Terminal

EIGHT

I was at a funeral. I didn’t know whose. It must have been for somebody important because the turnout was enormous. For some reason, it wasn’t taking place inside a church. Instead, we were at the old, abandoned movie theater downtown, the one where little Kaitlin Roberts had been killed about ten years ago. I was fifteen when that happened. They found her body, along with the bodies of a homeless guy and a mailman inside the vacant theater, which had closed down a year earlier when the multiplex opened across town. Their killer was never caught and their deaths haunted the town to this day.

That was how I knew it was a dream. Who in their right mind would hold a funeral at the location of a series of grisly murders?

Disembodied, I floated above the proceedings, watching as the crowd of people filed by a coffin made out of solid gold. The coffin lid was closed, and I wondered who lay inside. I listened to the hushed murmurs and whispers of the crowd below, but couldn’t make out anything other than sobs. Just by willing it to happen, I drifted down for a closer look. Michelle and T.J. were there, which surprised me. Michelle looked beautiful in her black dress—

not the type from Wal-Mart or Target or the Goodwill store. No, this was something you’d see on television, a gown you could picture Julia Roberts promenading around in at an awards show. A huge diamond sparkled on her finger, and a matching set dangled from her ears and around her neck. T.J.’s hair was slicked back and he wore a little black suit and tie, with matching black shoes. This outfit was new as well. His Sunday clothes (when Michelle’s mother took him to church) had consisted of a pair of tan Osh Kosh and a fraying sweater. I couldn’t believe how great they looked. This was the kind of clothing they’d always deserved, the kind I could never provide. Expensive. Brand-name. I figured they must be happy now. But when I looked closer, I saw that they were crying. Black mascara streaked down Michelle’s face, making her look like a raccoon. T.J.’s little Adam’s apple bobbed frantically as he battled one great sob after another. The grief looked too big for his tiny frame. My heart broke to see them like this, in pain when they should have been happy. Judging by their appearance, they had everything in the world. Why were they so sad? Who had died? Who was in the coffin? Michelle’s mom? No, I spied her in the crowd, coming toward T.J. She picked him up in her arms and held him close.

I started to go to Michelle, but Sherm and John pushed past me—through me. A shiver ran through my body. Sherm was decked out in gold chains, and several fat gold rings adorned his fingers. John was actually wearing a tuxedo, something he hadn’t been able to afford even for our high school prom. John was crying too, as hard as Michelle, and Sherm held them both. But I noticed that he held Michelle a little too tight, and that she let him, and for one second, I was insanely jealous.

None of them seemed to notice me.

That was when I understood. The clothing. The gold casket. Even the money it must have cost to rent out the old movie theater. We’d done it. We’d pulled off the bank job without a hitch, and now my wife and son were taken care of. Sure they were sad, but grief passes; passes quickly if the bills are paid. They’d be okay in the long run.

I smiled, a sense of peaceful satisfaction engulfing me.

A silver and red-gilded banner hung over the casket.

I have gone out to find myself.

If I should get here before I return,

please hold me until I get back.

I floated toward the coffin, figuring I might as well pay my respects to myself. After all, this was a dream. No telling what would happen when the real thing came. There might not be a bright light or a chance to look down on my loved ones from above. Better to do it now, while I still could. Besides, who ever gets the chance to visit their own funeral?

The coffin was amazing. The softly flickering candles reflected on its surface. Etched in calligraphy was my name: THOMAS WILLIAM O’BRIEN followed by my date of birth and date of death. Below that, it said simply: Beloved Husband and Father. I put my hands on the lid, and though I was a ghost, it felt solid enough, cool to the touch. I opened it, grunting with the effort—and then looked down.

And I screamed.

Because the thing lying in the coffin, lying in the fancy box with my name carved into it—that thing wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been. There was no way. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t even human. I screamed again, but if anybody else heard me they didn’t show it. Staring up at me was a blackened, putrescent lump of protoplasmic jelly. A rough outline of a human body; a pulped, swollen thing that could have been a head—were it not the size of a watermelon; two frail, stubby twigs for arms and a matching set for legs. But it was the midsection that was the worst. Something rotten and vile bubbled from the open chest cavity, spurting little gouts of fluid, like a volcano spurts lava right before it blows entirely, and orange-sized tumors jiggled like Jell-O. Brown liquid oozed out of the body, filling the coffin with putrid sludge. Beneath the pools and pulsating tumors, I heard something growing. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. It sounded a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies popping in milk.

