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Author's Note: This is a short story of mine that I've split into four parts to be more manageable to read. No single part has any real ending save the last one.
A few hours later, Robert was almost surprised to find himself home, having walked the entirety with his head down, looking downwards. It was almost noon. A sick dread filled him as he stood outside his house because inside was Janine. How would she react to his news that once again he had failed to get a job? The thought was claustrophobic. So Robert stood before the front door with his key in hand, hesitating, wanting to avoid telling her what happened, thinking crazily that he should just leave and not come back for awhile, but he was never given the chance. Janine opened the door and stood before, dressed for work, worry etching her every feature, “Rob, what are you doing standing out here—what happened?”
Her words surprised him. Does she already know?
He stepped inside the house, closing the door behind him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, after you left, I got a call from Nestlé saying that your interview was canceled. What happened?” she repeated.
For a time, Robert said nothing and only looked into her eyes, wide with concern, her skin pale, not wanting to confirm her worries but knowing he had to. “Exactly that, the interview was canceled.”
And suddenly a spike of rage stole over him and he lashed out, knocking a dining room chair across the room. However, Janine didn’t notice. She was reeling away, face in her hands and she sat down heavily on their sofa. “They just canceled the interview like that?” she said, incredulously. “Can they do that? Was the interview rescheduled?” that last bit reminded Robert a lot of himself, a question of last resort but already knowing the answer.
“No, there was no reschedule it was just canceled,” he said, thinly, averting his gaze from her. “By the time I arrived the job had already been given away. The guy who was hiring for the job, Dubois, gave it to his nephew.”
“Oh my God,” she sounded scared now, even more daggers in his heart. “What are we going to do Rob? You needed that job, how are we going to pay the bills? We can’t stall on payments anymore. The bank’s going to take the house from us.”
“Not yet,” he said weakly, wanting to reassure her, tell her that things will get better, wanting to believe it himself, “We won’t lose the house—they haven’t sent a notice of foreclosure yet, so we still have time. I’ll get another job soon—”
“You always say that, Rob,” Janine said, now looking at him, “You’ve been saying that for four months and you still don’t have work and the bills are no closer to getting paid. You promise me every day you’ll get a job and you still don’t have one,” her voice was starting to sound accusing, a tone he hadn’t yet heard from yet feared he would.
Her tone made him angry. It was his fault, he knew it, but not all of the blame was his and he sure as hell didn’t need to hear it from her; that was the last thing he needed. “I’m trying, Janine, you know I am,” Robert said, sounding defensive, “I go out every single day, looking for work, but I just can’t get one.”
“No, of course not, if you could we wouldn’t be so broke!” Janine stood, her voice beginning to rise. Her fists were clenched.
“That isn’t fair,” he said, furiously.
“But it’s true,” she said, harshly. “I’m working my ass off trying to support the both of us—two jobs Rob when you don’t even have one! Is it that hard to find work? You’ve had months. Is it really that hard?”
Janine’s words stung, multiple slaps to the face and the shame began to consume him. She’s right, he thought. Everything she said was true, but he didn’t want to hear it, he wanted to deny it. “What the hell do you want from me?” he yelled, “I’m giving it all that I can!”
“Yeah, but it’s not enough, is it?” she was yelling too. “All I want from you, Rob, is to get a job and I don’t think that’s demanding much.” She paused, then suddenly: “Did you get the light bulbs?” these words were quieter but sharper than knives.
“What?”
“The light bulbs, I asked you to pick up some light bulbs before you left.”
Robert sighed, nostrils flared, his blood coursing a burning path through his veins, and he struggled for calm. “Janine, I just told you I didn’t get the job because Dubois gave it to his asshole of a nephew. Picking up light bulbs on the way home was the last thing on my mind.”
“But then what do you do?” she demanded, “what do you do with your time? The house is falling apart and you can’t take a few minutes of your ‘busy’ schedule to fix anything. You can’t even make yourself useful!”
The voice in his head that often called him back from the brink of his rage was pleading desperately, struggling to be heard over the pounding in his head. His hands were balled, knuckles white. “Stop it,” he whispered, hoarsely.
“We’re going to lose the house, lose everything Rob, and it’s like you haven’t done anything in these past four months! The mortgage is far overdue, it’s a miracle the bank hasn’t foreclosed yet, and I’m expecting the power to be shut off any day now, and you’ve done nothing—”
“Stop it,” he repeated, shaking, barely able to think.
