Slippage by Harlan Ellison

he was actually reeling. This couldn't be happening.
    "I never..." His voice was small. He knew the truth...he just wasn't a hitter. Had never hit a woman. Had, in fact, only raised his fists in anger once, thirty or more years ago, to defend himself against a pair of schoolyard bullies. He was just, simply, not a hitter. Why had Carole told this guy such things? Why had she left without speaking to him? Why had she taken his sons away? Why had she confided in this total stranger? Why had she—and had she?—written letters of permission, letters of accusation? What the hell was happening here?
    "We haven't been having any trouble," Eddie said.
    "Carole says it's terrible living with you. She says to tell you it's all over, and she's getting a divorce."
    "You said that!"
    "Carole told me to say it to you."
    What was with this gazoonie? Was he fucking retarded, or what? It was like having a conversation with Rain Man, or Forrest Gump, or Lenny from the Steinbeck novel. It wasn't any kind of conversation he'd ever had with anybody, even his grandfather, when the old gentleman had gone simple, and Eddie as a kid had been taken to visit Grampa in the Home. Not even those soft, aimless, frustrating conversations had been like this.
    There had been no menace when talking to Grampa.
    "I'm calling the cops." He moved again toward the end-table. The guy on the sofa didn't move. Eddie strained to see some tiniest reflection of moonlight in the shrouded eyes, but they were back in darkness. It was like trying to see a road sign through heavy fog. You could strain all you liked, but you were going to overshoot your turnoff, no matter how hard you craned your neck forward. Where there is no light, there is no sight. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.
    "Carole had the phone turned off. Electricity and water, too. Until you leave. I made sure that was done."
    Eddie held the dead thing to his ear. Not even the sound of the sea. Slowly, he set the implement back on its stand. The guy pointed to the duffel bag.
    "I'm not going anywhere!" Eddie yelled.
    Then he remembered the revolver in the hall closet. Up on the shelf, near the front door in case anyone ever tried to force a way in. He turned quickly, stumbled through the entrance, back into the front hall, and got to the closet. He automatically reached for the light switch to illuminate the closet, and flipped it. And nothing happened. Electricity and water, too. Until you leave.
    He fumbled in the closet, found the shelf, found the cardboard box under the moth-proof plastic bag of mufflers and scarves, and jammed his hand inside. It was empty.
    From the living room he heard the guy's voice. "Carole told me about the gun. I got it out of there."
    Eddie felt his knees lock. He couldn't move. His spine was frozen. The guy could be behind him right now, the revolver aimed at his back. Not even kill him, just leave him a cripple for the rest of his life. Unable to walk. Unable to pee. Unable to work with his hands, draw, paint, do the work he so much wanted to do. All the work he'd put off for fifteen years to raise two kids, to make a stable marriage, to have a career in business. He'd put it all to one side and now he was going to be shot by a stranger in his own house.
    He turned, slowly.
    But the guy wasn't there. The hall was empty. Eddie closed the closet door, and walked back through the entranceway into the living room. The guy hadn't moved. The duffel bag lay where it had rolled. The moonlight still came through like watery soup, enough to enfeeble, but insufficient to restore or bring back to health.
    "What the hell do you want with me?" Eddie said.
    "I'm just a friend. Of Carole's. I said that before. She asked me to come and make sure you left."
    Eddie felt pressure in his chest, like an attack of heavy anvil angina. "Where's the gun?"
    "Over there on the television set. I put it there after I took out the bullets and threw them in the trash."
    "And you're just going