CHAPTER 29
The gun is still his plan. Joe didn’t promise Rosie anything. She talked him off the ledge the other night, but he’s still enamored with his decision, the control it offers him. The idea of cheating HD out of its fiendish end fills Joe with a sense of justice, even sweet victory. He’s going to go out on his own terms. He’s not going to give HD the diabolical satisfaction of finishing him off. The good guy will win in the end, and HD will lose. Of course, the good guy wins by dying, but at least this way, he deprives HD of taking the credit. It’s a classic tale of good versus evil. Disney could make a friggin’ movie out of this shit.
He opens his top dresser drawer and goes through the familiar steps. He cradles the gun in his hand, removes the trigger lock, ejects the magazine, counts the rounds, pops the magazine back into place, snaps the trigger lock, returns the gun to the dresser, and shuts the drawer. Before letting go of the knobs, he slides the drawer open once more, allowing himself one more visual of the gun, confirming its presence, and then he shuts the drawer.
He exhales, absorbing the delicious satisfaction in knowing that his gun and the bullets are still there. The relief rushes through him, so fast and thorough, better than the endorphin high he feels after running the Forty Flights. He wishes the feeling would last. It never does.
He checks the gun many times a day. Often many times an hour. He can’t stop. In a few minutes, the relief will have completely evaporated, and he’ll be nagged by that addictive uncertainty. What if the gun is gone? What if the bullets are gone? It’s irrational. He knows they’re in the dresser. He just checked it. But the doubt gets more insistent, a doorbell ringing faster and louder in the center of his head over and over, and it won’t stop until he answers the friggin’ door.
Check the gun. Check the gun. Check the gun!
So the only way to rid himself of the compulsive thought is to check the friggin’ gun. So he does. There. It’s done. The gun is there. The bullets are there. But the maddening uncertainty finds its way back to him within minutes, like an eager dog that has just fetched a stick, never tiring of the game no matter how many times Joes throws it.
He grabs another Bud from the fridge, acknowledges the three empties from earlier this morning on the counter, and returns to his chair in the living room. He realizes that drinking beers and checking his gun isn’t a responsible combination, but he shrugs it off. He can do what he wants. He can handle it.
He hears the front door open and footsteps approaching from down the hall. Rosie’s at work. It’s probably Donny or Tommy, coming to lecture him about the gun and drinking and scaring Rosie. He’s been expecting this. He sits up straighter in his chair, defiantly holding his can of Bud, sloshing some onto his sweatpants, ready to defend his plan and actions to Donny or Tommy. They’ll understand. He looks up, and it’s Katie. He’s not ready to defend anything to Katie.
Katie eyeballs him up and down with her hands on her hips and says nothing. She turns, walks over to the windows, and slingshots the three shades up to the ceiling. Natural light floods into the room. Joe squints and turns his head, offended by the sunny day. He hadn’t realized how dark it had been in the living room. Dust particles float and sparkle in the air over the coffee table, which is littered with a stack of unread Patriot Ledgers, two empty bags of chips, this morning’s forgotten sippy cup of coffee.
Katie turns and walks straight to Joe. She takes the clicker from the arm of Joe’s chair, shuts off the TV, walks the clicker over to the TV cabinet, and leaves it there.
“Hey,” says Joe.
Katie says nothing. She pulls the rocking chair over and sets it directly in front of Joe. She sits, and then, remembering, backs up a careful foot. She knows now from experience not to plant herself too close to her dad. She might get HD-slapped in the face, punched in the ribs, kicked in the shins, knocked over. He elbowed Rosie square in the nose last week, gave her a shiner. He can still see the bruised discoloration beneath her eye, even under the makeup she applies to hide it. The poor woman looks abused. In so many ways, she is.
“Mom told me what happened,” she says, staring into her father’s eyes, unwavering.
Joe says nothing. He’d like to stop her right there, to tell her that her mother shouldn’t have shared that with her, that she shouldn’t worry or that it’s none of her business, but the words are locked up inside the prison cell of HD. Instead, he looks into his daughter’s blue eyes, determination and fear fighting for dominance in her gaze, both keeping her glued to her seat. Katie waits, probably anticipating resistance, but then his silence waves her on.
“I’m not going to tell you any clichés or quote some famous dead guy and go all yoga on you. What I’m going to say comes from me.”
She pauses, taking note of the can of Bud in his hand. At first he’s indignant. He can do what he wants. But then her fierce blue eyes turn so disappointed in him, he can’t stand it. He places the can on the side table.