Those are cancer cells, I thought. And they’re growing. Growing at an alarming rate. Retching, I took a step backward and the thing opened its bulging eyes. They looked more like tumors than eyeballs and the veins inside the whites weren’t just black—they were fucking obsidian. They swiveled toward me, then the thing spoke. When it did, several teeth fell out into the coffin. Its voice was like a belch.

“Hello Tommy,” it rasped. “Do me a favor, will you? I have gone out to find myself. If I should get here before I return, please hold me until I get back.”

“The hell? What the fuck are you?” The bile burned my throat, and I wondered how that was possible in a dream.

“I am cancer. You have me. At a very advanced stage.”

I shut my eyes, but it lashed out, grabbing my wrist with one liquefied arm. Something that felt like warm oatmeal ran down my palm and dripped onto the floor.

“You’re terminal, Tommy, so live like there’s no tomorrow! Life’s a bitch, then you die!”

I opened my eyes again and yanked my arm away. It was covered with slime. The thing smiled at me through bleeding, ulcerated gums.

“Watch this.”

It exhaled something that smelled like the inside of a septic tank. Thin, weblike tendrils slithered out of its pores and twisted through the crowd, wrapping around the people, coiling around Michelle and T.J., Sherm and John. When the tentacles touched them, something black and inky began to worm its way through their veins, visible beneath the flesh. Immediately above the infected spots, their skin began to wither and turn brittle, large pieces flaking off and falling to the floor.

“What are you doing?” I choked.

“I am you and you are me and they are we,” it sang. “You infect the ones you love, Tommy. You are a sickness. You are poison in their veins. What more could they expect from a white trash loser like you?”

“Fuck you!”

“You’re no good, no good, no good,” it sang again, “Tommy you’re no goooood! Come on and get down with the sickness! Open up your veins and let me flow into you…”

I reached for Michelle and T.J. and they fell apart in my arms. I choked, breathing them in. Staggering backward in horror, I bumped into Sherm and he did the same. Then John disintegrated too. All that was left of them were piles of ash.

I started to scream a third time, but the thing’s stench grew stronger, overwhelming me. It continued to swell and pulsate. I turned away, revolted.

Behind me, the thing in the coffin exploded, showering the room with itself. Something wet and reeking and grayish red landed on my head.

I bent over and vomited on my shoes, still trying to scream…

… and I was still doing both as I woke up with a view of the bedroom floor. I heard Michelle gasp in dismay as a plastic garbage can was shoved in front of my face.

“Here baby! Hit the can! Hit the can, Tommy!”

I convulsed, half-on the bed and half-off, and then I erupted once more.

“Oh Christ, Tommy—hit the can! The can!”

“GAAAAAHHHHH…” I replied. It felt like the lining of my throat was trying to crawl out through my mouth. I clenched my eyes shut as the spasms overtook me. In the background, I heard Michelle run to the closet in the hallway and grab a bath towel. I opened my eyes and saw blood in the trash can. Before Michelle could come back and see it, I wadded up some tissues and dropped them on top of the mess.

“What’s wrong with Daddy, Mommy?”

“He’s sick, baby. Go on back out in the living room and watch cartoons. Mommy will be out in a minute.”

“Does Daddy have the flu? Is he going to be okay?”

“Now, T.J.!”

I gagged, tried to talk, to reassure him, and found the words cut off by another cramp. It was warm and foul; beer and tequila and the remains of what little bit I’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours. It splattered into the can with a wet sound, and now Michelle was retching too. Without looking, she threw the towel at me and with one hand over her mouth, ran for the bathroom. Blood, mucus, bile, and more of what looked like my insides followed it. Then came the dry heaves. My stomach churned and cramped, cramped and churned, but nothing more was left. When it was over, I lay back on the bed, gasping for air. The stench was overwhelming, and I rolled over again as a final case of dry heaves seized me.

I threw more tissues into the trash can. The toilet flushed and I heard the water running. Michelle came out of the bathroom a minute later, wiping her mouth.

“Long night?” she frowned.

“I’m sick.”

“No shit, Tommy. How much did you have to drink last night?”

She wasn’t shouting, but it felt like it. Her voice was shrill, cutting into my head like a power saw. Groaning, I rolled away from her and buried my head in the pillows.

“How much?” she demanded, and pulled the sheets away from me.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “Not much. Few beers and a couple shots of tequila.”

“You didn’t get home till six—I’m betting you had more than that.”

