Brad Watson - Aliens in the Prime of Their Lives

In her own humble and quiet way, the dog was in accord with this assessment of the situation.

THEN THERE WAS THE business of the gun. One could argue that it would be insane for either of them to believe that one or the other should bring a gun into their house, of all places. Even so, when a colleague of his gave him the gun, he was delighted, though later on he was mystified that he had been delighted over the gift of a gun, that he had not thought it an unusual gift, a dangerous gift, a gift almost never given, especially not to someone who is simply a colleague and not a frightened spouse who must on a regular basis get to his or her car across a forlorn and empty parking lot in a bad part of town, or deliver large bags of cash from the till to the bank in the bleak evening, or rob a store or a bank. It was not much of a gun, a little.25-caliber semiautomatic pistol, cheaply chromed, with a white plastic handle that was a little loose in the screws. The colleague had laughed and called it an Italian Assassin’s Gun, given to him by a friend after a poker game one night for the same reason the colleague was giving it to him right now, which was that his wife had demanded he get rid of the gun, she would not have the thing in her house, and so would he like to take it home and — HA HA HA, the colleague had laughed — try it out on his wife?

And so quite possibly, of course, even he had to admit it, this was why he had accepted the gun and taken it home and pretended to be nonchalant about the fact that he was bringing a gun into their house. Their house, of all places. Because of the challenge, the bald-faced effrontery serving some vague, untethered resentment or another.

Of course they fought over it, the gun. Over the wisdom of having it and keeping it around. She was in the camp of those who believed having a gun would only, inevitably, put a gun in the hand of an intruder who otherwise might not have a gun. He was in the camp of those (or so he told himself conveniently at the moment) who believed that, whether or not one was especially handy with a gun, it was better to have a fighting chance with a formidable weapon in the admittedly unlikely but not beyond-the-pale chance that one would indeed be confronted by an intruder with a knife or a gun. I will not be a passive, helpless victim, he said. What difference would it make, she said, whether you had a gun in your hand when you got shot or did not have a gun in your hand? At least we’d have a chance! he said. What are the odds — the chances , if you prefer — of it ever coming up ? she said. Then they fought over the quality of the gun, which was obviously not good, and over whether that mattered since it had been a casual gift from his colleague whose wife had told him it couldn’t stay in their house any longer. I’m not talking about the manner in which we acquired the stupid thing! she said. And if she didn’t want it around what makes you think I would, for God’s sake? Well, it shoots just fine! he said. At aluminum cans , she said. CANS ARE NOT ARMED AND DANGEROUS!

Where are you going? he said.

To throw the goddamned thing away.

He ran ahead and blocked her from entering his study, where he had put the gun. She tried to get around him, and they began to wrestle. She dug her sharp fingernails into his arm, and instinctively he did something he’d never done before. He slapped her across the face. They both froze in disbelief of what had just happened, their faces two variations on some kind of horror. Then, giving him the coldest look she’d ever given him, she walked away.

It was late in the evening. She went into the bedroom and began taking clothes off the closet rack and from the dresser drawers and throwing them onto the rumpled bedcovers and took a duffel from the closet shelf and threw it onto the bed beside the clothes and began to stuff them into the bag. He followed her and stood in the doorway.

Where are you going?

I don’t know, a motel, whatever. Maybe I’ll just get into the car and drive, I don’t know where.

You can’t just do that.

Watch me.

She made for the front door with the unzipped bag in her hand, still in her pajamas and furry slippers.

Come on, she said to the dog, who had retreated from her pallet to a safer place beneath the coffee table. The dog looked from her to the man, and didn’t move.

You’re not taking the dog, he said.

She’s my dog! she said. I’m the one who got her from the shelter. I’m the one who feeds her, gives her her medicine, brushes her coat. You don’t give a damn about the dog.

I do, too! I do those things!

Where’s the leash?

She found the leash and snapped it onto the dog’s collar and started coaxing the dog from beneath the coffee table. The dog reluctantly began to creep from under the table to follow her, eyes frightened and moving rapidly from the woman to the man.

Stop that! he said. You’re freaking her out.

Me! she said.

He went to stop her, trying only to restrain her from leaving the house, but they grappled in the foyer, her bag falling open into the living room and spilling her clothes, the dog trying to scramble out of the way but she was restrained by the leash held tight in the woman’s hand. He knocked over a hat and coat stand with his elbow and sent it tumbling. She let go of the leash and the dog scrambled past them on clickity claws toward the rear of the house, trailing the leash.

Look at that! she shouted. You’re traumatizing the goddamn dog again. Stop it. Just stop!

You can’t just get into the car with a bag of clothes and head out into the night.

How do you know, how could you know? Let me go, you bastard. I’ll kill you!

She twisted in his grasp and chopped at his throat with her fist. He deflected her blows, backing up.

Stop, he said. You’d better stop.

He backed away and she immediately stooped to gather her clothes back into the bag. He rushed into his study and snatched the little pistol off the shelf next to the dictionary and went back into the living room and stood over her. She looked up, saw the gun in his hand, and froze.

You don’t have the guts to use that ridiculous thing, she said. Even you’re not that insane.

He stepped back, shucked a round into the gun’s chamber, and for a moment thought he would shoot a bullet into the floor near her, just to let her know he would do it. But at the last moment he pointed the muzzle toward his right foot and fired.

The pain was blinding. He fell to the floor.

Jesus! Jesus fucking Christ! she kept saying as he writhed on the floorboards, moaning, touching and then recoiling from his bleeding foot. Somewhere in another room the dog barked frantically, as if an intruder were breaking down the door.

ON THE WAY TO the hospital, while he gritted his teeth and poured out a cold sweat, they did not fight verbally but carried on a battle of silence wherein each believed himself or herself superior to the other, she because he had been enough of a hysterical idiot to shoot himself in the foot in order to make a point, he because he was in agonizing pain and knew that anyone who could drive another person to shoot himself in the foot just to get her to shut up and stay put must be out of her mind.

The young, balding emergency room doctor ordered X-rays, anesthetized and cleaned the wound. The police came and required them to fill out a report. Luckily they were not police officers who had ever been to their house, called by one of them or by their neighbors. And then they went back home.

Miraculously, the bullet hadn’t cracked through any bones. It was five a.m. He hobbled off to bed, his foot bandaged and throbbing. He took one of the sample Percocets they’d given him and slept.