“Here’s the thing, Dad. You’ve taught us kids so many things that’ve made us who we are. You taught us right from wrong, respect for others, our work ethic. You taught us about honesty and integrity, and how to love each other. Yeah, we all did okay in school, but our real education came from you guys. You and Mom have always been our first and best example of what to do.”
Joe nods, touched.
“JJ and Meghan are going to get this. Pat and I might get it, too,” she says, a surge of fear crashing through her voice, aerating each word, and Joe wants to do anything to protect his daughter from that distraught sound. But he’s the powerless cause of that sound, and it kills him. Katie presses the inside corners of her eyes with her index fingers. Joe’s arm flings out, knocking his hand against the side table, accidentally bumping the can of Bud over onto the floor.
Katie jumps up and dashes off to the kitchen. She returns with a roll of paper towels and mops up the puddle of beer on the floor.
“Thanks, hun,” says Joe.
Katie returns to her seat in the rocking chair, locks eyes with her dad, and takes a deep breath before continuing.
“We don’t know anyone else with HD. You’re the only example we have. We’re going to learn how to live and die with HD from you, Dad.”
Joe averts his eyes and thinks about his plan. His perfect plan. It’s the humane decision. He’ll be teaching them the humane thing to do, the victorious way out. The gun. He should check the gun.
“I’m not telling you what to do, Dad. I don’t have the answers here. None of us do. We don’t know what’s right and wrong when it comes to HD. But whatever you do, that’s the advice you’re giving us.”
The gun is the plan. That’s the right thing to do. That’s what he’ll be teaching his kids. He’ll be teaching them to kill themselves before HD does. The gun is the plan. The gun. He should check the gun. He wants to get up and go to the dresser, but Katie’s still locked in on him. Check the gun. It’s an itch he can’t scratch, intensifying every second he sits in his chair. Resisting the pull is agonizing.
“And okay, so I am going to go a little yoga on you,” says Katie, her voice still shaking. She scootches the rocking chair toward Joe so that they’re touching knee to knee. She leans forward and places her hands on Joe’s thighs. “If you end it now, you’re avoiding a future that hasn’t happened yet. You still have reasons to be here. I still want you to be here. We all do. We need you, Dad. Please. We need to learn how to live with this.”
Her penetrating blue eyes land on him, determined and loving, and he sees the unguarded little girl in her, the three-year-old Katie, a part of her own history she doesn’t even remember that Joe has the distinct and rare privilege of knowing. Suddenly, all thoughts of the gun disappear, and there is only Katie, his brave, beautiful daughter, this grown woman who loves him enough to face him like this, his baby girl. And a relief sweeps through Joe’s core that is bigger and deeper than every gun check combined. He bursts into tears and doesn’t try to hold them back. Katie’s crying, too, and they’re face-to-face, two blubbering messes, and there’s no shame in it. There’s no shame anywhere.
Something inside Joe awakens. He remembers teaching JJ how to zip his coat and throw a baseball, showing Patrick how to look both ways before crossing the street and to ice-skate. He taught Meghan to snap and whistle. He taught Katie how to play chess. He remembers the first time she legitimately beat him. He taught them about money, how to drive a car and change a flat tire, the importance of being on time, of always giving 100 percent. The responsibility of being their father has been his honor, and it continues, even when his kids are no longer children. They will always be his kids. He could end HD for himself today, but this part of his legacy will carry on in them.
He’s been nothing but a sorry sight, sitting in a dark living room, wearing dirty sweatpants, drinking beers before noon, checking his gun all day and night, scaring the shit out of everyone. This is not the example he wants to set. And right there, a new plan coalesces, whole and obvious, powerful and unequivocal. This is what he is here to do. He will teach his kids how to live and die with HD. This is the right thing to do, the real humane decision.
Joe wipes his face with his shirtsleeve and sighs. “You wanna get outta here?”
Katie’s wet eyes light up. “Yeah. Where to?”
“How about the yoga studio?”
Katie’s entire face pops with surprised delight, as if he’s just offered her a winning lottery ticket. “Really?”
“Yeah, it’s on my bucket list.”
“You’re going to love it, Dad.”
“Do I need one of those fruit roll-up mats?”
“I have one for you.”
“I got no idea how to do it, so go easy on me.”
“That’s the beautiful thing about yoga. You just need to know how to breathe.”
Joe notices the automatic rise and fall of his chest. Breathing. Today, he can still do that.
“Hey, Katie.”
She waits.
“Thank you, hun.”
“You bet, Dad.”
“How’d you get to be so smart?”
Katie shrugs and smiles. “Mom.”
Joe laughs, leans forward, and hugs his baby girl with all the love and pride he’s got.