I'm not committed to the degree that you are.”

She turned her back to him and stared out the window. “I didn't know there were degrees, Sean. I've always thought a person was either committed or not committed.”

“I'm committed to the
idea
of what we're doing,” he said. “But I don't want to have to work this hard…I didn't bargain for this…”

“Then you're not committed, Sean. It's as simple as that. You're not committed.”

“Well, then. I guess I'm not.”

They both went silent, each trying to figure out where to take the discussion from there. They remained silent for a long while, he concluding in his way, and she in hers, that it was impossible to know.

Then Sandy spoke: “You're starting to sound like someone who doesn't care. I've never thought of you as apathetic.”

“I'm not apathetic. Maybe I'm just indifferent…Is that a crime?”

“It's a crime if your indifference ends up hurting people.” She sniffled. “You don't get it, do you? We really are hurting people.”

He exploded. “Uh-huh, and they're hurting
us
! Have you thought about that? Huh? We're hurting, too!”

“No, you don't understand…”

“Okay,” he said, “how about this: We're hurting each other! That sound fair? We're hurting each other! Everybody's hurting! So let's call it even, huh? Let's call it even!”

“But you don't understand—”

He waved her off. “Take it somewhere else, Sandy. I'm tired. I don't wanna hear that crap.”

“But—”

“No buts!” He pointed at her. “No buts! These people are hurting us and they're hurting themselves!”

Sandy sniffled again. She pulled a paper towel from a nearby rack to wipe her eyes. “How can you say that with a straight face, Sean?”

“Easy! Look at the bums walking the streets!” He was shouting now. “And what about the drunks? What about that drunk lady who was found dead near the house a while back? We didn't force her to drink herself to death!”

Sandy shouted back, “She might have been depressed, Sean! The lady might have been depressed! Did you ever think about that!?”

Now Sean lowered his voice. “Yeah. She had plenty to be depressed about.”

She studied his face. “What do you mean?”

“Her drunk boyfriend, or whatever he was to her. Her drunk boyfriend in jail.”

“In jail?” Sandy had wondered in passing what happened to the frumpy man she used to see staggering through her backyard. She had wondered about him when she saw Viola walking through the path alone. “In jail?”

“Yeah. Jail.”

“How do you know he's in jail?”

A devious grin spread across Sean's face. He was angry now. And hurt. He felt entitled to be a little mean.

“You haven't seen him around here peeing on the fence lately, have you?”

“No. But how do you know he's in jail?”

Sean picked up a green pepper and tossed it in the air like a baseball. “Because.”

Sandy stared, suspicious. “Because what, Sean?”

“Because I took care of it.”

“What do you mean you took care of it? What do you mean?”

Sean sensed now that he might have said too much. So what? He told himself that he didn't care anymore. Why should he care? He looked at Sandy, his face a blank page. Why should he care?

“I called the cops on him, that's what.”

Sandy's eyes widened, incredulous. “You called the cops on him? When?”

“One night.”

“One night, when, Sean? Tell me!”

“It's been a while. It doesn't matter. He probably got out and skipped town or something.”

She glared at him, waiting.

“Hell,” said Sean, “it wasn't
my
fault. He came stumbling through here, drunk. I looked out the window and saw him out there, in the dark, sitting against our fence. He got up and peed on the fence…That's the same guy who sneaked up on me that day. Remember?”

She stared, silent.

“So I called the cops and told them to get him away from us. They came and took him downtown.”

“I don't believe you,” said Sandy.

“Considering what happened to his old lady, who knows? I might have done him a favor. I might have saved him from himself.”

Sandy's eyes grew wider. “I don't believe you.”

Sean stepped around her and got a glass of water. “Well, you should believe me. And you should be grateful. Nobody should have to put up with drunk people walking through your yard all hours of the day and night.”

Now she was furious. She could hardly believe what she had heard, and coming from her husband at that. Her
husband
!

She started pounding Sean's chest with her fists. “You! How could you bring yourself to do something like that?! I don't believe you! I don't believe you!”