The Wrong Man by Matthew Louis Page B

and a part of me wanted to put the gun in the other hand and stuff it back in so I didn’t look like a jackass, but I thought they might jump at me in that moment. Instead, as I’ve seen done in so many movies, I cocked the pistol with my thumb. That ominous click had the expected, dramatic effect.
    But I didn’t feel like Clint Eastwood when I spoke. I could hear my voice quavering. “I’ll just fuckin’ shoot you guys and tell the cops everything that’s happened. It’ll be self defense. If you want to die I don’t give a fuck.”
    I heard the skinny one breathe, “Fu-u-uck!” but the gamecock shook his head sadly and said, “Damn, Homes. You just fucked up bad. You was just gonna get beat down. Now you’re dead, aye.”
    I moved the gun a little. “Not tonight I’m not.”
    They had a quick exchange in Spanish and then the gamecock pointed at me. “You just made it a thousand times worse for yourself, white bread.”
    When the Mexican kids used to call me “white bread” in school, I always answered by calling them “toast.” It crossed my mind but cute comebacks seemed asinine just now. I just kept the gun extended and waited.
    The stout gangster finally hit the skinny one on the shoulder and started turning away.
    I kept the gun extended.
    “Later, bitch,” the gamecock said, and I almost shot him in the back as he strutted off. I kept the gun trained on them as they rounded the building out of sight, but as much as I wanted to show Owen how afraid he ought to be, I couldn’t just squeeze that trigger. I was nothing but relieved as the two thugs disappeared from my view.
    I kept the gun in my hand as I started my car, and kept it beside me as I drove home. I slept on the couch with the gun on the coffee table, after making a madman’s door chime out of a pan and some silverware tied together with a shoelace and hung on the doorknob. If anyone tried to open the door the racket would wake me up and as soon as their head leaned in I’d squeeze off a round and their skull would flatten to a blanket of dark blood on the wall.
    Or so I fantasized. Nobody came to the door. The night passed in shallow and fitful sleep and I found myself awake at dawn, staring at the ceiling. I lay there for an hour, until my cell phone, next to my keys on the coffee table, began ringing.
     
    “Hi, Sam,” Jill said. Her voice was a little gravelly. So was mine. It was
ten after seven
.
    “Hey, are you okay? Have you   . . . talked to anyone? You still at your mom’s?”
    There was two seconds of silence. “Yeah, I’m at my mom’s. I went to the police. I had to go to Blackmer for that. And I was examined by a doctor.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I’m still pregnant. Everything’s normal.”
    I couldn’t think of anything to say. I had, in truth, shoved this out of my mind. It was just too much for me to factor in. It wasn’t real. How could we have a kid? How could we pretend like it was a good idea when this black cloud had settled over our lives?
    “Sam?”
    “Yeah. I’m here.”
    “Aren’t you relieved about that?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Yes! Of course I am!”
    I could hear her sniffling tears back. “What happened doesn’t change anything for me . It shouldn’t change anything for you either!”
    “Jill!” I said. “It doesn’t. Listen, everything’s going to be fine, okay? I just need to get my head straight a little. Are you okay otherwise?”
    “I’m perfectly fine.”
    I told her she just needed to sit tight and get better and I’d find us a new place real soon. I told her I was coming to see her in an hour or two, but she said to wait. It was my night off and she suggested we see a movie, have dinner and try to be normal. She needed it right now, she said. I agreed even as I scoffed to myself. Try to be normal? I thought. My heart was thudding, slowly and heavily, as if it resented the effort. My mind was repeating Owen Ferguson’s name like a primitive war chant and sweat had broken out