tightness in my gut suck my breath away and realized my back wasn’t going to be right for days.
The door opened and a smallish, dark woman peered out. It was the same Rose, older of course, but there she was.
At that moment a man driving past the house spotted me hiding behind the thorn bush, and seeing Rose standing there looking puzzled, decided he was going to slow down and stick his nose into things. I caught his eye and let him know he’d better not try it. He looked away and kept driving.
I turned my gaze back to the house as Rose picked something off her walkway, and realized I had dropped Mary’s picture. As Rose studied the photo, her puzzlement slowly dissolved into a kind of pained blankness. I could see the resemblance between the two of them, and I was sure Rose could see it too. It was funny, though. She didn’t bother calling out to see who had rung the doorbell and run off. She turned back into the house and closed the door.
Rose Martinez. Rose Martinez Murphy. She must have gone back to her maiden name after her husband’s death. I didn’t really know her— only met with her that one time years ago. I guess it must have seemed crazy, me reacting the way I did, but I couldn’t help it. After what had happened all those years ago . . . .
Standing on Rose’s doorstep and realizing who she was, I felt as if my heart had dropped to my feet. I just didn’t feel it was right to bring back what had to be hell to that poor woman. Not with all she must have been through and me being somewhat to blame. After all, I was the one who killed her husband.
Sometimes you look back at something that happened in your life and you swear it couldn’t have happened. The more you think about it, the crazier it seems. And you just about convince yourself it was something from a movie you once saw or maybe from a story you heard. The same is true with people you once knew. A name might pop into your head and you start wondering whether or not you ever knew that person. And after thinking about it you realize at one time in your life the two of you were drinking buddies or worst of enemies or lovers or whatever. But when you think about it some more, it doesn’t seem possible.
That’s the way it is when I think about Walt Murphy and that afternoon all those years ago. The thing is, I have newspaper clippings to prove that we did meet up once. And that I ended up shooting him to death.
That day Walt Murphy had called me to arrange an appointment. Over the phone he told me he thought his wife was cheating on him. There’s not a whole lot someone like me can do about a thing like that, except maybe confirm his suspicions or provide evidence for a divorce trial, and that’s all I assumed he wanted. When he showed up at my office he seemed normal enough, a little wild in the eyes maybe, but I wouldn’t have guessed him for a lunatic. Just an average guy who was down on his luck. He started telling me about his problems and when he got to his wife, something snapped.
Whatever edge he was balancing on crumbled away. He started ranting that he wanted his wife dead and demanded to know how much it would cost to blow her brains out. I should’ve taken him more seriously. I got him to be quiet but I should have known the craziness that had taken him over was too far gone. There was a fire raging in his eyes and I should have known better than to turn my back to him. All hell broke loose when I did. My legs were knocked out from under me and I did a headfirst tumble. As I lay there, tangled up with my chair and the phone, he kicked away at my head like it was a tree stump he was trying to turn over.
He must have guessed I had a gun because he broke off trying to kick in my teeth to start tearing my desk apart. In the position I was in, I was about as much use as a turtle flipped on its back. It was about all I could do to get to my knees. As he was taking the gun out of the drawer I threw myself at him.
The rest of
The door opened and a smallish, dark woman peered out. It was the same Rose, older of course, but there she was.
At that moment a man driving past the house spotted me hiding behind the thorn bush, and seeing Rose standing there looking puzzled, decided he was going to slow down and stick his nose into things. I caught his eye and let him know he’d better not try it. He looked away and kept driving.
I turned my gaze back to the house as Rose picked something off her walkway, and realized I had dropped Mary’s picture. As Rose studied the photo, her puzzlement slowly dissolved into a kind of pained blankness. I could see the resemblance between the two of them, and I was sure Rose could see it too. It was funny, though. She didn’t bother calling out to see who had rung the doorbell and run off. She turned back into the house and closed the door.
Rose Martinez. Rose Martinez Murphy. She must have gone back to her maiden name after her husband’s death. I didn’t really know her— only met with her that one time years ago. I guess it must have seemed crazy, me reacting the way I did, but I couldn’t help it. After what had happened all those years ago . . . .
Standing on Rose’s doorstep and realizing who she was, I felt as if my heart had dropped to my feet. I just didn’t feel it was right to bring back what had to be hell to that poor woman. Not with all she must have been through and me being somewhat to blame. After all, I was the one who killed her husband.
Sometimes you look back at something that happened in your life and you swear it couldn’t have happened. The more you think about it, the crazier it seems. And you just about convince yourself it was something from a movie you once saw or maybe from a story you heard. The same is true with people you once knew. A name might pop into your head and you start wondering whether or not you ever knew that person. And after thinking about it you realize at one time in your life the two of you were drinking buddies or worst of enemies or lovers or whatever. But when you think about it some more, it doesn’t seem possible.
That’s the way it is when I think about Walt Murphy and that afternoon all those years ago. The thing is, I have newspaper clippings to prove that we did meet up once. And that I ended up shooting him to death.
That day Walt Murphy had called me to arrange an appointment. Over the phone he told me he thought his wife was cheating on him. There’s not a whole lot someone like me can do about a thing like that, except maybe confirm his suspicions or provide evidence for a divorce trial, and that’s all I assumed he wanted. When he showed up at my office he seemed normal enough, a little wild in the eyes maybe, but I wouldn’t have guessed him for a lunatic. Just an average guy who was down on his luck. He started telling me about his problems and when he got to his wife, something snapped.
Whatever edge he was balancing on crumbled away. He started ranting that he wanted his wife dead and demanded to know how much it would cost to blow her brains out. I should’ve taken him more seriously. I got him to be quiet but I should have known the craziness that had taken him over was too far gone. There was a fire raging in his eyes and I should have known better than to turn my back to him. All hell broke loose when I did. My legs were knocked out from under me and I did a headfirst tumble. As I lay there, tangled up with my chair and the phone, he kicked away at my head like it was a tree stump he was trying to turn over.
He must have guessed I had a gun because he broke off trying to kick in my teeth to start tearing my desk apart. In the position I was in, I was about as much use as a turtle flipped on its back. It was about all I could do to get to my knees. As he was taking the gun out of the drawer I threw myself at him.
The rest of
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