A Single Shot by Matthew F Jones Page B

big, what then? Still, the gesture must be big. A big—great big—not tiny, cash wad is the point. Like John’s cataclysmic orgasms, the gift is meant to speak volumes; to say more than he is able to say in words about his love and concern for his family. He eats two bologna-and-cheese sandwiches, washes them down with a quart of raw milk. He thinks himself nearlysober. He looks around at the kitchen walls streaked with soot. The whole trailer smells like burning charcoal. He decides to give Moira all the money but a thousand dollars. Before he leaves, he rolls up the latter amount and stuffs it into the sugar jar above the sink.
    He drives the eight miles to town in a blindered, half-drunk state, foreseeing from his mission only positive results—a grateful Moira, an impressed Moira, a contrite Moira, begging for him to take her back. He parks in front of a liquor store at one end of the street, then, carrying in a paper bag the deer and snake meat and the cash, he walks the two hundred yards to where she lives on the top floor of a three-story, white, flaking clapboard building, half obscured by spruce trees. Her car is out front.
    Looking up at the third-floor windows, dark except for a single flickering light, John is suddenly not so sure he’s doing the right thing. It’s later than he thought. Nearly ten o’clock. What if Moira is in bed? Worse yet, what if there’s someone up there with her? The street behind him is so quiet he can hear the buzz of the streetlights. An occasional car passes. John walks back up the street to the liquor store, goes inside, buys a pint of schnapps, then walks back to Moira’s, and, drinking the schnapps, leans against her car, staring at the flickering light, imagining it to be about anything. A firefly lights several times in front of his face. John tries unsuccessfully to catch it in his hand. He wonders what it would feel like to fly, to bypass walking altogether.
    A vehicle comes fast down the street, slows up, then turns into the dirt driveway next to the house. It’s a small compactcar. Rap music pours from its open windows. While the engine’s still running, the driver’s door opens. A long-haired kid holding a square, flat box steps out. He glances at John, then quickly walks to the outside stairs on the side of the house and starts up them, two at a time. A dog starts barking somewhere in the building. A voice tells it to shut up. John watches the kid climb past the second floor and head for the third. He drops the empty schnapps bottle onto the grass. A horrible image of Moira naked beneath another man flashes into his head. “She don’t even like pizza,” he thinks. “I’ve never seen her eat even a single goddamn slice.”
    He starts on a half trot toward the stairs.
    He reaches the bottom of the first platform just as the kid, guffawing to himself, steps onto it from above. “Unfucking real, man,” he says, shaking his head. “Some dudes got all the luck!” More to steady himself than anything else, John puts his hand not holding the paper bag on the kid’s chest. The kid stops laughing. “What’s the deal, man?”
    The world spins around John. He asks the kid, “Who ordered it?”
    “Huh?”
    “Who ordered the fucking pizza?”
    The kid nods up the stairs. “She did, man. The chick.”
    John pushes past the kid. Holding on to both rails for support, he lurches up the wooden stairs to the third-floor platform. He leans against the entrance-way door, hearing inside, above soft music, piggish grunts, moans, one-and two-syllable verbal barks. Through the door he sees past the kitchen into the living room, where the light flickers. He thinks, “How can the world end in a single day?” He is pastreason, several drinks beyond thought. He puts his hand on the door handle and turns. The door is locked. He smashes the paper bag into the lowest section of glass, reaches through the hole, unlocks the door, yanks it open, and runs through the kitchen into the