“Un-uh. Seriously, that was all.”

“Then where the hell were you?”

Well first, honey bun, John, Sherm, and I almost got into a scrap at Murphy’s Place. Then we hatched plans for a bank robbery and took a drive out to York, where we visited the hood. I used the last of our savings to buy two guns, and we almost got our asses killed by the brothers when John decided to prove that he was down with the Rainbow Coalition.

“We went to Murph’s.” That wasn’t a lie. “And then we just drove around. Went out to the lake for a while.” That wasn’t a lie either. “Sherm broke up with this girl he’s been seeing and he was a little depressed.” That was a straight-up, bold-faced lie and she knew it immediately.

“Bullshit, Tommy. Sherm’s a player. He probably just wanted to get into some mischief and dragged you two along.”

I shrugged.

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

“Anything happen at work yesterday?”

I didn’t like the way she was looking at me.

“No,” I hesitated. “Why?”

“I heard the foundry is laying people off. It was on the news this morning. Jenny Orosel told me they’re getting rid of the guys with four to six years of tenure.”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you about that. It’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it? And the rest of us will get stuck doing twice the work.”

“But don’t you fall into that group? The group getting laid off? You’ve been there five years.”

“No,” I lied. “I was worried about it, but the axe didn’t fall on me. We lucked out, I guess.”

“Tommy?”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“Of course not, Michelle. Why?”

“Because Jenny said that you were one of the guys that got laid off. You and John and Sherm.”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know where the hell she heard that. We’ve all still got our jobs. We were sweating it, though.”

“I’m worried. Money is already tight. If you get laid off…”

“Don’t worry. I’m going to take care of it. Take care of everything.”

“What do you mean?”

Before I could lie to her some more, I belched uncontrollably and grimaced at the taste. Michelle did the same, fanning her nose in disgust.

“God, Tommy, you stink. You stink but I love you.”

“Love you too.” I leaned up to kiss her and she backed away, protesting, which was good, because my head began swimming and I had to fall back onto the mattress before I passed out. She didn’t notice that, but she did notice how pale I was.

“You really do look like shit, babe. Let me feel your head.”

“I’m all right. It’s just a hangover.”

She insisted and I finally gave in. Her hand felt cool and dry against my forehead, and I closed my eyes.

“I think you’ve got a fever.” The worry in her voice had gone up a few notches. “You’re burning up.”

“I’ll be fine. Can you just get me some aspirin and my smokes, and maybe make some coffee?”

“Okay. Why don’t I get you an ice pack too?”

“That’s okay. I’m going to get in the shower in a few minutes. Just need to wake up first.”

She hesitated, caressing my brow, and smiled.

I managed to return the smile, but it felt like my teeth were going to fall out, just like the thing’s in the dream had done. After she was gone, I forced myself out of bed, sitting up slowly and groaning in pain as I put one foot on the floor, then the other. My joints ached and it felt like somebody had kicked me in the ribs. I wanted to go back to sleep, to shut my eyes and forget about everything, just lie there dying in bed. But I couldn’t. For starters, I needed to clean out the trash can before Michelle saw the blood in it—and the other stuff, the black stuff that had come from deeper down inside me. After that, I wanted to make the most of our day. We didn’t have many days left and I wanted to enjoy every one of them.

With a lot of effort, I stepped into a pair of sweats, picked up the can, and stumbled into the bathroom. I turned on the shower and filled the can, then dumped it, watching as little pieces of myself swirled down the drain. After I rinsed it out, I sprayed it with disinfectant. Turning, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and what I saw wasn’t fucking pretty. I hadn’t turned into the thing in the dream, not yet, but Michelle was right. I really did look like shit. I looked old. Not twenty-five but thirty-five. Forty even. The skin on my neck and chin was swollen and puffy, and my eyes were two sunken brown circles. The stubble on my cheeks looked rough and spotty—almost as if the cancer was killing the hair follicles in some places, like somebody had sprayed patches of my face with Michelle’s hair remover. The same thing was happening on my chest. The hair that was left was turning prematurely gray. I followed the silvery trail down to my navel, and noticed just how loose the sweats were around my waist. Michelle had been right. I’d definitely lost weight.

