The Times Are Never So Bad by Andre Dubus Page B

for .’
    â€˜So I goes Hey: where’s Polly? Don’t she work here? Sick, they said. To see you, that’s all. So I did some shots of tequila and I’m driving up to New Hampshire, and I say what the fuck? So here I am. You going to tell me where the light is?’
    His shoulders lurch as he steps forward; she fires at the ceiling above him, and he ducks, his hands covering his head.
    â€˜Pol ly .’ He lowers his hands, raises his head. ‘Hey, Polly. Hey: put that away. I just want to talk. That’s all. That was an asshole thing I did, that other time. See—’
    â€˜Go away.’
    Her hand trembles, her ears ring, and she sits up in the gunpowder smell, swings her feet to the floor, and places her left hand under her right, holding the gun with both.
    â€˜I just want to ask you what’s the difference, that’s all. I mean, how was it out here with Steve? You happy, and everything’
    â€˜It was great . And it’s going to be better.’
    â€˜Better. Better without Steve?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Why’s that? You got somebody moving in?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜But it was good with Steve here. Great with Steve. So what’s the difference, that’s what I think about. Maybe the lake. The house? I mean, what if it was with me? Same thing, right? Sleep up here over the lake. Do some fucking. Wake up. Eat. Swim. Work. How come it was so good with Steve?’
    â€˜We weren’t mar ried.’
    â€˜Oh. Okay. That’s cool. Why couldn’t it be us then, out here? What did I ever do anyways?’
    â€˜Jesus, what is this?’
    â€˜No, come on: what did I do?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Nothing? I must’ve done something.’
    â€˜You didn’t do anything.’
    â€˜Then why weren’t you happy, like with Steve? I mean, I thought about it a lot. It wasn’t that asshole DeLuca.’
    â€˜You almost killed him.’
    â€˜Bullshit.’
    â€˜You could have.’
    â€˜You see him?’
    â€˜I brought him flowers, is all.’
    â€˜See: it wasn’t him. And I don’t think it was me either. If it was him, you’d be with him, and if it was me, well, you got rid of me, so then you’d be happy.’
    â€˜I am happy.’
    â€˜I don’t know, Polly.’
    She can see the shape and muted color of his face, but his eyes are shadows, his beard and hair darker; his shoulders and arms move, his hands are at his chest, going down, then he opens his shirt, twists from one side to the other pulling off the sleeves.
    â€˜Don’t, Ray.’
    Flesh glimmers above his dark pants, and she pushes the gun toward it.
    â€˜Let’s just try it, Polly. Turn on the light, you’ll see.’ He unbuckles his belt, then stops, raises a foot, holds it with both hands, hops backward and hits the doorjamb, pulls off the boot, and drops it. Leaning there, he takes off the other one, unzips his pants, and they fall to his ankles. He steps out of them, stoops, pushing his shorts down. ‘See. No knife. No clothes.’ He looks down. ‘No hard-on. If you’d turn on a light and put away that hogleg—’
    He moves into the light of the door, into the room, and she shakes her head, says No, but it only shapes her lips, does not leave her throat. She closes her eyes and becomes the shots jolting her hands as she pulls and pulls, hears him fall, and still pulls and explodes until the trigger is quiet and she opens her eyes and moves, leaping over him, to the hall and stairs.
    In the middle of the night I sit out here in the skiff and I try to think of something else but I can’t, because over and over I keep hearing him tell me that time: Alex, she’s the best fuck I’ve ever had in my life . I don’t want to think about that. But I look back at the house that was Kingsley’s and I wish I had put on the lights before I got in the boat, but it