Hick - Andrea Portes [66]
The one thing we have going for us is that he’s drunk. However, insofar as that means he may have crossed the threshold from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, this could work against us.
I give him a three-in-ten shot.
I’m betting on drink number six.
I should’ve never brought that fucking .45. I should’ve never brought that fucking .45. I should’ve never brought that fucking Smith and Wesson .45.
If I’d known it would end up pointed at Glenda in the piney woods of Beaumont Kluck’s Cabin Retreat, I would’ve just chucked it back in the drawer and that’d be that.
“You gonna take her, too? That the idea?”
Oh, boy, is he leaning. This may be drink number seven, I’m not sure.
“That the plan here, Glenda? Take off yourself and then leave me with nothing?”
Could be drink seven. Could be. Could be drink eight.
“Boy, seems like you sure love taking things from me, now, don’t it?”
But now it’s like Glenda’s turned into some kind of knight in shining armor, ready for the fall of the sparrow. She stands there, defiant, like she was expecting it.
“Goddamnit, Glenda.”
There’s something in the room bigger than all of us. I don’t know if it’s the .45, or the stillness, or the look on Eddie’s face, but there is something looming, passing overhead, like God himself is looking down, watching and waiting, to see if this one goes to him.
Then the lamp gets thrown by Eddie off the table and the table gets off to its side and Glenda just stands there still like every moment of every hour of every day was leading up to this one moment, here, where she knew, somehow or other, she’d end up facing down the barrel of a .45 with Eddie Kreezer at the other end.
“I ain’t leaving empty-handed.”
Then he starts laughing. I mean it. This must be drink number nine cause he starts laughing like this is the best joke ever and high-pitched and he’s waving the gun to and fro and laughing again and now he’s just laughing at the way he’s laughing and he leans up and aims at Glenda and sighs and says with a smile, “it’s not even loaded. See?”
And then it happens. Just like that. It happens as if it was meant to happen and it’s happened a hundred times before and a hundred times after, on and on, in a circle back and a circle forwards to infinity.
Pop. You’d never think it would sound like that.
Glenda falls to the ground.
You could pick that moment up, hold it up above you and inspect it like a fishbowl, except that it’s smack-bang in front of you, this moment here, this moment that ends with Glenda spread across the floor in a pool of red growing, staring up, gurgling, going, going . . ..
And now, in the middle of this stretched-out moment, instead of standing and waiting and being shocked or high-tailing it out, instead of any of that, in the middle of this Silly-Putty moment, Eddie buckles in two pieces.
The bottle of whiskey goes crash on the floor.
it’s like some Twilight Zone payback where, by shooting her, he accidentally shoots himself and now he’s paying the price, crumpled up, bent, beside her, blithering like a little boy, sobbing, cradling her head and whispering, “Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.” He lets the gun fall beside him, stroking her hair back and placing a kiss, gentle, on her forehead.
“Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry.”
I peek over the edge of the bed and see Glenda looking up at him, deep into the back of his skull, sucking air.
Going, going . . .
And then another shot.
Pop. Like a tire backfiring. Like popcorn.
Eddie goes from leaning forward, bent, to falling back, startled. Now he’s got a red spot, too. Now he’s got a red spot of his own, just like hers, and it’s growing on the front of his shirt and he’s clutching his belly, looking down at his hand, bright red, clutching his belly and looking back at Glenda. You should see his face. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe it and neither can I and you might as well just drop a spaceship out front cause this moment can’t be happening, no way, no how.
Glenda drops the gun.
Going, going