I wasn’t going to be able to hide what was really going on for much longer. Michelle was smart, and soon she’d figure out for herself that this wasn’t just the flu. And when she did, she’d know I’d been lying to her. Then the truth would come out, in all of its ugly glory. I hated myself for lying to her. She wasn’t just the love of my life. She was my best friend, too. I trusted her, and remained faithful to her in a town filled with cheating spouses. I respected her, and she did the same for me. This just wasn’t right, and it hurt me in ways the cancer couldn’t. I showered and shaved, and by the time I finished up, Michelle had my coffee and the first cigarette of the day waiting for me. The combination of the hot water, nicotine, and caffeine took care of most of the aches in my back and sides, and the headache was reduced to a low rumble.

“You look better,” she said, while I sat on the floor with T.J., watching Yu-Gi-Oh. “Want some breakfast?”

“No, I better not. My stomach’s still a little queasy.”

“Okay.”

I tried to concentrate on the cartoon but I couldn’t. A commercial came on for a hair loss cure and I wondered why the hell they were advertising that during the time of day when kids watched television. T.J. stirred next to me.

“Daddy, can we go to the park today?”

“I don’t think we’d better, babe,” Michelle told him. “Daddy’s still not feeling good.”

“I feel better,” I insisted. “That shower helped. It’s just my stomach now. Tell you guys what. Let me have a few more cups of coffee and then we’ll go to the park. Sound like a plan?”

T.J. cheered, then his cartoon came back on and he was completely absorbed. I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself another cup of coffee. Michelle wrapped her arms around my back and nuzzled my neck. Her breath tickled my skin, and I breathed her in: vanilla-sugar and shampoo. Clean. Healthy. She gave me goose bumps.

“You sure you feel like going out? I can take him by myself. Let you get some sleep…”

“No,” I turned, kissing her on the forehead. “Seriously, I’m all right. It’ll do me some good to get out. It’s springtime. Can’t stay cooped up in the trailer watching TV all day. Especially these Japanese cartoons. They all look the same.”

“I love you, Tommy O’Brien.”

“I love you too, babe. I really, really do.”

She pulled back a little and stared into my eyes. Her forehead wrinkled in concern. I wanted to tell her, felt overwhelmed with guilt for not telling her, but I couldn’t.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just…”

I struggled for the words, something I’d never said to her before in all the years I’d known her.

“…Just hold me, okay? Just hold me and don’t let go.”

She did, and she loved me enough not to ask me why.

We went to the park, and I pushed T.J. on the swings and seesawed with him and played horseshoes and told Michelle to quit worrying about him falling off the monkey bars. We bought ice cream (thank God Michelle had cash and we didn’t have to use the ATM) and sodas, and we brought along a loaf of bread to feed the ducks. We tore the slices into little pieces and the ducks converged on us as we tossed the bread into the pond. T.J. and Michelle both laughed when a swan got brave enough to take the pieces right out of their fingers. Then T.J. played with some friends from day care while Michelle and I curled up on the blanket together. We didn’t talk—we didn’t need to. We had that comfortable vibe where both partners are happy just to be together. The sunlight felt warm on my face, and it caught the highlights in Michelle’s hair, making the strands shine like spun gold.

After his friends had scattered and gone off with their parents, T.J. ran up to us.

“Daddy, do you feel better now?”

“Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Will you play with me then?”

“Sure, little man. What do you want to play?”

“Cops and robbers! Cops and robbers!” He jumped up and down.

“Okay,” I stood up, joints popping, trying to hide the pain in them. “Who do I get to be?”

“You’re the robber and I’m the policeman. You have to rob a bank, and I get to put you in the jail.” He pointed to the monkey bars, indicating that they were the playground’s version of prison.

“Rob a bank?” I paused as something twisted and uncoiled deep down inside of me. “How about I just kidnap Mommy and give her a spanking instead?”

“Noooo,” he stomped. “If you’re gonna be a robber, then you have to rob a bank. That’s the way you play it.”

I looked at Michelle for help but she lay there on the blanket, smiling at me.

“He’s got a point, Tommy. Bad guys don’t help old ladies across the street. They rob banks.”

The unease grew.

“Maybe Mommy can be the bad guy,” I suggested.

“Girls aren’t bad guys,” T.J. fumed. “Only boys. That’s why they call them bad guys, Daddy.”

“Okay,” I relented. “I’ll be the bank robber.”

The words seemed to hang in the air after they left my mouth, but T.J. was cheering and started giving me instructions. I shook my head and tried to concentrate.

“This tree is the bank. Mommy can be the person who works at the bank. When you rob it, you have to say ‘Stick them up’ because that’s what they do on the police shows.”

