How to Talk to a Widower

says, again.
    “Dave,” I say. “How’s it going?”
    “Not so good.” His face breaks into a maniacal little grin that scares me more than the gun. “Pretty damn bad, actually, if you must know.”
    I nod, studying his flushed, sweaty face. I need to get him talking, to put as many words between that gun and my chest as possible. It’s hard to kill someone in the middle of a sentence. That’s how James Bond always buys those extra few minutes he needs until the commandos show up. He shoots the breeze.
    “Are you going to shoot me, Dave?” I say. Maybe hearing the words out loud will bring the insanity home for him.
    “You fucked her, Doug!” he screams at me, making me flinch. “You fucked my wife.”
    For one crazy minute, I consider the practicalities of a full-blown denial.
What?
I’ll say, my eyes wide with shock and hurt.
I did what? Listen, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Laney, but I never touched her, Dave. Never!
And I’ll do it loudly, with the utmost sincerity, just enough to give him pause, and that will be enough. Because you don’t go shooting someone who just may have slept with your wife, do you? I mean, before you head down that road, you’d want to be pretty certain, I would think.
    But I can see that he knows, that whatever Laney has said to him has left him with unshakable certainty, and my denial will only inflame him, will be just the push he needs to squeeze that trigger.
    “Dave,” I say. “I don’t think you want to shoot me.”
    “Well, no one’s ever fucked your wife, have they, so how the fuck would you know what I want?”
    “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
    “God damn you, Doug.” He takes two steps closer—close enough now for me to see his jaw trembling with rage, to see the angry protrusion of thick veins running up the side of his neck—and aims the gun at my face. He is ten, maybe twelve feet away now. He won’t miss. “You fucked her, Doug. Like she was just anybody. You turned the mother of my children into a whore.”
    “I messed up, Dave. I’m sorry. I was a mess and I was still crazy from everything and—”
    “Well, cry me a fucking river!” he shouts hysterically, jabbing the gun in my direction. “What is that, like a new stage of grief? Denial, anger, bargaining, and fucking your friend’s wife?”
    “Calm down, Dave. Please.”
    “Shut up!”
    “You have kids who need you.”
    “Don’t you dare mention my kids.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Shut up!” he screams again, almost pleading.
    I shut up. Dave stares at me, the sweat on his face glistening under the awning lights, and I stare at the barrel of his gun. His finger is tight on the trigger, flexing unconsciously, and with a heavy sense of dread, I realize that he’s about to shoot me. I close my eyes and try to summon up an image of Hailey. If this is how it ends, then this is how it ends, but if I’m going to die it will be with her face on my mind, her name on my lips. “Hailey,” I murmur to myself, like a prayer, and I can see her on the backs of my eyelids, smiling at me, loving me, and I’m ready, I think.
    “What the hell is going on out here?” my father’s voice jolts my eyes open. And then Claire screams. They are standing in the doorway, gaping in disbelief.
    “It’s okay,” I say.
    “It’s okay?” Claire says. “You can’t be serious.”
    “Put the gun down, son,” my father says, slowly approaching Dave.
    “Get away from me!” Dave swings the gun at him. My father raises his hands, but holds his ground.
    “It’s okay, son,” my father says.
    “He fucked my wife!” Dave says, and his voice cracks as he says it.
    “Oh, fucking hell,” Claire says.
    “Is that true, Doug?” my father says, never taking his eyes off Dave.
    “Yeah,” I say.
    “Okay,” my father says, taking another step closer to Dave, who now has the gun trained on my head again. “You’ve been wronged. You’re hurting. You want justice. It makes sense. But you know this isn’t the way.”
    “I’m going to kill him.”
    “No, you’re not,” my father says softly. “You want to, and no one can blame you for wanting to, but you’re too smart to think this is the answer. This is just your time, son, that’s all. Your time to hurt and bleed and tear apart your notion of what makes you who you are. Life knocks us all on our ass at some point. And then we get back up, and we make some changes, because that’s what men do. We adapt. And when