confiding in Ina, who wasn’t a very good listener, anyway. Amelia realized her favorite aunt could be pretty selfish. Sometimes she felt like Ina’s pet—just this silly, admiring college girl who tagged along in her frivolous aunt’s shadow.
Selfish, manipulative bitch, Amelia remembered thinking last night as she’d aimed the hunting rifle at her Aunt Ina. Amelia’s not your fucking pet.
It was as if someone else were speaking for her—and killing for her. Yet Amelia remembered pulling the trigger. She remembered the jolt from the gun—and the loud blast.
God, please, please, don’t let me have done that. Make it not be true. Let them be all right.
She pressed harder on the accelerator.
Watching the road ahead, Amelia wiped her eyes, and then reached for the cell phone on the passenger seat.
She had Karen on speed dial.
“Frank, you need to put down the knife,” Karen said in a firm, unruffled tone.
Everyone else around her was going berserk, but she tried to remain calm and keep eye contact with the 73-year-old Alzheimer’s patient. The unshaven man had greasy, long gray hair and a ruddy complexion. His T-shirt was inside out, with food stains down the front. The pale green pajama bottoms were filthy, too. In his shaky hand he held a butcher’s knife. He looked more terrified than anyone else in the nursing home cafeteria. Just moments ago, he’d accidentally knocked over a stack of dirty trays from the bus table. He’d bumped into the table, backing away from an overly aggressive kitchen worker.
“Drop the goddamn knife,” growled the short, thirty-something man. He wore a T-shirt and chinos under his apron. Tattoos covered his skinny arms. He kept inching toward the desperately confused patient. “C’mon, drop it! I don’t have all day here!” He kicked a chair and it toppled across the floor, just missing the old man. “You hear me, Pops? Drop it!”
“Get away from him!” Karen barked. “For God’s sake, can’t you see he’s scared?”
Two orderlies hovered behind her, along with a few elderly residents wanting to see what all the fuss was about. The rest home’s manager, a handsome, white-haired woman in her sixties named Roseann, had managed to herd everyone else out of the cafeteria. She stood at Karen’s side. “Did you hear her, Earl?” Roseann yelled at the kitchen worker. “Let Karen handle this. She knows what she’s doing!”
But Earl wasn’t listening. He closed in on the man, looking ready to pounce. “You shouldn’t steal knives out of my kitchen, Pops….”
“No—no…get!” the Alzheimer’s patient cried, waving the knife at him.
Wincing, Karen watched the frightened old man shrink back toward the pile of trays. He was barefoot, and there were shards of broken glass on the floor.
Roseann gasped. “Earl, don’t—”
He lunged at the man, who reeled back. But the knife grazed Earl’s tattooed arm. A few of the residents behind Karen gasped.
The little man let out a howl, and recoiled. “Son of a bitch!”
One of the orderlies rushed to his aid. Grumbling obscenities, Earl held on to his arm, as the blood oozed between his fingers.
“No…get!” the old man repeated.
“It’s okay!” the orderly called, checking Earl’s wound, and pulling him toward the cafeteria exit. “Doesn’t look too deep….”
“Fuck you ‘it’s okay’,” he shot back. “I’m bleeding here.”
Shushing him, the orderly quickly led Earl out the door.
Karen was still looking into the old man’s eyes. “That was an accident, Frank,” she said steadily. “We all saw it. No one’s mad at you. But you should put down the knife, okay?”
Wide-eyed, he kept shaking his head at her. He took another step back toward the glass on the floor.
“Frank, how do you think the Cubs are going to do this season?” Karen suddenly asked.
She remembered how during her last visit with him, he’d chatted nonstop about the Chicago Cubs. But he’d talked
Selfish, manipulative bitch, Amelia remembered thinking last night as she’d aimed the hunting rifle at her Aunt Ina. Amelia’s not your fucking pet.
It was as if someone else were speaking for her—and killing for her. Yet Amelia remembered pulling the trigger. She remembered the jolt from the gun—and the loud blast.
God, please, please, don’t let me have done that. Make it not be true. Let them be all right.
She pressed harder on the accelerator.
Watching the road ahead, Amelia wiped her eyes, and then reached for the cell phone on the passenger seat.
She had Karen on speed dial.
“Frank, you need to put down the knife,” Karen said in a firm, unruffled tone.
Everyone else around her was going berserk, but she tried to remain calm and keep eye contact with the 73-year-old Alzheimer’s patient. The unshaven man had greasy, long gray hair and a ruddy complexion. His T-shirt was inside out, with food stains down the front. The pale green pajama bottoms were filthy, too. In his shaky hand he held a butcher’s knife. He looked more terrified than anyone else in the nursing home cafeteria. Just moments ago, he’d accidentally knocked over a stack of dirty trays from the bus table. He’d bumped into the table, backing away from an overly aggressive kitchen worker.
“Drop the goddamn knife,” growled the short, thirty-something man. He wore a T-shirt and chinos under his apron. Tattoos covered his skinny arms. He kept inching toward the desperately confused patient. “C’mon, drop it! I don’t have all day here!” He kicked a chair and it toppled across the floor, just missing the old man. “You hear me, Pops? Drop it!”
“Get away from him!” Karen barked. “For God’s sake, can’t you see he’s scared?”
Two orderlies hovered behind her, along with a few elderly residents wanting to see what all the fuss was about. The rest home’s manager, a handsome, white-haired woman in her sixties named Roseann, had managed to herd everyone else out of the cafeteria. She stood at Karen’s side. “Did you hear her, Earl?” Roseann yelled at the kitchen worker. “Let Karen handle this. She knows what she’s doing!”
But Earl wasn’t listening. He closed in on the man, looking ready to pounce. “You shouldn’t steal knives out of my kitchen, Pops….”
“No—no…get!” the Alzheimer’s patient cried, waving the knife at him.
Wincing, Karen watched the frightened old man shrink back toward the pile of trays. He was barefoot, and there were shards of broken glass on the floor.
Roseann gasped. “Earl, don’t—”
He lunged at the man, who reeled back. But the knife grazed Earl’s tattooed arm. A few of the residents behind Karen gasped.
The little man let out a howl, and recoiled. “Son of a bitch!”
One of the orderlies rushed to his aid. Grumbling obscenities, Earl held on to his arm, as the blood oozed between his fingers.
“No…get!” the old man repeated.
“It’s okay!” the orderly called, checking Earl’s wound, and pulling him toward the cafeteria exit. “Doesn’t look too deep….”
“Fuck you ‘it’s okay’,” he shot back. “I’m bleeding here.”
Shushing him, the orderly quickly led Earl out the door.
Karen was still looking into the old man’s eyes. “That was an accident, Frank,” she said steadily. “We all saw it. No one’s mad at you. But you should put down the knife, okay?”
Wide-eyed, he kept shaking his head at her. He took another step back toward the glass on the floor.
“Frank, how do you think the Cubs are going to do this season?” Karen suddenly asked.
She remembered how during her last visit with him, he’d chatted nonstop about the Chicago Cubs. But he’d talked
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