“I told you he’s watching too much TV,” Michelle whispered, getting to her feet.

“Okay,” T.J. shouted impatiently, “let’s go!”

Michelle leaned against the tree, and said, “Welcome to O’Brien Savings and Loan. My name is Michelle. How can I help you today?”

“Ummm, stick ’em up,” I mumbled. “Give me all your money.”

“No, Daddy! You have to yell it, and you have to point your fingers like this.” He stuck his index finger straight out and cocked his thumb.

“How can I help you, sir?” Michelle asked again, giggling.

“Stick ’em up,” I said halfheartedly. My breath wheezed in my chest and my head began to hurt again.

“Louder, Daddy! And do the gun!”

“Come on, Tommy,” Michelle hissed. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you being a spoilsport?

Make him happy and play the game the right way.”

My heartbeat was racing, throbbing in my temples.

“STICK THEM UP!” I shoved my finger pistol under Michelle’s nose. “Put the money in the bag and nobody gets hurt!”

“That’s more like it,” she whispered. Then she raised her voice, and yelled, “Oh no! We’re being robbed! Help! Help! Police!”

This was T.J.’s cue and he didn’t miss it. He ran toward us across the grass, shouting “WHOO

WHOO WHOO” in an imitation of a police car siren. He stopped behind us and pointed his own finger pistol at me.

“All right, you bank robber! Reach for the sky!”

“Don’t shoot,” I hollered, warming to the part. “I’m dropping my gun. Don’t shoot.”

But he did anyway. He made the little “KA-POW” noises, then stopped, staring at me in frustration.

“What?” I asked, perplexed.

“You’re supposed to fall down, Daddy. That’s what you do when I shoot you.”

“Oh.” I clutched my stomach and groaned. “Looks like you got me, copper. I’m a dead man.”

“You’re going to jail,” T.J. informed me. “Get up, you robber!”

“Don’t I get to go to the hospital first?”

“No.” He started to giggle.

“My hero,” Michelle cried and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Officer. Would you like to stay for some cookies and punch?”

“No thank you, ma’am,” T.J. drawled. “I’ve got to take this bad guy to jail.”

He grabbed me by the arm and I pushed myself to my feet, letting him lead me to the monkey bars prison. I ducked down and slipped between the bars, crouching in the sand.

“When can I get out, Mr. Policeman?”

“Never. Bank robbers have to stay in jail forever.”

“But I have a family, sir. A wife and three kids and a dog.”

T.J. paused, and his face grew serious.

“Daddy?”

“What, buddy?”

“Do bank robbers really have families like that?”

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again. I struggled for the words, any words, anything.

“Sometimes they do, I guess. Not all bank robbers probably start out as bad guys.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, maybe they are just poor and don’t have any other way to get money. Or maybe they’ve got a sick little boy at home who needs medicine or a mommy that needs to see a special doctor who’s really expensive.”

“So is robbing banks wrong?”

“Yeah, little man,” I fumbled, “it’s wrong. It’s definitely a bad thing.”

His brow creased in confusion. “Then how can all bank robbers not be bad guys?”

“I’m sure that most of them are, T.J. But some are just regular guys—guys like Uncle John or Uncle Sherm. Guys like me. They just get caught up in something that they can’t get out of, no matter how badly they’d like to.”

He thought about this, then asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Daddy—would you ever rob a bank?”

“No, T.J., of course not. I’d never do that.”

“Never ever?”

“Never.”

I’d been lying to Michelle and now I’d just lied to my son. At that moment, I welcomed death from cancer because it was no less than what I deserved.

“Not even if we were sick? Not even if we really needed the money?”

“Nope. Not even then. And you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have to go to jail and I wouldn’t be able to see you and Mommy.”

“That would suck.”

The abruptness of his statement made me laugh and I was grateful, because the laughter kept me from screaming. It kept me sane.

“Yeah, you’re right, little man. That would suck. Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about we play something else now?”

“Okay, Daddy. What do you want to play?”

“How about hide-and-seek? I’ll even be it.”

“Sweet.” He scampered away.

“Hey,” I called after him, “can I come out of the jail now?”

“No,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You have to count from there.”

I wrapped my fingers around the bars that separated me from my family, closed my eyes, and began to count.

The chills had almost left me by the time I got to twenty.