“This is all your fault, Rob!” she screamed, “You can’t find work, can’t do anything and now we’re going to be on the street! You’re useless—”
“STOP IT!” Robert yelled and slapped her. It was quick and hard, landing loudly, deafeningly, and she fell heavily back onto the couch. Robert saw it briefly, his hand print burning a bright red on her cheek, like a brand, brighter and darker where his wedding ring had struck, before she raised her own hand to it. Janine looked up at him, stunned, her eyes filled wholly with surprise and hurt, and then she did something Robert had never seen her do before: she began to cry. The tears came slowly at first, thick drops rolling into the corner of her mouth and over her upraised hand, then more quickly. She didn’t make a sound.
Robert stared at her in disbelief, trying to comprehend what he had just done. He looked down at his hand, shaking his head, what did I do? he thought, what did I do? The tears were what brought it home to him, and when he saw them, the strength went out of him and he staggered back from her in horror and fear. No . . . “Janine . . .” he said, weakly, stepping towards her with his arms outstretched. “Janine, babe, I’m so sorry.”
But she wouldn’t have it. Janine’s eyes narrowed in distrust and anger and she slapped his hand away. She stood and made for the door, removing her hand from her cheek, revealing that burning brand, driving an icicle through Robert’s stomach, and wrenched the front door open. “Janine, wait!” Robert cried and made after her.
Janine was already down to the sidewalk, walking quickly, not running, wanting to be far away but not afraid. Robert ran after her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Janine, please, talk to me! I’m sorry!”
She spun around furiously and knocked his hand away, and Robert saw loathing in her eyes, her lips drawn back in a snarl. Her cheek was beginning to swell. “Don’t talk to me, Robert,” Janine said in a low, hateful voice, “not ever again.”
And Robert’s blood which was so hot not so long ago became like liquid nitrogen and he stopped dead in his tracks. “Janine,” he said once more, pleading.
More tears spilled from Janine’s eyes and she turned away and continued walking down the sidewalk. Robert watched her walk away, becoming smaller and smaller as she continued on further and further away, arms not swinging from side to side but rather crossed beneath her breasts, watched her disappear as she turned down another street, watched her leave him. She was gone.
For the longest time he stood there in a stupor, staring longingly down the street, hoping against hope that she would return and he could apologize, make things better, give her the things she needed and deserved. She didn’t come back. Feeling drunk, he staggered back to the house, stumbling twice, his legs devoid of strength but still managed to make his way back inside. He didn’t bother closing the door. Unable to stand anymore, he collapsed onto his sofa as heavily as a chopped tree and lay down, staring into the blankness of the ceiling. Finally, the synapses in his brain connected once more and a single thought drifted into his mind: Janine. It was all it took. He burst into tears and he laid a forearm across his eyes, warm drops soaking his skin, some dripping into his open mouth and he tasted their saltiness.
“Janine . . .” he moaned, “Oh God, what am I going to do? What am I going to do? She’s left me . . . God, help me. What am I going to do? What can I do?” And he laid their, muttering, mumbling, the tears never slowing. Robert was so tired, tired of everything, tired of searching for work, tired of being in debt, tired of being so angry and scared all the time, tired of life. Weariness settled in and he eventually drifted off to sleep.
Suddenly, Robert was awake. “Janine?” the name escaped his mouth, as unbidden as the gag reflex or a sneeze. He knew the name well—Janine, his wife, but what did it mean, why did he say it? In his sleep clouded mind, he couldn’t remember anything, but the twisting in his gut told him something was wrong. His eyes were rimmed with a weird crust and he rubbed at them, trying to think what it could possibly be with nothing coming to mind. His mouth was as dry as dust and his body felt drained, as if he wasn’t entirely there, just a husk of himself. He could feel his heartbeat in the wrist pressed against his forehead, pounding hard and quick like he had just run a 400-meter dash at full sprint.
His mind was a gaping hole. Where am I? he thought, Janine . . . the name beat a rhythmic pulse in his mind as he stared blankly into the ceiling, but couldn’t think of why he thought of her. Robert looked at his hand, his right one, and examined his wedding ring, once polished and bright but now it cast a dull reflection and was bent into an oval. Then like a breaking dam, the fog of sleep dispelled and all of his memories returned, particularly the one of the deep dark bruise that his ring had left.
Robert sat bolt-upright, heart pounding even harder. “Janine?” he called, loudly, and looked around frantically. Mellow orange light spilled in from the front door and he vaguely remembered not closing it. “Janine?” he cried out the open door. An old couple that was walking by on the far end of the street cast strange glances at him and continued on, maintaining their leisurely pace as if nothing in the world was wrong. It was about two hours till dusk. She didn’t answer. Robert hurried back inside, shutting the door firmly behind him, and entered the kitchen, dark save a single bar of light drifting through the window over the sink, still half-filled with murky water.
“Janine?” he called again, softer than before, his hope waning, hand tingling. Nothing.
