Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“Absolutely goddamned wonderful,” I said. I considered the mishap a sure sign that I wasn’t needed inside the school. Sergeant Torrez could search through lockers all day long without help from me. I turned and walked back to the car, still rubbing my bruised hand. I plopped down in the car and just sat still for a few minutes.

“Well, shit,” I said finally, not sure of my next step. That in itself was irritating. Usually dogged persistence, if nothing else, had always saved my day. Now I didn’t know what to doggedly pursue.

I swept my right hand up to pull the gear lever into drive and missed it by three inches, instead making a ridiculous motion with a clawed right hand like I was trying to catch flies.

The second attempt did the trick, and I pulled 310 out of the school’s driveway. Even without making any stops, it seemed an inordinately long distance back to the house. I parked the car, called dispatch and told them where I was, and went inside. I could see Wes Crocker still out cold in the living room, and that seemed about the right decision.

I headed for the dark, quiet confines of my bedroom, closed the door, and shed jacket, hardware, hat, and anything else with hard corners that might disturb me. I could play the waiting game as well as anyone. The bed felt cool and wonderful, and before I’d exhaled ten times, I was hard asleep.

As was usually the case, my brief sleep was a colorful parade of ridiculous dreams. This particular session was dominated by my youngest grandson, Kendall, who was trying to persuade me that yes, his old wooden toboggan had front-end steering. I looked down the slope at the thick forest of Douglas fir through which he proposed to slalom the thing and tried to convince him that his plan was idiocy.

I was irritated that he was right, all along. As soon as we started down the hill the trees disappeared, giving way to thick pasture grass that somehow hadn’t been bent by the snow burden.

When I awoke, we still hadn’t solved the riddle of the grass. I didn’t bother to look for my watch, but swung out of bed and plodded toward the bathroom.

I didn’t remember leaving the bathroom and returning to bed, but the dreams started up immediately, and even more ridiculous than before. Wesley Crocker’s face refused to come into focus, and he kept making suggestions that really had nothing to do with the problem at hand…whatever that was.

The light seemed harsh, and suddenly, as if something had tripped a switch far inside my skull, I could see the bottom of the bathroom sink, its porcelain slightly dimpled, with a strand of cobweb running from one side over to the center drain trap.

“What the hell’s this?” I said, because I’d never had a dream quite so stark and clear. Movement above the sink attracted my eyes, and there was Crocker again, his face more or less in focus.

“I’ll call someone,” he said, and this time I heard him clearly.

“What the hell?” I said, quite loudly. I was lying on the floor of the bathroom, my head under the sink pedestal, my feet by the commode. It wasn’t a resting spot I normally would have chosen, and the concern on Crocker’s face echoed that.

“I heard you fall,” Crocker said, and then repeated, “I’ll call someone.” He turned and started to hobble off.

“No, wait, damn it,” I said. Like most people, I had preferences about where strangers might find me and in what condition, and lying under a sink wasn’t a top choice. I twisted around until I could draw my knees up, flailing for purchase with my hands at the same time…no doubt looking a good deal like a beached whale.

“You probably oughtn’t to move,” Crocker said helpfully.

I grunted something rude and continued to flail. Crocker reached down a hand and I waved him off. I didn’t care for the vision of him slipping and falling on top of me, the two of us forever tangled on the floor in the bathroom of my master bedroom.

With enough effort to set my pulse hammering in my ears, I managed to roll the right direction and push myself to my hands and knees. I reached up and rested my left arm on the sink’s rim.

“I still think I ought to call someone,” Crocker said. “I was just thinkin’ about stretchin’ out for a few minutes, and I heard this God almighty crash, so I come on in.”

“Well, here I am,” I said. I lifted my head up and pushed against the sink, driving myself upright. My right leg tingled. Shakily, I rested both hands on the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. “Shit.” I didn’t much care for the aging, fat, old man that stared back at me, a little tremor pulling at the right side of his mouth.

I stood up straight and buttoned my shirt, then ran a hand through quarter-inch-long hair that didn’t need combing no matter what acrobatics I performed.

Crocker stood in the doorway of the bathroom, hands on the jamb. Evidently he’d left his crutches behind. I tried a grin at the sight of his worried reflection. With an effort I turned around, one hand still on the sink.

“You want some coffee?” I asked.

“You ought to call somebody,” he said, and I grimaced with irritation.

“I’m fine.” I let go of the sink and hobbled past him to make my way to the kitchen, thankful that the walls were holding still so that I could find them for support.

Once in the kitchen, familiar things worked their magic. I put on coffee without making a mess even though I had to hold the decanter under the faucet with my left hand. By the time I snapped the “on” button of the coffeemaker, I was feeling human again. The clock on the stove told me it was five minutes to four, and I had to look at it several times before I could believe I’d managed to turn a nap into a major crash.

I walked into the living room and thudded into my leather chair. My stomach growled.

Crocker had made his way along the hall wall from my bedroom to the living room, keeping his weight off his knee. He reached the sofa and eased himself down.

“I don’t much care for this getting old business,” I said.

“Well, no,” Crocker said slowly, as if he didn’t quite know what to say.

I leaned my head on one hand and regarded him from across the room. “What are you going to do when you’re too old to ride a bike?”

The question surprised him and he smiled. “Walk, I guess. It’s slower, but I got time.”

“I suppose you do.”

He nodded. “I ain’t got anything I just have to finish,” he said. “So I got time. How much ever I got, it’s what the Lord gave me.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said, not in the mood to discuss personal theology. The only mental image I could conjure was Maria Ibarra, maybe happy for one of the few times in her life, reaching eagerly for a big piece of sloppy, greasy, pepperoni pizza, the food offered to her by a good-looking American kid whose motives were probably not obvious to her. She wouldn’t have understood anything about theology if someone had told her that she had only seconds to enjoy life.

My lapse into silence worried Crocker. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“A little woozy, but otherwise all right,” I said. “You never said if you wanted coffee or not.”

He shrugged and I took that for a yes, even though I knew damn well what was going through his mind. I suppose that’s why it seemed necessary to me to push myself out of the chair with what I thought was my usual vigor and go to the kitchen.

The cups were sitting on the counter, and I had only to pick up the pot from under the machine and pour. My right hand went exactly where I sent it, but from there the signals were botched. With perfect ease, I drew the full decanter off the hot plate and swung it just enough that when my right hand spasmed, the pot crashed to the tile floor.