you."
"Do," I said.
And he left. I followed him to the door and locked it
after he left. Rosie went down the length of the loft and jumped up on
the bed beside Millicent and lay down. I sat at my kitchen counter for
a while. My ears were still ringing. When the mass of buckshot had hit
him, Terry Nee's shirt had disappeared in a mass of blood. I wondered if
he felt it. He might have made a sound when he went backward. I wondered
if he had been alive when his leg was twitching, or if it was just some
weird reflex and Terry was already somewhere else. I'd have to clean the
shotgun. If you fired them and didn't clean them, the barrel got pitted.
Terry was a guy who couldn't believe a woman would shoot him, or couldn't
allow himself to back down to a woman. Whatever it was, it killed him.
They would have taken the girl. He went for his gun. He'd
have shot me. With a 10-gauge shotgun at two feet you can't aim to wound.
I had to kill him. The ringing wouldn't go away. I shook my head a little
and got up and went to the cabinet and got a green bottle of Glenfiddich
and a short glass. I poured an inch of scotch and sipped it, and poured
some more. I could feel my heart moving in my chest. I was aware of my
breathing. It seemed shallow. I took another sip of scotch, and shivered
slightly and got up and went to the refrigerator and added some ice. As
I was putting the ice in, some of it slipped from my hand and scattered
on the floor. When I bent to pick it up I dropped the glass. The glass
broke. I couldn't leave broken glass on the floor with Rosie in the house,
so I went to the broom closet and got the dustpan and a broom and cleaned
up the glass and ice, and put it in the trash compactor and closed the
compactor and turned the switch. I walked over to the broom closet
and put the broom away and hung the dustpan on the hook. It slipped off
the hook and dropped to the floor. I bent to pick it up and felt all the
strength go from me, and sat down on the floor and began to cry. I heard
Rosie jump down from the bed and trot down the length of the loft. She
came around the kitchen counter and began to lap my face. Maybe to comfort
me. Maybe because she liked salt. Then Millicent appeared around the corner
of the counter, barefooted, and stared at me. Her face was stark and colorless.
Her eyes seemed nearly black in the oval of her face.
"You all right?" she said.
Rosie lapped industriously. I nodded.
"How come you're crying?" Millicent said.
Her voice had the flat tinny sound fear makes.
I shook my head. She stood. I sat. Then I put my hand
up and took hers and squeezed it. Rosie lapped the other cheek. I could
feel control starting to come back. I was beginning to breathe more slowly.
I let go of Millicent's hand and put Rosie off my lap and got to my feet.
I got another glass and put some ice in it and poured some single malt
into it.
"Can I have some?" Millicent said.
I got her a glass and handed it to her. She added ice
and poured some scotch over it. We sat together at the counter. We both
took a drink. Millicent frowned.
"What is that stuff?"
"Single malt scotch," I said.
"Its not like any scotch I ever had."
I nodded. We were quiet. Rosie lay on the rug sideways
to us, looking at us obliquely.
"It bother you, shooting that guy?" Millicent said.
"Not at the time," I said. "Now it does."
She shrugged and stared at the scotch for a bit and took
another small sip.
"What'd they want?" she said.
I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You,"
I said.
Her eyes got bigger.
"My mother sent them," she said.
"I don't know who sent them," I said.
"My mother."
The way she said "mother" was chilling. If I ever had
children, and the clock was starting to tick on me, I prayed that they
would never call me mother in that voice.
"How would your mother know men like that?" I said.
Millicent looked at my counter and didn't answer. I waited.
Millicent sipped some more of the scotch. She was five or six years below
the
"Do," I said.
And he left. I followed him to the door and locked it
after he left. Rosie went down the length of the loft and jumped up on
the bed beside Millicent and lay down. I sat at my kitchen counter for
a while. My ears were still ringing. When the mass of buckshot had hit
him, Terry Nee's shirt had disappeared in a mass of blood. I wondered if
he felt it. He might have made a sound when he went backward. I wondered
if he had been alive when his leg was twitching, or if it was just some
weird reflex and Terry was already somewhere else. I'd have to clean the
shotgun. If you fired them and didn't clean them, the barrel got pitted.
Terry was a guy who couldn't believe a woman would shoot him, or couldn't
allow himself to back down to a woman. Whatever it was, it killed him.
They would have taken the girl. He went for his gun. He'd
have shot me. With a 10-gauge shotgun at two feet you can't aim to wound.
I had to kill him. The ringing wouldn't go away. I shook my head a little
and got up and went to the cabinet and got a green bottle of Glenfiddich
and a short glass. I poured an inch of scotch and sipped it, and poured
some more. I could feel my heart moving in my chest. I was aware of my
breathing. It seemed shallow. I took another sip of scotch, and shivered
slightly and got up and went to the refrigerator and added some ice. As
I was putting the ice in, some of it slipped from my hand and scattered
on the floor. When I bent to pick it up I dropped the glass. The glass
broke. I couldn't leave broken glass on the floor with Rosie in the house,
so I went to the broom closet and got the dustpan and a broom and cleaned
up the glass and ice, and put it in the trash compactor and closed the
compactor and turned the switch. I walked over to the broom closet
and put the broom away and hung the dustpan on the hook. It slipped off
the hook and dropped to the floor. I bent to pick it up and felt all the
strength go from me, and sat down on the floor and began to cry. I heard
Rosie jump down from the bed and trot down the length of the loft. She
came around the kitchen counter and began to lap my face. Maybe to comfort
me. Maybe because she liked salt. Then Millicent appeared around the corner
of the counter, barefooted, and stared at me. Her face was stark and colorless.
Her eyes seemed nearly black in the oval of her face.
"You all right?" she said.
Rosie lapped industriously. I nodded.
"How come you're crying?" Millicent said.
Her voice had the flat tinny sound fear makes.
I shook my head. She stood. I sat. Then I put my hand
up and took hers and squeezed it. Rosie lapped the other cheek. I could
feel control starting to come back. I was beginning to breathe more slowly.
I let go of Millicent's hand and put Rosie off my lap and got to my feet.
I got another glass and put some ice in it and poured some single malt
into it.
"Can I have some?" Millicent said.
I got her a glass and handed it to her. She added ice
and poured some scotch over it. We sat together at the counter. We both
took a drink. Millicent frowned.
"What is that stuff?"
"Single malt scotch," I said.
"Its not like any scotch I ever had."
I nodded. We were quiet. Rosie lay on the rug sideways
to us, looking at us obliquely.
"It bother you, shooting that guy?" Millicent said.
"Not at the time," I said. "Now it does."
She shrugged and stared at the scotch for a bit and took
another small sip.
"What'd they want?" she said.
I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You,"
I said.
Her eyes got bigger.
"My mother sent them," she said.
"I don't know who sent them," I said.
"My mother."
The way she said "mother" was chilling. If I ever had
children, and the clock was starting to tick on me, I prayed that they
would never call me mother in that voice.
"How would your mother know men like that?" I said.
Millicent looked at my counter and didn't answer. I waited.
Millicent sipped some more of the scotch. She was five or six years below
the
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