How to Talk to a Widower

fluorescent lighting of the club’s awning, leaning against the wall, just breathing, in and out, waiting for my racing heart to slow down.
    There are footsteps behind me, and then my father steps out into the driveway. “Doug,” he says, walking over to stand in front of me.
    “Hey, Dad.”
    He reaches out to my chin, to make me look up at him. He’s still panting a little from chasing me out of the building, but his blue eyes are sharp and clear. Did I even know he had blue eyes? “Hailey,” he says haltingly. “She’s dead.”
    “Yeah, Dad. She’s dead.”
    He nods. “How long?”
    “Going on thirteen months now.”
    “Did I know?”
    “Dad.”
    He shakes his head. “Did I know?”
    “Sometimes you know. Most of the time you forget.”
    He shakes his head and his eyes fill with tears. “What you must have gone through. What you must be going through.”
    “It’s okay, Dad.”
    “And I haven’t been there for you.”
    “It’s not your fault.”
    “I am so sorry, Doug.”
    I close my eyes, and when I open them he’s reaching for me, and the tears fly out like bullets from between my soaked lashes as I let out a single, convulsive sob and fall into his embrace. He holds me like that for a while, rocking us gently back and forth, his chin resting on the crown of my head, his hand warm and dry against my neck. I think it’s the first time since Hailey died that I’ve actually cried into someone, and it feels different, more complete, and I weep like a motherfucker, I empty myself of tears, as if all the other times I’ve cried were just dress rehearsals for this one perfect cry into my father’s soft, sturdy chest. “You never cried when you were a kid,” he says when I’m done, stepping back, his hands on my shoulders. “We always thought something was wrong with you.”
    “Something was.”
    He shakes his head. “Come on back inside, Doug.”
    “I will soon. I just need a minute.”
    “You sure you’ll be okay?” he says, studying my face.
    I nod, offering up a wan smile. “What choice do I have?”
    “That’s the spirit,” he says, smiling warmly as he backs away.
    A few minutes later I’m still standing there, staring up at the blue-black sky, still hiccupping from my recent outburst, when a figure steps out of the shadows of the parking lot. And I’m still a little light-headed and bleary-eyed from crying so hard, so it takes me an extra second to recognize that it’s Dave Potter. He’s dressed in suit pants and a T-shirt, and his hair looks like he stepped out of the shower and into a wind tunnel.
    “Doug,” he says.
    “You’re late,” I say.
    And that’s when I notice that he’s holding a gun.

37

    THE GUN IS A SIX-SHOOTER, A .357 MAGNUM OR A .38 Special, I don’t know, one of those revolvers that, after loading the barrel, you spin it like a wheel for effect before snapping it closed with a flick of your wrist. I picture Dave Potter standing over the rich mahogany desk in his study doing just that. Who the hell keeps a gun like that in the suburbs? The man’s got children in his house. Hasn’t he read the statistics?
    He’s not pointing the gun, just kind of dangling it at his side, and for a second I dare to hope that he’s not going to raise the gun, that he’s already changed his mind, having cogitated long and hard on the viability of shooting me on the drive over. I wonder if he played the radio while he was driving, if he hummed along to the music, if he signaled his turns. Then he lets out a small, strangled noise and points the gun directly at my chest.
    I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before, but like most people I’ve imagined it. I’ve pictured the angles, considered various disarming techniques, from Chuck Norris–style spinning kicks, to the quick grab and twist, employing a jujitsu armlock that allows me to simultaneously discard the gun and bring my assailant to the floor. And Dave is older and slower than me, so I should be able to take him. Except that someone’s been screwing around with my gravity, because suddenly I weigh a thousand pounds, and it feels like my shoes have been nailed to the floor, and my ass is clenched so hard I wonder if I’ll have to have it surgically unclenched. And all I can do is stare down the dark barrel of Dave’s gun, while pandemonium erupts in my stomach as my innards run for cover, diving headfirst behind counters, overturning tables, pressing themselves up against walls.
    “Doug,” he