The Deputy

I didn’t see Doris’s car either.

When my boot hit the middle step up to the door, the creak was so loud it made me wince. I held my breath, but nothing happened. I tried to turn the knob. Locked. I stuck the key in and turned slowly. I swung the door open quietly an inch at a time, stepped in, closed the door easy behind me without a loud click.

The revolver felt sweaty and heavy in my hand. I wanted to be ready, but I didn’t want to blast Doris by mistake. I stood a long time listening. It seemed like a long time, but it was probably only ten seconds. My mouth felt dry and cottony.

A flickering white light from the living room, dim and twitchy, jagged shadows on the wall and ceiling. I eased down the hall, gun in front of me, rounded the corner and saw the television turned onto a station of white noise. There was a rectangle in the middle of the TV screen, and when I took two steps closer, I saw it was a piece of notebook paper scotch-taped to the screen.

I peeled it off and flipped on the nearest lamp. It was a note. From Doris.

Toby, I can’t do this anymore. I do not love you, and I don’t think I ever did, although I wish I did because you’re a good father and a good person. But this just isn’t me. I have to get out. If you won’t come, then I’ll go it alone. I’ll send money for the boy once I’m set up in Houston. Don’t hate me. It’s no use, so please just don’t hate me. I knew you’d be home soon, so I left the boy sleeping—

I knocked over the lamp and end table when I jumped up and ran for my son’s room. I burst through the door, stood panting over his crib.

He lay sleeping, the covers completely kicked off. Fresh diaper, Bob the Builder t-shirt halfway up his chest, showing off his perfect round belly. His mouth hung open, his bottom lip looking like pink porcelain. A faint blush on his cheeks.

I set my revolver on his dresser and scooped him up, didn’t care if I woke him. I needed to feel his weight against my chest, touch the thin hair on his head. He didn’t wake, just made a little toddler noise and wormed his head into my armpit. I backed into the rocking chair, shifted until he was comfortable in my arms. One of his pudgy hands rested on my chest. He felt so warm and solid.

I felt that ache behind my eyes I always get when I’m about to cry. I held it back. No time. Not now. Some kind of relief. An emotional release. But not now. I let it turn to anger.

All I could think was Bitch. Goddamn bitch. How could she run off and leave him like that? Our son. My boy. Anything could have happened. When he was eight months old, I came home from a shift, walked past Doris watching Montel on the couch and found the boy in the kitchen. He sat in the playpen, face going blue. I grabbed him, panicked, flipped him upside down and slapped his back until the grape popped out. They say grapes and chunks of hotdog are the two biggest culprits for toddler choking. They’ll stick anything into their mouths. I remember my mom pulling a dry bean out of my nostril once.

Doris had felt so bad, I hadn’t yelled at her about it. But now all I could think was Just figures. Goddamn bitch. Fucking stupid bitch! And I almost cried again.

It occurred to me a second later that she hadn’t just abandoned the boy. She’d left me too. Her letter was a crumpled ball in my fist. I smoothed it out, let my eyes adjust to the dim glow of the boy’s nightlight, and picked up where I left off.

I knew you’d be home soon, so I left the boy

sleeping in his room. He was wet, so I

changed him. There is enough diapers and

milk until the weekend, but then you’ll

need to get to the store. I don’t know how to

make you understand that I can’t stay here

anymore. I thought there was a reason to but

there is not and if I don’t go, I’ll go crazy.

The Indian woman’s name is Alice. I know you always forget. She can watch TJ sometimes. I

will send some money to help when I get a

job in Houston, but I’m not coming back. I

just read what I wrote and I guess I haven’t explained a damn thing. All I can say is that the more I’d say the less happy you’d be, so there it is. Doris

Fuck you, Doris.

I hugged the boy closer to my chest, rocked gently. Now what? Just what the hell was I going to do now? I’d have to talk to the Indian woman. Alice. And I’d have to go soon—tomorrow—to the fertilizer plant. I’d need to earn enough to feed us and keep the lights on and pay Alice when I was working.

Maybe I should have given in to Doris. Gone to Houston. That line of thought pissed me off again. I realized I was rocking too fast, made myself slow down. When TJ was an infant, I’d rock too fast and make him spit up. I’d learned everything, how fast to rock him, how to change him, what he ate.

I suddenly hated the whole fucking unfair world. I’d pawned my guitar and amp so long ago, I couldn’t remember what the strings felt like beneath my fingers. I could barely recall playing in some hot, smoky joint, really getting into the groove, how we could mesmerize a crowd when everything was working right. I left all that behind me to do the right thing. Doris was gone, and Molly would leave soon. Was there anything left to sacrifice?

The dried blood on my hands looked black in the pale light. The boy’s skin glowing white and untainted. A lifetime of bruises and broken bones waited for him. He’d climb trees and fall out and step on sharp rocks in the river. But it wouldn’t keep him out of trees or out of the river. I’d see to that. I didn’t want him growing up afraid to live. This was my new mission in life. To make things right for the boy and fuck Doris and everyone else.

Then I remembered I’d axed Billy. Who would take care of TJ if I went to prison? I wanted to cry again.

A noise from outside, the loud creak of the metal step leading up to the back door.

I held my breath and waited, listening. If it was Doris coming back, I’d rip her a new one like she wouldn’t believe. I waited, but nobody came inside.

I stood, edged forward and took my revolver from the dresser. The boy slept, a warm and heavy bundle in the crook of my arm. I walked out of TJ’s room, stepping softly toward the back door. The bathroom was opposite the door, so I backed in, keeping the revolver trained on the door, listening carefully.

Maybe it was Doris coming back. I wanted to think it was her feeling bad for running off, but she’d have put her key in and opened the door by now. She’d have come in.

The silence was like a thick syrup that had oozed down over the whole trailer. I couldn’t hear the step creak or the boy’s breathing or any cars out on the highway. Nothing at all. Time held me in the frozen blue haze of my imagination, hoping it was Doris, knowing it wasn’t, somebody standing out there waiting to come into my home.

Then, two things at once.

A light rattle from the other side of the trailer. Somebody trying the knob on the front door.

And the middle step at the back door creaked again.

I lifted the revolver and fired, squeezed off three rapid shots.

The bangs shook the trailer, the slugs blasting through the door in a neat triangle. TJ came instantly awake, screaming bloody murder and clutching at my shirt. Something on the back steps went tumble and thud.

Shouts outside, in Spanish.

I ran down the hall, and a blaze of bullets ripped through the trailer, tearing through the walls like they were aluminum foil. I dove for the floor, twisted at the last second to land on my back and avoid crushing the boy. He screamed louder. I hunched over him turtle style, more bullets shredding the trailer, some kind of hellfire machine- gun rattle outside the trailer. The gunfire obliterated a lamp, blasted the television, battered the clock off the wall.

The next burst of fire shattered the living room windows. If they were out front, then I sure as hell was going out the back.

I crawled on two knees and one elbow toward the back door. I held TJ hysterical in the other arm. I stood, revolver ready, and kicked the back door open just as I heard somebody do the same to the front.