Charles Abraham emptied the china plates from the dishwasher and set them on the kitchen counter. He quickly checked each one; front/back and then placed them carefully in the open cupboard. There was a sharp twinge of electric pain in his right shoulder as he reached to place the large yellow platter on a high shelf. He carefully situated the platter in its holder, adjusting it so that the fine hand painted surface was displayed properly. He brought his right arm down and rubbed his shoulder, easing the pain away. “Hello middle age” he thought. He closed the doors to the cupboard and stepped back from the counter. He visually scanned the kitchen, making sure it was in its normal spotless state. Then he walked to the doorway to the living room and turned out the kitchen light.
He sat back in his favorite wing chair, hearing the squeaks, crackles, and pops of the soft leather as his body settled in. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and savored the heavy, rich smell of the Jambalaya and cornbread he had made for dinner.
A worried thought intruded on his reverie. “Andy should’ve been here,” he quickly chased the idea away. He sighed, rose, and crossed to the small liquor cabinet, and looked among the few bottles for the expensive Scotch he occasionally allowed himself. “Not here,” he thought. Again the worry; “Andrew,” his mind using the full name as if to underline the offense. He shook his head and walked back to his chair. He sat, laid his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to wash the worry and growing anger away with the warm memory food smells. He dozed.
He was asleep and dreaming in the chair when familiar sounds stirred him awake. He heard the lock of the front door turning, the door opening, the heavy, erratic thumps of someone stumbling in, and then the front door carefully and quietly closing. He opened his eyes to see his son, Andy leaning against the door, his forehead touching the leaded glass.
Charles cleared his throat. Andy whipped around so fast that he nearly lost his balance. He righted himself and stood up straight, swaying only slightly. His face broke into a wide smile. “Hey Dad!”
“Hey Andy,” Charles said. His mind demanded “Ask him about the Scotch!” He cocked his head slightly to the right as if to shoo the worry away. “You eat yet?”
Andy nodded. “Me and the guys got something.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in through is nose. “Man! Sure smells good! You make Jambalaya?”
“And cornbread. Sorry you missed it. Maybe you can have it tomorrow.”
“Sure” he said and then sharply turned around, listening.
“What wrong?” Charles said, some new worry.
Andy shook his head and turned back. “Nuthin. Rico had to see his—,“ his addled mind searched for a more appropriate word than “hoe”. “—girlfriend.” He’ll be back by.
Charles frowned, realized the room was dark, reached to the lamp next to the chair, and turned it on. “You’re goin’ back out? What time is it?” he said, looking at his watch. The watch showed 11:30.
“Not that late. ‘Round eleven” Andy’s smile faded away.
Charles looked down, shook his head and rose from his chair. He walked over to Andy, who took a step back. “You’re going back out with Rico and that other one?” He tried hard to keep the angry accusing tone from his voice.
“Rico and Shaz. They’re my friends. Yeah, we’re just be gonna hang out,” his tone careful yet defensive.
“Andy – I really don’t mean to nag at you. But we’ve talked about this. I thought you said—“
“No, YOU SAID—YOU SAID!” Andy spat, pushing off from the door to stand upright, nose to nose with his father, who quickly backed up. “I NEVER AGREED TO STOP SEEING THEM!” The words shouted with a conviction fueled by anger and alcohol.
“I’m sorry – I’m sorry” Charles said, backing up even more. “I misunderstood.” He took a breath, and then took one careful step forward. “Son, all I’m saying is that I worry about you and those boys. I hear things in the neighborhood about them. And they’re not good things. You know what I’m saying?” Charles struggled to keep his voice even and low. He fought against the always-present frustration, worry, and anger.
Andy did not back away. “You hear anything about me?” He said. “These neighborhood people tell you anything about me?” His eyes glaring directly into his father’s.
Charles took one step back and looked down. “No – nobody said anything about you.”
“Ok then. I’ll see you later. I’ll wait outside” his words with sharp and tense. He opened the front door and want outside.
Charles stood there for a moment looking at the front door. He took a breath and turned, and walked to his chair. He dropped himself into the chair, ignoring the leather’s sharp complaints. He closed his eyes, put his head in his hands, and shook it slowly. Tears began to form and run down his face. “Oh Charise – Charise – where’d I go wrong?” He wept quietly for awhile and suddenly sat up straight, wiping his eyes and taking a deep breath. He looked to his left at the picture on the wall. Even in the dim light he could make out every trivial detail of the picture, his memory filling in what his eyes could not actually see.
It was the last family photo they had taken, the last one before his beloved Charise was taken and the kids all went on to their own lives. All except Andy. He looked at the picture and felt so many things, fierce love and loss for his Charise, such pride and love for Eddie, Clarisse, Janet, Martha, Grace, and Andrew. “Six kids” he thought, “Six kids raised up good and solid. “Except for Andrew –Except for Andrew,” he looked back to the front door.
Outside, Andy sat on the porch and ran the conversation around in his head. “You know he’s just looking out for you!” the internal voice said. He listened and realized it was her voice, his mother’s voice. A burning wave of emotional pain, the loss of losing her flooded over him. He shook his head to clear it. Another voice, this one his own but louder, meaner spoke in his head. “He had no right. You’re not a boy. You’re a man. Twenty years old. Twenty years old and your own man. He’s got to understand that!” He nodded in agreement but the other voice persisted. The internal voices railed at each other.
