“Most of the time, the barrel isn’t aimed correctly.” I moved the barrel around.
The man’s whimpers morphed to sobs.
“And then what happens,” I went on, “is when you pull the trigger, instead of dying, you end up surviving. Do you know what would be worse than me killing you?” I wasn’t pausing for answers. “Letting you live without a frontal lobe of your brain. More than likely the nerves to your eyes—they call them optic nerves—yeah, well, the bullet shreds those motherfuckers. And your tongue is half-gone. Hmm, you won’t be talking. Hell, you might not even be able to eat again. Not like takin’ a big old bite out of a juicy Po’ boy.” I shook my head. “Won’t matter that your teeth will mostly be gone, part of your jawbone too. None of those things are what makes this a bad idea. It’s the damage to the brain that’s real important. See, you could live without eyes, a jaw, and teeth.”
I tapped his forehead with the barrel of my gun. “The frontal lobes of your brain are what you use to talk, if your tongue still worked. It also controls voluntary movement. Shit you want to do, like walking, sitting, and fucking your woman. None of that shit will happen. You might think about them, but the neurons won’t connect. And the worst part, you’ll still be able to think. You’ll know that you’re nothing more than a fucking vegetable. That sick kid of yours, if he lives, he’ll watch his old man shit and piss himself as he changes your feeding tube, the one stuck through your neck and your diaper. That is why this” —I shoved the barrel into the soft skin under his chin— “is a bad idea.”
“I-I got something,” Johnny managed to say.
I pulled back the pistol. “Talk.”
“Ingalls, he said things about...” Johnny’s eyes closed and nostrils flared.
“About what?” I pressed the barrel back under his chin.
With his chin held as high as possible between his stretched arms, he said, “My kid. He needs medicine. My wife lost her job and our insurance, we can’t afford...”
“What did Ingalls say?”
The man shook his head.
I lowered the gun. “Talk.”
“Mr. Ramses, you got to know, none of us knew who she was...that blonde. Ingalls showed us pictures and she’s right pretty.” The large links of the chain creaked as Johnny’s trembling increased. “We didn’t know that she was your wife. He said things...” A tear ran down his face from the swollen eye.
“He?”
“Ingalls.”
The barrel was back under his chin. “I’m going to give you to the count of three,” I said. “One. Two—”
Emma
The door moved, coming inward toward the stairs. The temperature rose as I moved upward as if the air became thicker as well as warmer. I took the next step, and the last, until I was at the kitchen floor. The shadows had grown while I’d been in the cellar, indicating that the sun was setting. It was still present, but getting lower in the horizon.
“Emma.”
I sucked in a breath as I stepped around the corner of the hallway.
Jezebel was seated at the table beyond the kitchen counters and appliances. No longer dressed in a colorful dress, she was wearing blue jeans, a plain shirt, and a sweater that hung below the chair. Her long hair was braided, not unlike the way I wore mine from time to time.
She didn’t look my way. Her attention was toward the back windows. “You didn’t take the tablets.”
“I’m hungry,” I said honestly.
Jezebel motioned me toward her. “Edmée made you a plate. I told her you’d be up soon.” Her gaze met mine. “Come sit with me.”
I eyed the refrigerator, wondering what other wonders of drink it held within its chilled depths.
“Come,” she beckoned.
My bare feet padded over the wood floor until I reached the table. Holding onto the top of one of the chairs, I had the strange sensation of childhood, of being caught in a lie. Looking down, I confessed, “I didn’t take the tablets. You know that because I didn’t sleep.”
“No, child, I know because I know. Those tablets wouldn’t have made you sleep. They were sugar pills.”
I pulled out the chair and sat. “It was a test.”
Jezebel nodded.