doctors,” she says, trying to be calm, supportive. “You could talk with—” And now she’s going to sit beside me in the van, and she sweeps the raincoat off the seat, out of her way, and we both stare at the gun.
Now we both experience true horror. She stares at me, and in her eyes I see the entire tabloid scenario. The lust-crazed older lover is here to slaughter his nymphet’s parents.
I lift a hand. “I—” But what can I say?
She
screams
. The sound caroms inside the car, and the force of it seems to drive her backward, out of the vehicle and away. She turns, and runs along the road, toward her house, screaming.
No no no no no. She’s seen me, she knows my face, she saw the Luger, none of this is happening, none of this can happen, everything’s destroyed if this happens. I grab the Luger and jump out of the Voyager (at least, unlike her, I think to slam the door on my way), and I run after her.
I’m a sedentary man, I’ve been a manager for sixteen years, sitting at my desk, walking along the line, riding my car to and from work. Even more sedentary since I was chopped. I’m healthy enough, but I’m no athlete, and running uses me up right away. Long before I get to that yellow aluminum house, I’m gasping for breath.
But so is she. She’s also out of shape, and she’s trying to run and scream at the same time.
And
flail her arms. She had a good lead on me, but I’m catching up, I’m catching up, I’m not so far behind her when we veer to run angling across her unlovely lawn toward the front door of her house, and she’s screaming, “Ed! Ed!” and before she gets to the house I catch up with her, and I hold the Luger directly behind her head, bobbing as we both run, and I fire once, and she drops straight down onto the lawn, like a bundle, like a duffel bag, and the momentum flings her jacket halfway up over her head, covering the hole the bullet made.
Exhausted, spent, I sink to one knee beside her, and look up to see the front door opening, the astonished face of what must be her husband, Ed, EGR, my EGR, his astonished face is in the doorway, staring out, and I raise the gun and shoot, and the bullet punches into the aluminum beside the doorframe with a muted twang.
He slams the door, already turning, running away into the house.
Reeling, almost fainting, I force myself to my feet, I lunge forward to the door, I yank the handle, but it’s locked.
He’ll be in there right now, dialing 911. Oh, God, this is terrible, this is a mess, this is a disaster, how did I ever think I could do these things, that poor woman,
she
wasn’t supposed to—
I can’t let this happen. He can’t telephone, he can’t, I won’t permit it, I have to get to him, I just have to get to him.
The garage door is open. Around that way, through the house, find him,
find
him. I stagger like a drunk as I run along the front of the house and through the gaping open broad doorway. There, to my right, is the closed door to the house.
That
won’t be locked. I hurry to it, the Luger dangling at the end of my right arm, and just as I reach the door it opens and
he runs out
!
What was he doing? What did he have in mind? Was he going to try to drive away from here, was he so rattled he never thought of the telephone? We stare at one another, and I shoot him in the face.
Much sloppier, this one, blood everywhere, face ruined, body a tangled unknotted mess on the garage floor, one arm flung backward through the open doorway into the house.
No one else at home? Daughters all at university? Or with their unacceptable lovers? How I
hate
them for making this confusion, driving that woman to mistake me for someone else, attack me, harangue me, discover the gun. Where’s the neatness this time, the efficiency, the impersonality?
I’m shaking all over. I’m sweating, and I’m cold. I can barely hold on to the Luger, which I now put away in the inside pocket of my windbreaker, then trot along holding it in place with
Now we both experience true horror. She stares at me, and in her eyes I see the entire tabloid scenario. The lust-crazed older lover is here to slaughter his nymphet’s parents.
I lift a hand. “I—” But what can I say?
She
screams
. The sound caroms inside the car, and the force of it seems to drive her backward, out of the vehicle and away. She turns, and runs along the road, toward her house, screaming.
No no no no no. She’s seen me, she knows my face, she saw the Luger, none of this is happening, none of this can happen, everything’s destroyed if this happens. I grab the Luger and jump out of the Voyager (at least, unlike her, I think to slam the door on my way), and I run after her.
I’m a sedentary man, I’ve been a manager for sixteen years, sitting at my desk, walking along the line, riding my car to and from work. Even more sedentary since I was chopped. I’m healthy enough, but I’m no athlete, and running uses me up right away. Long before I get to that yellow aluminum house, I’m gasping for breath.
But so is she. She’s also out of shape, and she’s trying to run and scream at the same time.
And
flail her arms. She had a good lead on me, but I’m catching up, I’m catching up, I’m not so far behind her when we veer to run angling across her unlovely lawn toward the front door of her house, and she’s screaming, “Ed! Ed!” and before she gets to the house I catch up with her, and I hold the Luger directly behind her head, bobbing as we both run, and I fire once, and she drops straight down onto the lawn, like a bundle, like a duffel bag, and the momentum flings her jacket halfway up over her head, covering the hole the bullet made.
Exhausted, spent, I sink to one knee beside her, and look up to see the front door opening, the astonished face of what must be her husband, Ed, EGR, my EGR, his astonished face is in the doorway, staring out, and I raise the gun and shoot, and the bullet punches into the aluminum beside the doorframe with a muted twang.
He slams the door, already turning, running away into the house.
Reeling, almost fainting, I force myself to my feet, I lunge forward to the door, I yank the handle, but it’s locked.
He’ll be in there right now, dialing 911. Oh, God, this is terrible, this is a mess, this is a disaster, how did I ever think I could do these things, that poor woman,
she
wasn’t supposed to—
I can’t let this happen. He can’t telephone, he can’t, I won’t permit it, I have to get to him, I just have to get to him.
The garage door is open. Around that way, through the house, find him,
find
him. I stagger like a drunk as I run along the front of the house and through the gaping open broad doorway. There, to my right, is the closed door to the house.
That
won’t be locked. I hurry to it, the Luger dangling at the end of my right arm, and just as I reach the door it opens and
he runs out
!
What was he doing? What did he have in mind? Was he going to try to drive away from here, was he so rattled he never thought of the telephone? We stare at one another, and I shoot him in the face.
Much sloppier, this one, blood everywhere, face ruined, body a tangled unknotted mess on the garage floor, one arm flung backward through the open doorway into the house.
No one else at home? Daughters all at university? Or with their unacceptable lovers? How I
hate
them for making this confusion, driving that woman to mistake me for someone else, attack me, harangue me, discover the gun. Where’s the neatness this time, the efficiency, the impersonality?
I’m shaking all over. I’m sweating, and I’m cold. I can barely hold on to the Luger, which I now put away in the inside pocket of my windbreaker, then trot along holding it in place with
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