I expected people to come running, but they didn’t.
As I waited, my mouth grew dry. I reached for his glass of water; it hadn’t toppled over, and I drank it. I set the empty glass on the table and looked up in the trees. A little bit of light was reflecting off the bark. That’s what I noticed how even black bark could reflect light if the angle was just right. I saw the dark branches filled with sparrows. They had been startled by the gunshot from the pavement to the safety of the trees. In the shade underneath the awning of the coffee shop were a handful of pigeons pecking around at a crust of bread. One of the sparrows left its branch in the tree and flew to where the pigeons were in the shade of the awning. I expected people to come out of the coffee shop because of the gunshot, but no one seemed to notice what just happened. Only the sparrows seemed to notice. Another sparrow followed back to the pavement, and then another, and after a moment all the sparrows had flown to where the pigeons were, and there was a tussle for a few pieces of crust that were too big for any of the birds to fly away with. The bread looked to be the crust of a baguette. I preferred Wonder Bread for the birds because it had a softer, more malleable crumb. Nevertheless the pigeons and the sparrows would figure out how to break the crust, and if they couldn’t break it apart one of the squirrels emerging from the garbage can would figure out how to break it apart and then the pigeons and sparrows would figure out how to rob the squirrel and get their morsel of bread anyway.
I watched the birds carefully. I don’t care what anyone says of pigeons or sparrows or crows or grackles. I see a friend in these birds.
Then I looked up into the higher blue of the sky and all I saw were shadows circling around.
?
When the police came, they asked me to step aside. “Get outside the perimeter.” One of the police actually pushed me so I almost stumbled backwards. “Step outside the perimeter.” He was wearing blue surgical gloves. Another officer showed up by ATV vehicle. He wore a white motorcycle helmet. His radio receiver was firmly attached to a strap on his torso, and he spoke into it: Victim. Male. 48-55 years. Gunshot through mouth to top of head.
Then he turned to me and said:
Who was the dead body?
I told him it was the man who had killed my wife.
I pointed to the gun and I told him that I thought that was the gun he used to kill her. It was also the gun he used to kill himself. The Glock 26. Another officer snapped a picture of where the gun lay, then gathered it in a bag for evidence.
Did you know the dead body?
No.
Did you touch or disturb the dead body when the dead body fell?
No.
Did anyone touch or disturb the dead body when the dead body fell?
No.
As far as you know, did anyone else touch or observe the dead body when the dead body fell?
No.
Was the dead body dead when the dead body fell?
Yes.
And on the questions went. There was a pause and we went to the police station and then they asked the same questions again. And when they had taken down all the information they needed, I was released. Then nightfall came and I found myself out of doors and alone and wandering in the night.
¤
Adeleine, I still don't know why you came by my office that night.
I came to see you, Art. I came to surprise you. I wore my favorite dress, the black one that you like. I thought we might go out to eat. I thought for once you and I would spend a Tuesday night downtown by ourselves at any restaurant you wanted to go to.
Or she might have said: I came to find out what you do all day. I still don’t know what it is you do all day, because I can see by the money that you bring home that clearly you are not doing enough to cover your costs. When are you going to give up on this detective business and try something that rises to the occasion of your talent?
That was the exact word she might have used. Talent. Your talent, Art! You have so much talent to give. When are you going to let go of this business for which you were not made, and finally express the God-given talent you were born with?
Or she might have said: I’ve heard so much about Wanda, I stopped by to check on you. I have no idea what it is the two of you do all day locked up in this office that I pay for, but she does seem too pretty by half.
Or she might have said: Art, I love you more than words can say.
I love you too, honey, thanks for visiting. Only I’m sorry what happened.
Yes. I’m sorry too. I’m so sorry.
?
I want to forget having to tell my daughter that her mother’s killer had been found.
The look on her face when she asked: Is he alive?
No.
How did he die?
He killed himself. He shot himself with his gun.
Do they know why he killed mom?
He only said that she got scared and he didn’t know how to control her so he shot her. He also said he wanted me to understand…
Understand what?
Understand his pain…
He didn’t have to shoot mom, dad. No one needed to shoot mom. Did you know the man? Was he related to your business?
I knew the man. I had interviewed him for a routine divorce case and something about that interview made him snap. I am so sorry, honey. I am so sorry that this happened.
She was crying now and charged me and she pushed me away.
This is all your fault, Dad.
She started pounding on my chest and shrieked at me in grief. Then she pushed me away again and coiled in a corner as far from me as she could get, sobbing.
Leave me alone, Dad. As long as I live I ask only that you leave me alone. That is the only forgiveness that you’re ever going to get from me.
I sincerely want to forget the sound of the door slamming as she left me alone in the room.
The sound of the door, bang. And she was gone.
She moved in with her friend to finish senior year, and then she went to Tulane, and I never heard from her or saw her again, though on each anniversary of her mother’s death I call and leave a message, hoping she’ll pick up.
?
Cal steps back into the lane with his Uzi and lets it rip on full auto, shredding the paper target until it dances and then falls off the clips. It’s a joy to watch him handle such a gun. His body vibrates to the action. The whites of his eyes are not so white. He keeps shooting a moment after the target falls. Little dark crescents form in the fold of flesh just beneath his eyes. He takes a breath, steps back and reloads.
I ask him: Cal…
Yes, my friend…
When are you going to pretend that I’m the target?
Say again?
He sticks a magazine clip like a shiv into the bottom of the gun and loads a round into the chamber.
When are you going to pretend that I’m the target? Just shoot me. Take me out of my misery.
He laughs.
Take me out of my misery. Like Tony Spilotro in that Indiana cornfield.
Like who?
Like Tony Spilotro.
He laughs again.
You laugh again.
You joke again.