handkerchief out of the hamper and went back over to the dressing table and picked up the typewriter and put it in the lap again, and held it the same as before. And then I took the finger and punched out another line, beneath the first one:
NOW WE'LL BE TOGETHER FOREVER.
I put the typewriter back on the dressing table. I stood up, walked around the chair, and picked up the gun. I went back to the bathroom and dropped the handkerchief back in the hamper. I came back into the bedroom and, with the other handkerchief, wiped the gun.
I handled it, carelessly, all over, clicking the safety on and off, touching the barrel, just the way you might handle any gun if it was yours and you were used to it.
Then I went over and stood by the blood spot on the rug and held the gun in my right hand, at arm's length, and pointed it back toward my left arm. I took a full minute getting the aim just as it had to be.
Gently, I squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I caught one in the war, too, so the shock of it slamming into the muscle of my arm didn't surprise me, or the force with which I spun half around.
But no matter how often you've been hit, the pain is just as bad. It was just as bad then, maybe worse, and I reeled and funny lights came on in my head. The gun fell out of my hand and I dropped on my knees to the rug.
There was plenty of blood and I slowly stretched out and let it run and cover up the little brown spot on the rug. I began to feel better lying there. I was warm and the pain began to go away and I wanted to lie there forever and just let it all go, and never get up.
But I watched the blood, pumping regularly from the upper part of my arm, and knew I had to get up. Using my good arm, I pushed myself to my knees and staggered up. I stood there swaying and the pain was back. I reached over and pulled the edges of cloth away from the wound and bit my lip sharply. I steadied myself.
I tore the sleeve off, at the shoulder seam, with one hard jerk. I wrapped it around my arm, tightly, and the blood flow began to slow up. I stood there and tried to think. There was something else, something final that had to be done.
Then I remembered the gun and that was it. Slowly, I went down on one knee and picked it up. I had to stay down there and breathe a minute before I could get back up.
But finally I made it and then I lurched across that wide room and knelt once more by the body. The blood dripped behind me, but I didn't care.
Let it drip, I thought. Let it run all over the floor.
This time I didn't have the strength to raise the arm. But I got the gun in the hand, somehow, and pressed the stiffening fingers around it and let it fall.
Now, goddamnit, I thought. It's done. It's finished.
I went back across the room and out into the hall again and staggered on back to the kitchen. I smeared blood all over the clean white cabinets, but at last I got the bottle down from an upper shelf and pulled the cork out with my teeth and took a long, long drink. It exploded in my stomach, and when I went back into the hall, I was stronger, if not steadier.
I picked up the phone from the little desk just beyond the bedroom door. I got the county operator and when I said, "Sheriff's office," she plugged the call right in for me.
It rang twice before a sleepy voice answered.
"Walt?"
"He ain't here. Deputy James talkin'."
"Bill. Bill James."
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Bill, you get Walt. I don't care where he is. Get him and get out to my place."
"Who is this?"
"Harry London."
"Oh, yeah. What's the trouble, Harry?"
"Never mind. Just get Walt and get out here."
"I don't know, Harry, he said-"
"Get him," I said. "My wife just killed herself."
***
When they
NOW WE'LL BE TOGETHER FOREVER.
I put the typewriter back on the dressing table. I stood up, walked around the chair, and picked up the gun. I went back to the bathroom and dropped the handkerchief back in the hamper. I came back into the bedroom and, with the other handkerchief, wiped the gun.
I handled it, carelessly, all over, clicking the safety on and off, touching the barrel, just the way you might handle any gun if it was yours and you were used to it.
Then I went over and stood by the blood spot on the rug and held the gun in my right hand, at arm's length, and pointed it back toward my left arm. I took a full minute getting the aim just as it had to be.
Gently, I squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I caught one in the war, too, so the shock of it slamming into the muscle of my arm didn't surprise me, or the force with which I spun half around.
But no matter how often you've been hit, the pain is just as bad. It was just as bad then, maybe worse, and I reeled and funny lights came on in my head. The gun fell out of my hand and I dropped on my knees to the rug.
There was plenty of blood and I slowly stretched out and let it run and cover up the little brown spot on the rug. I began to feel better lying there. I was warm and the pain began to go away and I wanted to lie there forever and just let it all go, and never get up.
But I watched the blood, pumping regularly from the upper part of my arm, and knew I had to get up. Using my good arm, I pushed myself to my knees and staggered up. I stood there swaying and the pain was back. I reached over and pulled the edges of cloth away from the wound and bit my lip sharply. I steadied myself.
I tore the sleeve off, at the shoulder seam, with one hard jerk. I wrapped it around my arm, tightly, and the blood flow began to slow up. I stood there and tried to think. There was something else, something final that had to be done.
Then I remembered the gun and that was it. Slowly, I went down on one knee and picked it up. I had to stay down there and breathe a minute before I could get back up.
But finally I made it and then I lurched across that wide room and knelt once more by the body. The blood dripped behind me, but I didn't care.
Let it drip, I thought. Let it run all over the floor.
This time I didn't have the strength to raise the arm. But I got the gun in the hand, somehow, and pressed the stiffening fingers around it and let it fall.
Now, goddamnit, I thought. It's done. It's finished.
I went back across the room and out into the hall again and staggered on back to the kitchen. I smeared blood all over the clean white cabinets, but at last I got the bottle down from an upper shelf and pulled the cork out with my teeth and took a long, long drink. It exploded in my stomach, and when I went back into the hall, I was stronger, if not steadier.
I picked up the phone from the little desk just beyond the bedroom door. I got the county operator and when I said, "Sheriff's office," she plugged the call right in for me.
It rang twice before a sleepy voice answered.
"Walt?"
"He ain't here. Deputy James talkin'."
"Bill. Bill James."
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Bill, you get Walt. I don't care where he is. Get him and get out to my place."
"Who is this?"
"Harry London."
"Oh, yeah. What's the trouble, Harry?"
"Never mind. Just get Walt and get out here."
"I don't know, Harry, he said-"
"Get him," I said. "My wife just killed herself."
***
When they
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