God Is Dead by Ron Currie Jr. Page A

that?” my father asks.
    â€œLou,” she half-yells.
    â€œHey Lou,” my father says. He takes Lou’s wrist between his fingers, counting the pulse against the second hand on his watch. “You know him?” he asks the woman.
    She gives a bitter smile. “That’s one way to put it,” she says. “I wouldn’t let him in.”
    â€œDoes he have any medical problems? He diabetic?”
    â€œHe’s drunk,” the woman says.
    My father places Lou’s hand back on the ground, then loosens the shirt around Lou’s neck, to let him breathe. Lou starts to snore. He sounds like an angry rattlesnake.
    I stand there, rubbing the grit on the back of my neck, staring down at Lou, thinking.
    â€œYou should call the police,” my father says to the woman.
    â€œHe’s just drunk,” she says.
    â€œWhat?”
    She repeats herself, louder.
    â€œCall the police,” my father says. “Tell them to send an ambulance. It’s better that he go to the hospital. He can’t be left out here in this heat.”
    The woman stands at the window a moment longer, then disappears into the darkness of the house. After a while she comes back.
    â€œThey’re on their way,” she says.
    My father is looking down at Lou and doesn’t hear her.
    â€œOkay,” I tell the woman.
    â€œI’m going to shut the window.”
    â€œWe’ll stay out here until they come,” I say. She closes the window, glances once more at Lou, then disappears again.

    My father and I stand with our hands on our hips, squinting in the sunlight. I kick at the grass, shifting my gaze around, trying not to look at Lou. My father bends over to check his pulse again.
    Then my father says, “Kind of reminds you why you quit, huh?” He doesn’t look at me when he says it.
    For a minute I don’t respond. Then I say, “I started drinking again a year ago.”
    He looks up. “Hm?” he says.
    â€œI said, ‘That’s no way to live.’” I form the words carefully so he can understand.

    Eventually the cop shows up. He’s short and thick and has a crew cut. He knows Lou, but calls him Preacher.
    â€œOne of your regulars?” my father asks.
    â€œOh yeah,” the cop says. “We’ve been looking for him today.” He and my father laugh knowingly. I don’t laugh. Instead, I set my lips in a straight line against the front of my teeth. The two of them crouch on either side of Lou, colleagues now.
    â€œI don’t like his breathing,” the cop says.
    â€œYeah, his breathing’s good,” my father says. “His pulse is a little weak.”
    The cop looks at my father for a minute, then reaches in and squeezes Lou’s nipple through his shirt. “Come on, Preacher. Wake up, buddy.” But Lou doesn’t move.
    â€œYou got an ambulance coming?” my father says.
    â€œYeah. I can take it from here.”
    â€œOkay,” my father says. He straightens up, stretches a bit. “We’ve got more work to do anyway.”
    We start back toward the truck, and the cop says, “Thanks for your help, guys.” I’ve got my back to him, and I jump when he says it. It sounds funny: guys, addressing both of us, though I haven’t said a word, haven’t been a help to anyone.
    My father turns at the waist and raises his hand. I keep walking, and don’t look back.
    I haven’t thought of you in what seems like a long time, but for some reason I do now. I see you knocking bottles off the coffee table with an angry sweep of your arm. I hear your voice from behind a locked door, screaming there’s no God, why can’t I just accept it like everyone else? I picture you crying so hard and so long your eyes swell shut. I wonder where you are, who you’re with, if you flinch every time he moves his hands, like you did with me.

Interview with the Last Remaining Member of