Alissa Nutting - Tampa

Buck stood hunched over at the end of the hallway, his shoulder occasionally coming to life with a spasm. “Buck,” I called gently, walking toward him with slow steps. Despite my best efforts, my voice was trembling—I had no idea what sort of animal Buck became when unhinged. Was he about to get violent? Perhaps it would be a good thing if he began hitting me; he’d lose a huge amount of credibility if I’d been beaten up when the cops arrived. Jack and I could stick to the story that I’d just been there to tutor a student in need; the rest was a jealous delusion on Buck’s part. But the accusations alone could cause me to lose my job, and Ford, in a misguided attempt to prove my innocence, would probably do something over-the-top like have a forensic team sweep Jack’s bedroom. No, the police couldn’t get involved under any circumstances. I had to win Buck over at all costs.

As I drew closer, I realized that Buck was bent forward in a near-comical manner. His torso drooped toward the ground as though a child had just pointed a toy gun at him and he was pretending to be mortally wounded. Occasionally he’d attempt to take a step, but his stance was so off-kilter that his body merely lurched in place; he was performing the slow, erratic motions of a zombified waltz. I stood for a moment, clearing my throat, confused. It was only as I moved around to the side of him that I began to see the discoloration spread across his neck, heard the restrictive choking sound of his lungs failing to get air. Buck was bent over holding his chest. “Oh my god,” I muttered. He contorted himself as best he could so that his face was looking over and up toward mine—its color alone nearly caused me to scream. His cheeks had taken on a reddish-purple hue. It looked like he was being hung with an invisible noose.

I took a silent step backward, then laced my fingers together and stood to watch. With a wheeze, he impotently tried to call Jack’s name, his contorted lips silently mashing out the word again and again before he finally stopped trying. Though his face had seized up, one eye remained open and focused. His stare was filled with the hatred of clarity—he had now let go of all illusions about me. Yet unless his voice returned, I was the sole person he could appeal to. I glanced down the hallway, training my stare on Jack’s open door. If he peeked out his head and saw his father’s distressed posture, what could I say to Jack that would convince him to stay in his room just a bit longer?

I needed time alone, without the shrill adolescent panic that would overtake Jack, to decide if Buck would honor the system of quid pro quo. If I dialed 911, could he really repay such a favor by turning me in to the police? Seemed impossible to me, yet delusions of morality could make people justify all sorts of actions. Regardless of my heroic efforts, Buck might feel that turning me in was the right thing to do. I could hear him now: The law is the law and my hands are tied .

Looking down, I saw the judgment in Buck’s eye had been replaced with a bulging desperation. Straining, he managed to make a thin, nasal grunt in my direction; the sound caused me to recall the unfortunate memory of Buck dully thrusting between my legs. I looked back down the hall to Jack’s door. If only there were a way to be certain he would stay in his room until it was over—I’d simply have to make sure that he did. If I saw him coming out, I could run to him, pull him back inside his bedroom and say that Buck was very upset; Your father needs some time alone to think . Then, later, we would discover the body together. Jack couldn’t be allowed to interrupt this natural chain of events. Ultimately saving his father’s life just wasn’t worth the risk—Buck’s stumpy hands were no place at all for my fate to rest.

I froze in place as Buck’s mouth grew wider and wider, seeking air, and a last flash of recognition passed through Buck’s eye in a way that nearly made me feel cursed. He was aware that I was choosing to let him die. Realizing he had no hope of convincing me otherwise, I watched every ounce of life he had left channel into a stare of malignant damning that radiated toward me with a tangible heat. One side of his lip raised back to reveal a small portion of tooth, as though he was preparing to give me a vicarious bite.

I had the urge to wave my fingers in a small good-bye, but ultimately that felt too catty—I didn’t need to gloat. Buck’s open eye rolled back into his head and he fell to his knees without a sound—there were truly no words for the plushness of the Patrick household’s carpeting—then his head and the rest of his body surrendered completely to the ground. Buck Patrick had just suffered a heart attack.

I bent down to confirm that he was no longer breathing. His rolled-back eye was frozen open and bulging; I could see a sliver of my reflection in its glazing sheen. I found myself wishing there was a way to stuff his tongue back inside his mouth, simply to avoid the sheer vulgarity of having to look at it: its purple mass had fully extended out from between his lips, as though it was trying to slither away from his dying body. With a manicured toe, I poked at the flesh of his cheeks and got no response; just to be sure I placed my foot gently against Buck’s neck to feel for a pulse. There was none. A flush of excited energy ran through me, as if I’d won the lottery—everything was going to be okay.

Removed from the thumb of Buck’s accusing stare, I finally had a chance to think. Why hadn’t we heard him come in? I tiptoed down the hall to the living room to peek out the drawn blinds, still not wanting Jack to venture forth from his room just yet. I felt a rare surge of nonsexual affection for him as I thought about how he’d likely stay quietly put for hours more if no one went in to fetch him—I could picture him now, seated on his bed imagining the variety of vile intimate scenarios he feared finding me and his father engaged in if he left the safety of his room. Particularly after the last time, Jack didn’t want to trade the calm security of the unknown for a definitive and cruel reality.

Buck’s car was parked directly in the center of the driveway; mine was in the garage. It was almost as if he’d purposefully blocked me inside. Had Buck known about Jack and me? Had he been planning a confrontation? This seemed doubtful—cardiac arrest would be a dramatic response to something he’d half-expected to catch. No, Buck had been fully surprised, more surprised than he could handle. I had to assume he’d simply come home early and meant to go right back out—maybe he’d come in to see if Jack wanted to go grab a bite to eat with him. “This is complicated,” I said out loud.

I knew Jack’s personal cell phone was in his backpack; if need be I could wrestle him to the ground for it. His secret phone was beneath his bed in a box and would be impossible for him to get at with me fighting him. I took Buck’s cell phone out of its holder on his belt, then walked to the kitchen and grabbed the home phone off its base; I hid them both in a drawer in Buck’s bathroom before heading back to Jack’s room.

Jack was sitting anxiously on the bed. In the haste of having been caught, he’d put his athletic shorts on backward; I noticed the way the seam created an awkward ripple atop his genitals.

“I have some upsetting news,” I began, “but everything is going to be okay.” I made a mental note that this phrasing might also be a good segue when the unfortunate time came and I had to break up with Jack: acknowledge the negative, yes, but don’t fail to highlight how life would continue.

Jack’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “Did my dad leave? Is he angry?”

“No, he’s not angry. He’s in the hallway.” Outside, a car drove by with its stereo jovially blaring; its vibrations shook the windows in Jack’s bedroom. I couldn’t help but feel like Buck’s death had made the whole world seem a bit younger. Jack’s eyes widened and looked toward his open door.