He started down the hall, hurrying, flicking on switches as went by, stepping over the showerhead and entered their bedroom. “Janine?” he called once more, but quietly, his hope gone. The bedroom was dark too, and empty, the lonely bed neatly made. Robert sat heavily on the edge of the bed and bent his head low, hands hanging between his knees. He wanted to cry all over again, but couldn’t summon a single tear, he felt dehydrated and honestly too exhausted. She was gone, but what did he expect? He’d finally done the unthinkable, he’d driven her away with a single slap to the face, and now he was alone, had nothing to look forward to. Maybe she was out of line, maybe she had gone too far, but she was right, everything she said was true. It was his failings that drove her over the brink: it was his fault, not hers.
How did this happen? he thought. Five months ago he was employed, he had more than $60 in the bank, and he and Janine couldn’t have been happier. The foundation of his life had crumbled and he was left alone on top of its rubble. What am I going to do? What can I do. Nothing, that’s what. It’s done. All he had left to him was his rundown house filled with his worthless possessions, and soon enough the bank would come to take all of that away. What was the point of continuing? There was nothing to do but wait, and he found the thought to be unbearable. He’d never felt emptier or lower in his life.
Robert heaved himself to his feet and walked over to the dresser on stiff legs. He opened Janine’s drawers, on the left where his were on the right, and looked through her things. Her clothes were all there, folded and clean and Robert wondered sadly if she would come back to get them herself or if she would send a friend. He thumbed through the top drawer, full of shirts, almost all of them were button-downs except a handful of t-shirts that she wore when she slept. The one below it was full of her jeans; she kept the skirts in the closet and wore them as much as she could during the summer. The one on the bottom was full of her tiny rolled up socks, free of holes, but his attention was drawn away by the touch of something hard. He felt the tiniest twinge in the pit of his stomach, a feeling like apprehension and he pulled it from the drawer. Robert was shocked: he’d almost forgotten about it.
In Robert’s hand he held a snub-nosed .38 detective special, small but effective; a short barrel for firing close work. He ran his thumb thoughtfully down the length of its walnut grip and marveled at how light in felt in his grip. When he bought it he remembered thinking how heavy it was in his hand, how alien and dangerous it seemed to him when he first got it two years ago. There had been a string of burglaries in their neighborhood, five cars broken into, and two armed robberies not a block from their house, one of those ending in a chalk outline on the sidewalk, and Robert thought it wise to buy some protection. His knowledge of guns stemming only from movies and TV shows, he walked into the gun shop with no clue of what he wanted or what he needed. He wound up walking away with his revolver and a box of copper-jacketed hollow points; the first thing that the clerk suggested to him. Robert didn’t care about what sort of gun he had, just as long as it was capable of putting a hole in anyone or anything that threatened him or Janine.
It turned out he didn’t need it in the end because a few days afterwards the police apprehended three men who were riding in a stolen Civic, a 9mm hidden under the seat. The crimes dried up and peace returned to the neighborhood. Robert took the .38 out once to a firing range and emptied half of his bullets into paper targets but found he disliked it. He wasn’t against the ownership of guns, but neither did he enjoy having one. Killing: it was what it was made to do and knowing that always made him feel uneasy, it was so final. So he returned home and handed it over to Janine, unsure himself of what he should do with it. She didn’t like guns either, but who knows? One day they might need it. She stuffed it into her sock drawer where it sat forgotten.
Robert had no use for it then, but now . . .? Why wait? A voice whispered. His breath caught in his throat. His fingers pressed white on the revolver, his eyes widened and he took in every detail, every groove. It was so light in his hand. Robert swung out the cylinder, the chambers all empty, and stared through it. His mind touched on Janine’s face, her eyes so filled with hurt, her cheek burning and swelling and her words punctured him like bullets, draining him of what happiness he had left; “Don’t talk to me, not ever again.” He felt nothing but misery and there was only more yet to come down the road, like the hell of waiting for a judge to serve out his final sentence and knowing it would be life in prison, to waste away until your days finally ended.
The revolver felt so right in his hand, like a solution, like a means to an end. “Why wait?” he asked himself. “Why wait.”
Robert stood straight with the revolver held loosely in his right hand and walked over to their closet, a feeling like somber relief beginning to replace the emptiness in him. He slid the closet door to the side, reached up and tugged the light cord, bringing the closet into relief. Her skirts and his long sleeves and sports jackets hung in neat rows on multi-colored plastic hangers. Pushing those from the left to the right, he searched on the ground with urgency, then reached up on the top shelf and felt around blindly for what he was looking for. His fingers knocked against cardboard and a faint tinkling reached his ears. Robert licked his lips and he brought down the box—exactly what he was looking for. Though the box of .38 rounds was dusty and limp, the bullets inside gleamed as brightly as they did on the day he bought them.
