Rene Gutteridge - Listen

Damien nodded, holding his breath as he watched the veins in Edgar’s neck pulsate.

Suddenly Edgar said, “Hush,” just as the religion editor walked by the door.

“What?”

“You gotta be careful what you say and around whom you say it. Now, you get out there and get me some real news. And write me a piece that drives a stake through my heart. What is this Web site doing to our town? Is it a good or bad thing? Dig deep.”

Damien’s phone vibrated with a text message: Harmon’s Grocery. He opened the office door. “I’m on it, boss.”

Edgar smiled eagerly.

With flashing lights and wailing sirens, Frank and Gavin raced toward Harmon’s Grocery on the corner of Twelfth and Medlane.

A small crowd had gathered in front of the store, with several baggers and clerks talking with customers. Frank pulled to the front curb, and they got out.

The store manager, the only one in a tie, greeted them with a handshake. “We tried to stop them. They’re still going at it. Things are crashing in there. I removed everyone for safety.”

“Any weapons?”

“Not that I saw.”

Frank glanced around and noticed Pastor Caldwell standing in the crowd. He held a Bible and seemed to be praying.

Frank put his hand on his holster and walked in. Gavin followed close behind. A crash sounded, followed by raining glass.

The manager trailed them. “I think they’re in aisle nine.”

“Police!” Frank shouted. “Break it up!”

More glass shattered. Frank rushed to find the source. It was aisle ten, near the pickles. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. “Stand down!” Frank shouted.

The two men tangled on the floor were soaking wet from the contents of broken containers of vinegar. Bright red blood pooled and snaked through the vinegar and over the laminate floor like small rivers. The smell caused Frank to cough into his sleeve. Both men were hardly recognizable with cuts and bruises and bulging eyelids. Shards of broken glass caught the fluorescent light above, glimmering like diamonds.

Frank walked forward, his hand on his gun. “Move away from one another.”

Both men groaned like that could hurt a lot. The man on the left had a long, dark line of blood from the top of his chest down to his belly. He clutched his shirt and moaned. The other man grabbed his own shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, but his attention was still on the other man, a glare frozen on his face.

Frank turned to Gavin. “Get two ambulances here.”

The manager stepped around Gavin, inspecting the floor and then the two men. “There’s a lot of blood,” he whispered.

“I know. Get me some clean towels. A lot of towels. Hurry.” Frank pointed to the man holding his shoulder. “Don’t make a move. Stay right there.” He stooped over the man who bled from the chest. “What’s your name?”

“His name’s Rob Tereau.”

“Your name?” Frank asked.

“Randy Benjamen.”

Rob’s eyes turned glassy. Frank knelt next to him and grabbed his shoulders. He felt Rob’s body go limp. He made certain there wasn’t any glass behind him in case he fell backward. Frank’s pants, right at the knee, began soaking up vinegar mixed with blood.

“Get a mop over here!” Frank yelled.

Gavin rushed up. “They’re on the way.”

“Take care of that guy,” Frank said, nodding toward Randy.

The manager returned with some towels. Frank pulled up Rob’s shirt. Two deep gashes, one over his sternum and the other above his navel, continued to gush. He grabbed a towel and pushed it against the top wound, then grabbed another one and pushed it on the bottom.

Ambulance sirens wailed through the skylight above them.

Gavin helped Randy up, checked him over, then took a towel and gave it to him.

Frank, still stooped over Rob, looked at Randy. “What happened here?”

“This man attacked my sister.”

Rob mumbled. “No, I didn’t.”

“He did.”

“Where is she?” Frank asked. “Is she hurt?”

“He called my sister a… I can’t even say it. I won’t say it.”

Frank glanced down at Rob, whose eyes periodically rolled back into his head. “I said… I didn’t say it to him… or her. I said it at a… it was a party… I was in the back room…”

“The Web site? That’s where you read it?”

Randy nodded. His glare turned to Rob again.

The EMTs scooted through the crowd that had come in from outside. Frank stood and backed away.

Both men looked like they’d been tossed into a meat grinder.

Gavin stepped beside him, pointing at his pants. “You’re going to have to change.”

Frank stared at the two men. His stomach turned at the sight.

“All this over a Web site?” Gavin asked, handing him a clean towel.

Frank tried wiping the blood off his hands, then handed Gavin the towel. “I’m going to need a minute.”

“But-”

“A minute, Gavin. Take care of this mess.”

Damien threw his briefcase onto the entryway chair and tossed his jacket on the armrest. He was too tired to hang it up now. The flavorful aroma of spaghetti and meatballs mingled with the smell of fresh basil from Kay’s garden.

He walked to the kitchen.

“Hi.” She hugged him with her elbows. “Sorry, have sauce on my hands.”

“Smells good.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am.” He plopped himself on top of a barstool. “This town has gone insane.”

“Bad day at work?”

“Depends on your perspective, I guess. Edgar hated my piece on how church used to be.”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

“He’s obsessed with this Web site thing going on. And apparently so is the rest of the town. Two guys got in a fight over at Harmon’s. Then an elderly lady got a threatening letter on her door. Dispatch said that today they actually had people calling 911 to report their conversations on the Web site. Tires are being slashed. Cars being keyed.”

Kay had turned, giving him her full attention. “Let’s make sure we park our cars in the garage.”

“Let’s make sure we don’t say anything that would offend someone,” Damien said.

“Time to eat!” Kay called.

“Yet should we censor ourselves in our own home?” Damien helped her carry the dishes to the table. Jenna arrived from upstairs, slumped and bored-looking. Damien sat down and engaged her. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Should we censor ourselves in our home because of the fear of what might be heard?”

“I dunno.”

“It’s a good question,” Damien said. “Would make a good op-ed piece. I mean, aren’t we entitled to private conversations?”

“Of course we are,” Kay said, joining them at the table. “Where’s Hunter?”

The front door opened. Hunter came in, barely managing his skateboard and backpack.

“I thought you were upstairs,” Kay said.

“Nah. Went down the street to skateboard a little.” He set his backpack and skateboard down. “Yes! Meatballs!”

Damien passed them over as Hunter sat. “So the question is, Hunter, do we have a right to say whatever we want behind closed doors?”

“Sure. I guess.”

“It’s the old saying, if a tree falls in the forest and nobody’s there to hear it, does it make a sound?”

Jenna sighed. “Dad, why does everything have to go deep for you? Why can’t you just admire a tree and be done with it?”

“So you think this is admirable, this Web site? Be honest. I want your honest opinion about it.”

Jenna sliced a meatball but looked like she was thinking it over. “I don’t know. I guess it is. I think it’s good.”

“You do? Why?” Damien slid his plate aside, giving Jenna his full attention.

She glanced up, blinked like she was surprised. “Maybe people shouldn’t say mean stuff. Like they don’t think about what they’re saying; they just say stuff and don’t care what happens or how it makes people feel.”