John Gardner - October Light

The Mexican said, “Let me carry you, Mr. Page. It’s steep and you’ve got no shoes on.”

Ed Thomas yelled down from the road, “Is he all right?” The minister waved. “He’s fine! Few little cuts.” The Mexican was squatting like a frog-monster so James Page could climb up onto his back.

“I’m fine!” the old man yelled crazily, waving his trembling, boneless arms, his blue eyes aglitter, on fire with hatred: “I’m fine!”

4

They drew back from him in horror, eyes and mouths wide open, squeezing toward the edges of the kitchen. Estelle, at the table, unable to get up, yelled, “Oh! Oh!” Her canes went clattering to the floor.

The Mexican squinted, more Indian than ever; all you could see inside his eyeslits was midnight black. “Mr. Page,” he said, “give me the gun.”

“Dad,” Ginny said, “for the love of Christ!”

He stood firm, except shaking like a thrashing machine, shaking so badly he was afraid he’d pull the trigger by accident. He went on swinging the shotgun from side to side, warning them back, the whole room red, as if his eyes were full of blood. He was breathing hard and his lips were puffy, and his voice was so high he might have thought it was somebody else yelling. “Get out! Get out of my houth! All of you!”

“Mr. Page,” the Mexican said, taking a step toward him.

He jerked the gun up to his shoulder and aimed it straight at him. “You take one more thtep, you greathy bathtahd, and I’ll blow off your black-eyed head.”

The Mexican considered and decided to believe him.

“Dad, for Christ’s sake,” Ginny wailed, “you’re crazy!” She had her arms around Dickey, who stood staring wide-eyed as if his lids were frozen open.

“He’s not crazy,” Ruth Thomas said, “he’s drunk.”

“Don’t push him,” Sally’s minister commanded, stretching his arms out to each side as if to keep the others back. “He’s had a terrible experience. Once he’s calmed down—”

Ed Thomas stood gulping for air, clutching his chest and groaning.

“Dear heavenly father,” Estelle whispered, violently trembling, “it’s all my fault!”

“What’s the matter?” the Phelps girl said, opening the door a little and timidly jumping, trying to see in.

“Stay outside,” someone barked.

Lewis Hicks said, “Get all the kids outside. Dickey, get outside!”

“I haven’t got my coat on,” Dickey said.

“You get outside, you little bastard,” Ginny hissed, pushing him. Then, to her father: “Dad, what’s the matter with you?”

“Nothin the matter with me,” he yelled, forgetting and swinging his eyes in her direction, then instantly snapping them back to the Mexican, the only one in the room he was afraid of.

“You should all go outside,” the Mexican said. He spoke without moving his eyes from James’ face, peering intently as if to see into the old man’s mind. “You people go,” he said. “Go quickly. Lane and I will stay and talk with him.”

“Nobodyth thtayin,” James yelled. “Partyth ovah!”

Lewis Hicks took a step toward him, and James swung the gun more or less in his direction.

“I’m just gonna try and help Estelle,” Lewis said. He looked at James, making sure the words registered, then continued over to the table to help her get up. The Mexican moved his hand and James swung the gun at him, fast. With his left hand James groped toward the table to knock off the plates and jack-o-lanterns, making sure Lewis got no ideas.

“Will you put away that gun if we leave?” Ruth asked. She was drawn up to her full height, and her eyes bulged with indignation, firing daggers.

“I already told you what I’m gonna do,” he yelled. “I’m gonna kill Thally.” He turned his head and yelled up the stairs, “You hear that, Thally? I’m gonna kill you.” He laughed, fake-crazy — or so he intended it. No one but the old man had any doubts that he was crazy.

“Then we’re staying,” Ruth said.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Dr. Phelps said, “That’s not a good idea, Ruth. You better think about your husband.”

She jerked her head around and saw how Ed was clutching his chest and struggling to get breath.

“My God!” she whispered, and turned her face back to James. She’d gone white. “You fucker!” she said in icy rage. “You fucker!” The gun would not have stopped her if she’d decided to come at him. He could have emptied both barrels right into her heart and still, before she was stopped, she’d have torn out his windpipe. But Ruth was moving in the other direction, toward Ed. “DeWitt!” she screamed, “come help me!” the kitchen door opened, shoving against people, and DeWitt was there, as ashen as the rest of them, staring at James. He helped Dr. Phelps and Ruth Thomas get Ed out the door. Others were moving toward the door now. He encouraged them, wagging the shotgun. Soon he was alone with Lane Walker and the Mexican.

“You too,” he said. “Out!”

They stood six feet apart, the minister by the door, the priest over by the sink.

Reasonably, gently, the Mexican said, “How will you shoot us both if we jump you the same time?”

“You won’t,” he said, and smiled. “I’ll tell you why. If you jump me, I’m gonna fire at you firtht, Meckthican.” He jerked his left thumb at Lane Walker. “It’ll be the thame ath if he pulled the trigger.”

“Foxy old bastard, ain’t he,” Lane said.

Out in the yard, a car started up, taking Ed Thomas to the hospital, perhaps, or going for the troopers. He’d never have a chance with just a shotgun against pistols and rifles. He saw in his mind’s eye that picture on TV, the truck driver’s head exploding when the policeman shot him, and the rage that had begun to flag was back full force.

“Get out,” he said. “I got no more time.”

Lane Walker looked up at the ceiling, in the direction of Sally’s room. “Sally?” he called. There was no answer, and he called again. This time she called back, “I hear you.”

“Sally, can you get your bed in front of the door till this maniac calms down? Can you block the door?”

There was no answer.

The minister called, “Did you hear me, Sally?”

After a moment she called, “I hear you.”

“Can you do it? He’s got a gun.”

Again, no answer.

“Thath enough,” James snapped. “Get out. I’ll count to five. One!”

They hesitated, looking at each other.

“Two!”

“I think he means business,” the Mexican said. “Even if he doesn’t, by five he’ll have psyched himself into it.” He was looking around as if for something to throw. But his lip was trembling. For the first time, James Page understood that the man was scared to death.

“Three!” he said.

“What good will it do?” Lane Walker said. He was sweating like a blacksmith, and his voice was a whine.

“Four!”

“All right, all right!” the Mexican yelled, almost a squeal. He made a dash for the door. Lane Walker spun around like a basketball player, snatching at the doorknob, and was out ahead of him.

“Five!” he screamed, and for pure manic glee he let loose at the top of the door as it slammed shut behind them.

Up in her bedroom, Sally screamed.

5

“It’s happened, Horace,” Sally said. “You always predicted it would and now it has. He’s gone crazy.”

She’d screamed in terror when the gun had gone off, but she was over that now. Which one of them he’d killed there was no telling — she hoped not Ginny, not Dickey, not Estelle or Ruth, though she might not mind if it was what’s-his-name (again when the old woman tried to think of the name of Ginny’s husband, all that would come was that character in her novel, Mr. Nit). After her scream at the sound of the shot, her first full recognition that he indeed meant to kill her, a strange calm had descended on her, and if someone had been there to see her as she set about her preparations — for a plan had come to her — he might have been amazed at how tranquil she was, how logically her mind worked, how her movements and gestures were almost queenly.