Paul Kavanagh - Not Comin' Home to You

The light turned and he crossed the intersection. This Sunoco station was no good now. It was on a busy corner, there was a car at one of the pumps, and there looked to be at least two attendants on duty. No point in taking that much of a chance.

Of course you had to take chances. If Walker P. Ferris hadn’t been willing to take chances he’d still be pumping gas for his father-in-law. Funny how things all fitted together — gas stations and old Walker P. and everything else, like a song that started on a certain note and wandered all up and down the scale and came back to the same note at the end. Well, Walker P. Ferris had taken that chance, and look how lucky he was.

At another traffic light he cut the ignition, unlocked the glove compartment, then started the engine again.

He found the right station out on 281 north of the city line. It was a Standard station. There were no lights anywhere near it, no customers present. He pulled up to the pump and cut the engine. Might as well get some free gas while he was at it. The tank was better than half full, but it wouldn’t hurt to fill it the rest of the way.

The kid on duty trotted out right away. He was beefy, and his belly bulged against the front of his denim shirt. No more than nineteen or twenty, but you could see he’d be jowly in a couple of years.

Jimmie John lowered the window and told him to fill it with the high-test. While the gas was running he worked on the windshield and made conversation. “Allaway from Texas, huh? This here a Toronado? How you like it?”

He gave him a credit card. The kid went back inside to do whatever they did — check it in the book, run it through the machine. Jimmie John opened the glove compartment and took out the gun. He wedged it under his belt, opened the car door, stepped outside.

On the highway a couple of cars passed without slowing down.

He grinned. Business wasn’t very good, he thought, and it was about to get worse.

He went into the station. There were vending machines for coffee and Coke and cigarettes. A wire rack had pockets for eighteen road maps, but all but three pockets were empty. There was a calendar on the wall from a sparkplug manufacturer. The page for that month showed a fisherman netting a trout.

The kid was at the desk struggling with the credit card machine. He said, “Sorry to hold you up but I can never get the hang of this thing. Ruin two slips for every one I get right. You want the men’s room, it’s locked, key’s on the wall there. I don’t know why the hell they lock it.”

Then he looked up and saw the gun.

He said, “Oh, Jesus. Look, all I do is I work here. It ain’t my money and no skin off my butt. Ain’t much in the register but you’re welcome to it.”

But the kid had seen him. And the kid had seen the car, knew the make, knew it was carrying Texas plates. And the kid knew the Ferris name from the card.

Maybe he had made the decision far in advance. But he made it for sure now and the kid saw it in his eyes.

“Jesus, no,” he said. He started backing away, little tentative shuffling steps. “No, no,” he kept saying. His little eyes seemed to draw even closer together. He was trying to look Jimmie John in the face but his eyes kept dropping to the gun as Jimmie John leveled it at him.

A man had to take chances if he was going to amount to anything. But this stupid fat kid was just giving up, standing there whimpering with his hands out in front of him to knock the bullet away.

He squeezed the trigger.

It wouldn’t work. He said, “God damn it,” and tried to force it. A safety catch, he thought, and he turned the gun furiously in his hands searching for it.

And through it all he thought what a poor dumb helpless piece of shit this old boy was. Because he was standing there waiting to get shot and blubbering like a girl while Jimmie John stood there obviously not knowing what in hell to do with the gun. He just stood there while he could be picking up something, a pieced pipe, a wrench, an ashtray, anything to defend himself with. He saw all this and thought of all this, and then his fingers finally found the damned safety catch and flicked it off.

And the kid was still standing there like a statue.

He smiled. Not purposefully but automatically, and the kid saw the smile and something died in his eyes. Finally he readied himself to spring, but it was a whole lot of seconds too late, and Jimmie John squeezed the trigger and this time the action was just as it was supposed to be and the bullet went home three inches above the navel.

Damn, but did that gun have a hell of a kick to it! He fired a second time reflexively, but by then his arm had jerked half out of its socket and the bullet ricocheted wildly off the ceiling. The lad was sprawled against the wall with his legs straight out in front of him. He had his hands clamped over the wound in his middle. His shoulders were twitching and his mouth worked soundlessly.

Jimmie John shot him in the chest. The recoil was just as strong this time but he was more nearly prepared for it. Even so, his arm ached. He took two steps and pointed the gun very carefully. A muscle worked in his forearm. He waited until his aim was steady and pumped a final slug smack into the middle of the kid’s forehead.

He rang the cash register, scooped out all the bills, left the silver. The little tray with his credit card had dropped from the desk. He picked up his card and pocketed it. Halfway out the door he remembered the credit slip. He took it out of the machine.

He put his gun back in the glove compartment and locked it. Then he drove back to town.

He didn’t feel it at first. Not until the car was back in his parking place in front of the motel room. Then it began to hit him. He killed the lights and ignition and leaned forward against the steering wheel. He closed his eyes and flashed the whole sequence from the moment he walked into the station.

He had never felt like this before. He couldn’t define it or break it down but he knew he had never felt like this in his whole damn life.

If she wasn’t in the room—

But she had to be in the room. He told himself this and ordered himself to relax. He could manage to will the tension away, but seconds later it was back, more demanding than before.

He unlocked the door of the room and went inside. He reached for the light switch, then let his hand drop to his side. He let his eyes accustom themselves to the darkness.

She was in their bed. A sleeping kitten, her body curled like a question mark, her hands clutching her pillow. He took a deep breath and released it slowly.

He had gone out, a hunter after prey, and he was returning now from a successful chase. And his woman was in their cave waiting for him.

He undressed in the darkness, moving silently to avoid disturbing her. He did not trouble to hang his clothes up but folded them neatly on an armchair. He went to the side of the bed and looked down at her while his loins burned painfully with a fierce need for her.

She moaned quietly when he lowered himself onto the bed. But she did not awaken. He lay quietly beside her for awhile.

He took hold of her shoulder. It was just wonderful how soft she was. He rolled her easily onto her back. She made a sound he had never heard before, half protest and half purr. He nuzzled her throat, moved to kiss her breasts. The tempo of her breathing changed. He put a hand on her belly and ran it down to her loins. His fingers opened her thighs and touched her.

She was all warm and wet.

He placed himself in position over her. The intensity of his erection was painful. He touched her moist warmth with it and clenched his jaws to keep himself from surging furiously into her. He moved just a little ways into her and her eyes opened.