Later, after we’d gotten home, I grilled some steaks and made baked potatoes and corn on the cob for dinner, while Michelle gave T.J. a bath. We ate, and when the meal was finished, the three of us curled up together on the sofa with a bowl of microwaved popcorn, and watched The Lion King for the four hundredth time. It was just as good as the first time we’d seen it—

except for the part when the father dies. That had always choked me up before, and it really knocked me on my ass now. T.J. fell asleep between us during the last half hour, and when it was over, I lifted him in my arms and carried him to bed. He stirred, mumbled something, then went right back to sleep. I kissed him on the forehead, smoothed his rumpled hair, and shut his door, leaving it open a crack to protect against monsters, just the way he liked it. Michelle and I finished the popcorn; and then we made love, right there on the couch. She smelled just as good as she had that morning—the vanilla-sugar lingering in the air. When it was over, we snuggled together, still naked, smoking and soaking in the afterglow. We didn’t say anything. We didn’t need to.

After a while, she fell asleep too. I carried her to bed, pulled the blanket over her, kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair just like I’d done with T.J., and crawled under the sheets next to her.

I didn’t sleep.

I wish that I could tell you it was a good day, but it wasn’t. Except for the panic and guilt attack during the game of cops and robbers, and my battle with nausea earlier that morning, it should have been the perfect day. Sounds like it was, doesn’t it? Well you weren’t there. You weren’t inside my head. I should have been grateful—should have loved every minute of it, every second. Except I didn’t. How could I? How the fuck was I supposed to? My wife and son had enjoyed a beautiful spring day as a family, and in their hearts they thought that there would be thousands more of those days to come.

But I knew better. I knew that this would be the last. And that knowledge was a fucked-up thing. It ate at me in ways the cancer never could. It devoured me from the inside. If I shared that knowledge, it would destroy them. And by not sharing it, I destroyed what we had. I lay there in the darkness, listening to my wife breathing next to me, and my son snoring softly down the hall. Anger suddenly overwhelmed me. Silently, I cursed God and the Devil and the tobacco companies and the doctor and my vanishing father and bitch of a mother and the owners of the foundry and everybody else I could think of. Most of all, I cursed myself. The thought occurred to me that maybe I should just commit suicide. Sign up for a life insurance policy with a big payout and take one of the pistols and blow my brains out the back of my head. But that would never work. Most insurance companies would want some kind of physical, and they’d find out about the cancer right away. Besides that, I didn’t think they paid out if you killed yourself.

Still, it would be an easy way out, a way to stop the lies and the pain and the sickness, a way to stop the dread I constantly felt in my gut, the dread that was consuming me, gnawing at me like a worm.

I tossed and turned. The sheets stuck to me. After a while, I got up and tiptoed to the front door. I opened it quietly, knowing that if Michelle woke up now, I’d have no choice but to come clean. Slipping outside, I made it to the truck, opened the door, killed the dome light, and reached under the seat. For one terrifying moment, I couldn’t find the box, and all kinds of things went through my head. Michelle had found it or a neighbor had stolen the guns or maybe the cops knew about the buy. But then my fingers brushed against it, and I pulled it out, relieved. I lifted the lid and the pistols stared back at me in the moonlight, whispering of a means to an end. Robbery. Suicide. Peace. Whatever I wanted, they were more than happy to provide it. They were shiny, happy things, full of promise and release.

Still considering my options, I put the lid back on the box and carried it over to my toolshed. I popped the combination lock and stepped inside, shutting the wooden door behind me. I flicked on the overhead light and a terrified mouse scampered in one of the dark corners. One of my mom’s boyfriends had once given me an Old Milwaukee barroom mirror, and I still had it, hanging on the wall next to my tool bench. I opened the box, pulled out one of the .357s, and lifted it up, staring at my reflection in the mirror.

I placed the cold barrel to my temple. The gun looked big—bigger than on TV. Then I opened my mouth and put it inside, pressing it against the back of my throat, tasting the metallic tang of oil. I gagged. No. There was no way I could do that. No way I could ever pull the trigger and do myself.

Still watching my reflection, I pulled the gun back out and pointed it at the mirror.

“This is a stickup, motherfucker! Put the money in the goddamned bag and nobody gets hurt!”

I smiled. That was a lot easier and a lot better.

I repeated the words again. And again. They became a mantra and I practiced till they were perfect.

Still smiling, I locked up the shed and put the guns back under the seat in the truck. There were a few more things I had to do—just to make sure this was the road I wanted to take. But the words in the mirror stayed in my head. I slipped into the trailer, and lay down next to Michelle. I had no trouble sleeping after that.