Hand trembling, he selected six bullets and rolled out the cylinder once more. Slowly, he filled each chamber as carefully as if he were dismantling a bomb, feeling a pang in his stomach as he loaded each bullet. He slid the cylinder back into place until it clicked, sending an icy tremor down his spine, and he observed the revolver once more. His tongue was as dry as leather. This is right, he told himself, this is what I have to do.
What was there left for him to do? His life was now beyond repair and Janine hated him, this was all he could do. Though his payments were behind, he still had his insurance, particularly his life insurance, and that was what mattered now. Perhaps it would take a year or so before his insurance company made good because of what he was prepared to do, but eventually Janine would get the money from his death, an apology for all the things that happened in the end. He felt a tiny spark of hope. Yeah, this would help Janine a lot, he thought. It would take care of all the bills and then some and she would be well taken care of for a few good years. The idea brought a smile to his face, made him happier than he had been in a long time, that after all of this he was still able to give Janine something.
It felt so right. Felt so easy.
He walked down the hall to the kitchen, stepping over the Home Depot shopping bag once again, the .38 clutched tightly in his hand. He flicked on the kitchen switch and sat down at the table, placing the revolver on top of the stack of bills. The bar of sunlight was now resting on top of the gun, making it shine and to Robert it looked like a signal.
(Why wait?)
His heart rate was jacked, striking hard and quick against his ribcage, but it wasn’t fear that he felt but rather a dread exhilaration overcoming his misery. It would all end.
Robert took the gun in his hand and studied it, wondering how best to do it. He scratched at his breast pocket, remembering that some people shot themselves in the heart, but the idea didn’t sit well with Robert. The heart was in the left side of your chest, he knew, but where exactly? There was a chance he could miss, blow out a lung instead and lay there in the kitchen dying for minutes or even hours after, but even worse still, survive. It had to be done right the first time. The last thing he needed was medical bills and to wake up from a coma (God knows what could happen during that time) and he didn’t want to be known as the idiot who couldn’t even kill himself successfully. No, he wouldn’t be that idiot. He brushed the hair above his ear with the barrel of the .38, thinking that maybe he could blow his brains firing sideways, but the idea of shooting out his ears made him squeamish. The thought made him laugh, a dry, husky laugh, not a laugh at all: here he is, prepared to kill himself and he’s worried about his ears. He laughed even harder, a vicious, strained barking until tears leaked from his eyes, hardly from joy. He rested the barrel on his lower lip, tasting the acrid gun oil on the tip his tongue. A gun in the mouth was the most common way he had seen people commit suicide on TV and in movies, it seemed fool proof. However, he remembered reading an article a few years ago about a woman who had done the same thing, but had missed and instead fired through the back of her neck. She drowned slowly for about an hour before her friend found her in a scarlet puddle on her apartment floor. She died very slowly at the hospital. Robert shuddered. Another chance to miss—he could take no chances.
So he took the revolver and placed it on the bottom of his chin: the last place he could think of. The muzzle felt icy cold and his skin broke out in gooseflesh at its touch, racking him with a violent shiver. It felt right, that is where it should happen. Robert considered this, running his left hand from the top his head to the barrel of the gun. It was a straight line from his chin to his brain. Hard to miss. He angled the revolver forward and back until he was sure he had it right, a nice true path. Robert held it there for a moment, eyes wide, skin cold, and swallowed hard. He cocked back the hammer, snick-snick, each snick seeming to tear himself from his body until he felt totally separated, apart from reality.
He licked his lips and they were a dry as sand paper. He took deep, slow breaths, his heart rate beginning to crescendo. He thought briefly about his life, about Tommy who had been like a brother to him, about his parents in Milwaukee who always told him he would be a great man some day, about his sister Sara with her two kids in Houston, but mostly he thought about Janine, Janine with her smile, the birthmark on her shoulder blade and her head resting against his chest some nights, about her hands against her hips and her chin upraised defiantly when she would feign anger with him in better days when there was nothing to worry about. Robert wondered if she would care, and deep inside, he knew she would, she would a lot despite all that had happened. Knowing that made Robert smile, but it didn’t matter if she cared because he cared about her, would do anything for her. It would help Janine, help her for a long time even when he was just a ghost in her memory. Besides, she wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore, no one would, and that would be best. It would also help him, perhaps not solve his problems but take him away from them so he’d never have to worry about them again. He’d had enough. He couldn’t stand it anymore, the debt, the heartache, the anger, the constant disappoint on Janine’s face. He was done.
Robert took a deep breath and pressed the muzzle of the revolver hard against the bottom of his chin.
“I love you, Janine,” he said.
He tilted his head back, breath held, finger coiled around the trigger, and—
To be continued.
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One day me and my granpappy were goin' fishin' down by the crik. I slipped and fell on a rock, skinning my knee and my granpappy leaned in real close and asked: "Is the rock okay?"
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