“Did you know Helen?” They were the same age and the town was so small.
Caleb didn’t answer. Instead, bottom lip quivering and pale as an empty page, he said, “OK. Do you have any intense pain in your back or legs? How about chest or shoulders?”
“No.”
“They’re bringing in the stretcher.”
A few minutes later, he was hoisted onto a bed with wheels. He requested that they put the head of the bed up, as he had a phobia about lying flat on his back. He’d suffered attacks of sleep paralysis in his early teens, and would freak out if he found himself in that position. After adjusting the bed, the second paramedic pumped the hydraulics of the conveyance, and Owen rose to see the scene clearly for the first time. He went lightheaded—yellow police tape, the bullet-riddled front window that should have shattered, six-packs of bottled soda stacked near the register for a quick sale, leaking from their wounds onto the linoleum.
They rolled him slowly toward the front door. The sunlight shining in made him squint and turn his head. When he did, he found he was facing the counter. Behind it he caught a glimpse of Helen—right eye, a burnt, bloody socket, left, glazed and staring, and a gaping flesh and blood blossom of a hole in her throat. Lying across her legs on his back was the gunman, none of his own wounds visible but a pool of blood beneath. Eyes closed, he appeared to simply be asleep, save for the froth on his lips and the fly on his forehead he wasn’t swatting away. Just before being blocked from the horrible sight by the second paramedic, Owen noticed a small black tattoo of a circle with a cross inside it on the gunman’s left wrist. At first, he’d thought it a second fly.
A group of ten people, which was a crowd in Westwend, stood outside the store, peering in. When Owen came out into the sunlight, they all applauded.
“They’re cheering for you,” said the second paramedic.
“Why?”
“You managed not to get killed,” Caleb whispered.
2
OWEN WAS TAKEN TO a hospital three towns away and was thoroughly inspected. There were long periods of waiting, punctuated by brief visits with nurses who gave shots and took him for tests. He spent lonely hours, the TV on and meaning nothing, sunk in a depression as he contemplated the loss of Helen, what it would mean to her parents and the town. It was during one of these bouts of utter sadness that he wondered what might have happened had he jumped the gunman. But there wasn’t a chance in hell he could ever have mustered the courage to do it. He’d nearly pissed his pants when he saw the gun.
One of the doctors that came by during that long day, a psychologist, warned him never to act the hero again. “I know you wanted to make a difference, but that’s how the casualties increase. Best practice? Run in the other direction,” said the old man. He reeked of cigarette smoke. Owen realized that because of how he was found, pistol-whipped and unconscious, everyone believed he’d attempted to intercede. The relief of this realization was brief and quickly replaced by the guilt of letting people think he was heroic when he was actually a coward.
A doctor was in the room with him talking about ordering an MRI. Owen looked out the window at the setting sun. He put his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “OK, I’m going now,” he said. “Where are my clothes?”
“Are you sure you’re OK?” the doctor asked. “We’d like to run a few more tests.”
“Yeah, I’m OK. You folks took good care of me.”
“We were considering having you stay overnight.”
“I won’t be doing that,” he said. “Where are my clothes?”
The mayor of Westwend, Rita Morse, had called the hospital and asked them to let her know when Owen would be released so she could send a car to take him home. The doctor went to call for Owen’s ride, and he got dressed. There were a couple of aches and pains. The snack stand had cut his left side pretty badly. There were stitches and a dressing on it. Otherwise, he really could have gone straight to his house instead of going through a day of tests.
Standing out front of the hospital in the cool evening, he managed to bum a cigarette off a nervous-looking middle-aged woman who told him her husband had been in a car accident. She even lit the smoke for him with shaking hands before returning inside. The cigarette tasted of her grief. He threw it on the ground and took deep breaths of fresh air. Eventually, a police car from Westwend pulled up. The window came down and the officer waved to him. Owen knew the cop from him bringing his kids to the library.
The first thing he did upon arriving home was to find the bottle of bourbon in the kitchen cabinet and make himself a drink—ice and a little water—his usual. Then he sat at the table with his drink and wept for a good half hour. Eventually, he dried his eyes and forced himself to think of other things. He decided to go to work the next day, which was a decision not to have another bourbon. He had a sense he had to get back to himself, knowing the day’s impact had been fierce enough to blow him off course for the rest of his life.
Until then, he’d never really considered the life he’d made in Westwend to be all it was cracked up to be, but after what he’d been through, he now thought of it as very sweet. He’d inherited his parents’ house, free of charge. He was working in his hometown, in a job that utilized his college degrees. He had no lover or spouse to care for or about. No relatives in close proximity. The people who came to the library were pleasant enough, and some he liked immensely. He had time to read and to think in peace. He wondered if there would ever be anything important to him beside those things.
He finished his bourbon, and felt almost relaxed. An image of Helen smiling at him was trying to edge its way into his thoughts. He fought it and kept it at bay. “I’m exhausted,” he said aloud. Getting to his feet, he leaned against the table before pushing off and heading for the bedroom. His clothes fell where they would. Almost asleep, he managed to slip into a pair of blue gym shorts and a yellow T-shirt.
The cool sheet, the marsh-like mattress, the familiar rough army blanket, caused him to sigh with comfort. He curled up on his side, a classic fetal position, and closed his eyes. As soon as he was in the dark, he sensed the stirring of dreams at the edges of his consciousness. The promise of oblivion came on and rid him of the tension of grief and fear. He was nearly out when the gash on his left side announced it was going to make a nuisance of itself. Eventually, the pain forced him onto his back just before sleep.
He came to. It was dark. He closed his eyes to see if he could return to his dreams and realized he was lying on his back, something he always made an effort not to do. He felt a sense of panic and tried to roll onto his right side. Although his command to himself was clear, and he seemed completely awake, he remained inert. He tried to wiggle his toes and couldn’t. His breathing became erratic. A state of paralysis encased his entire body. He cried out, not even thinking who might hear him, but his voice was stunted and filtered down to a bark-like whisper.
He hadn’t experienced it since he was sixteen, but he knew what was happening. Immediately, he controlled his breathing—in for a four count, hold for eight, and then exhale. It was clear to him now, he was awake in a dream, not that it was enough to allow him to turn on his side, which he wanted more than anything in the world. It came back to him from twenty plus years earlier. His method of escape was to concentrate on his left pinky finger and try to get it to move ever so slightly. If he could just get that going, he could spread the movement through his body and break free from sleep. His pinky didn’t respond. He switched to his big toe.