In frustration he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a silver flask, a gift for passing one of Rico’s tests tonight. He smiled when he saw his initials “AFD” engraved in script on the silver surface, the light from the porch outlining the letters in shadow. He smiled, opened the flask, and took several burning gulps. He brought it away and coughed a few times as the harsh, woody whiskey burned its way down. He leaned back against the fence and closed his eyes. The air was dry, unmoving, and hot against the skin of his face. A small bead of sweat formed on his forehead and rolled down the side of his face. He smiled as the vague heat of the whiskey seemed to drown out the pleading internal voice of his mother, leaving only his own proud angry self. He took another long pull on the flask and returned it to his jacket. Then he reached into his other pocket and pulled out the other gift Rico had given him. He smiled, feeling the cool metal, the lethal hard weight of the handgun in his hand. He could feel the compressed unflinching power of the gun and it made him feel good, powerful, – important.
He jumped up and nearly fell, steadying himself against the fence. He strutted into the dark street. All the houses were dark, asleep. He looked one way then the next. The streetlamp nearest his house was out and the light from the other one cast long shadows. He stood in the middle of the street and turned to look at his shadow, a dark giant in the dim light. He raised the gun to wonder at its dark menacing shadow.
He heard a noise behind him, engineless rubber on the road. He turned to see a dark, low shape gliding towards him, a hunched figure on two wheels. Someone on a bicycle, someone really pumping. It was closing on him fast and showed no sign of slowing or swerving. He yelled “Hey!” and jumped aside. The rider’s head sprang up and the bike swerved away from him. Andy watched it glide away. The rider, now dark from Andy’s shadow, turned and yelled “Watch where you’re standing asshole!” Then turned and speed on, nearing the dark end of the street.
Andy was enraged, and without a thought brought the gun up and fired three times at the speeding shape.
Charles was again awakened by noise. “Gunshots,” he thought “Three of them.” Now fully awake and alert, he wondered if they had been real. He listened carefully. A few seconds passed and then there were two more shots, but different. The first three had been close, right outside his front door. These two had come from down the street.
He jumped from the chair, crossed to the front door, fumbled it open, and looked into the street. He squinted and scanned the scene but saw nothing, no, there was something; a still shadow lying in the street. He rushed to it but was stopped by another shape; a man approaching from the dark end of the street, a man with a gun.
Forty-Five Minutes Earlier
“One hundred” said Dan Barron as he finished the sit ups. Controlling his breathing to a regular, easy pace, he allowed himself to rest for exactly thirty seconds. Then he jumped up and went through a comprehensive and painful routine of stretching exercises. When he had finished his heart rate was its normal 30 beats per minute. He breathed deeply and evenly, in through his nose and out through his mouth for one minute, then relaxed. He looked at the clock: eleven on the dot. “Too late to ride,” he thought.
Then he felt the tightness, the tension in his neck. He rolled his head around but knew the best thing, the only thing that would wash away the tension was a nice long bike ride. He nodded and went to the bedroom to change.
He pulled off his Sunday workout clothes and dropped them in the hamper. He opened the closet to retrieve his Sunday riding attire. He placed the garments on the bed and began to dress. He paused as he saw the pale puckered skin of the bullet scar in his right shoulder. “Ancient,” he thought “twenty years ago.” He raised his right arm and winced and the sudden pain. “Fucking middle age,” he thought and continued to dress.
Before leaving the bedroom, he looked around. Four bare walls except for one picture, an 8 by 10 centered in the wall opposite his bed; a small boy, smiling. “Danny, ” he thought, and smiled “Danny, ten years old,” his smile faded as a shadowy panorama of painful memories crawled through his head. “Before the bad time – the dark time. Before you went away.” His face was blank as he left the room.
The streets were empty and he pushed himself till his leg muscles complained with a wash of throbbing, burning pain. Despite that, his mind gradually escaped to the peaceful, empty world of hard exercise. He made the next to last turn, onto the street with the broken streetlamp at the end. Assuming another empty street, he kept his head down and thrust his screaming legs on.
He heard a noise, human, male, in front of him. It caused him to pop his head up and become fully alert. Someone in the middle of the road! He swerved away from the stumbling form and fought to keep the bike upright. His body flooded with adrenaline and pain, his mind angry and racing. He turned back and shouted at the form outlined in the street. Then he turned back around.
Three pops, unmistakable gunshots, and simultaneously the high-pitched, all-too-familiar “zip” of bullets caroming off asphalt. He quickly laid the bike down, slid to a stop, pulled out his weapon, and sighted the figure in. Two controlled squeezes, two loud reports, and the figure shook twice and collapsed, a broken scarecrow.
Dan worked to control his breathing and slow his racing heart. He felt a leaden coldness creeping into his limbs. He rose and walked towards the fallen shape.
As he neared, the front door of the house beside the figure burst open and an older man rushed out. Dan raised the gun to cover the man, but quickly evaluated the threat to be negligent and lowered the weapon. The old man looked at him blankly and then down to the fallen figure. He dropped to his knees and gently cradled the still figure in his arms. “Andrew – Andrew” he said softly.
Dan looked at the scene before him for a moment. Then he holstered his weapon, pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialed 911. He answered the questions slowly and carefully, glancing at the house for the street number. He ended the call and returned the phone to his pocket. He carefully knelt beside the old, weeping man.
“Is this your son sir?” Dan asked softly. As the word “son” left his lips, he felt the same, intense, pain\guilt\horror slash though him. He pushed it away. The old man looked up to him blankly and nodded.
Dan felt the simple nod as if it were a wrecking ball smashing its way through his chest. He struggled with the words he had to say. They came out choppy, uneven, and interrupted by his sobs. “Sir, I’m very sorry to say that I think I killed your son.”
The night swallowed the three figures up and the only sounds were the soft cries of the two men sobbing, broken minutes later by the wailing of the approaching vehicles.
