July’s prompt was “Emergency,” so I'm a bit behind in my posting.

Emergency . . .
1,266 words | By Me



Walter had just had a somewhat rough day, the most accurate way to describe it. Rough. Not an overall bad day, just a rough one. Of course, some would not have thought much of it, but he was beginning to considered it to have been a horrible day.

Getting out of the car, he slammed the door — and the lord of horrible days decided that this was the destined moment in which to cause his driver’s side window to shatter, sending glittering squares of glass across the seat and all over the driveway.

“Could it get any worse?” he shouted to no one.

Angry, he punched the door, leaving a tiny dimple in the shined panel.

“Yeah, sure — why the hell not?” he fumed.

A weighted sack of ammunition in hand, the young rebel proceeded to the front door of the house. Just a matter of time, he was thinking. Before this week’s out, I’ll have changed it all — fixed it all. “They’ll learn,” he angrily muttered out loud, settling his house key in his hand. “They’ll all learn.”

Surprised that he had seemingly left his front door unlocked and ajar, he pushed it open. Once inside the house, he stopped, looking about the visible rooms as though they were not his. He was more than sure somebody had broken into his home and cleaned it — or worse. Gazing about the living room, he realized it was now utterly devoid of dirt, any dirt at all. Even the air in the room held none of the expected lingering specks of dust.

The newspaper he had tossed to the recliner that morning had been neatly folded and placed on the coffee table. The breakfast he had so hurriedly almost finished was now gone from the kitchen table and the two-day’s worth of dishes in the sink were all scrubbed clean and put away. Someone had even taken out the kitchen garbage.

He turned slowly from the polished sink, his eyes taking in the new gleam of his home, and there she stood, placidly awaiting comment.

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“So, this is how you say hello to the woman who bore you, who raised you and taught you right from wrong, who just spent the day picking up after you?”

“Yeah, hi, Mom,” came his meek greeting. “What’re you…?” he nearly repeated.

“All the way from Manchester, and it’s ‘Yeah, hi, Mom, what’re you’?” She brushed past him, returning the damp washcloth to the sink counter. “We came by bus, you know.”

His voice caught in his throat. “We?”

“Long ride, me and your sister.”

He faced toward the living room. “Sammy’s here?”

It wasn’t as terrible as one might think, or perhaps it was. Samantha was his sister, younger by almost a year. Then again — and he regarded his mother.

“…Is Peter with her?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course, Peter’s here. Can’t leave a six-year-old child home alone.”

Why not? he did not ask out loud.

“They’re upstairs, straightening up. You’ve really let this place go,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Hell in a handbasket”

He looked toward the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to sweep, to mop, to take out a single bag of garbage?” She gestured to the scrubbed waste basket. “We came inside, and the garbage was already spilling over.”

“Yeah, Mom. Too busy.”

“What were you having for dinner?”

“Dinner? Why, and what do you mean ‘were?’ Rammon — some beans and carrots — maybe a beer or two…”

“…Really…? Why not a bacon cheeseburger?”

“Oh, stop.”

“There’s a roast in your oven. It works, ya know.”

“Well, I wasn’t expecting anyone, Mom.”

“Mm-hm.” She smiled and patted his cheek. “We’ll just call it a surprise dinner.”

“Uh-huh.” By now, Walter was over the initial shock. Setting the bag on the kitchen table, he stepped to the refrigerator. “You want a beer?”

“No, that’s disgusting. And put that back. Today, we’re having wine.”

Still holding the long-neck bottle, he faced his mother. “You know I don’t like wine.”

“Everybody likes wine,” she argued.

“Mogen David, right?”

“Is there another kind?”

“Manischewitz,” he quipped.

“True, but your father always preferred Mogen David.”

“So, you’ve pretty much taken over my dinner arrangements, huh?”

“I’m here to help.”

“Why? Mom, everything’s fine. There’s no need for you…”

“I heard you out on the driveway just now. I think the whole neighborhood heard you out on the driveway.”

“I was having a bad day, okay?”

She raised to her toes, kissing her son’s cheek. “And then you saw me.”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that.”

“Walter?” Samantha called down from the upper landing. “You’re home?”

He watched his sister trot down the stairs. “Yeah, it’s my home, remember?”

“Oh, stop it. You know what I meant.”

“Where did you leave Peter?”

“Upstairs. He’s helping his Mommy clean out his uncle’s nasty closet,” she chuckled. “Really just dragging all of your…”

“What?”

“W’ll, yeah, it’s a real disaster up there.”

“’Scuse me.” Stepping around his sister, he hurried up the stairs. “Peter?” he called. “Come out of the room.”

“What’s wrong?” Sammy asked after him, glancing to their mother.

The boy stepped out into the hallway, dragging Walter’s holster with him. In his hand was the heavy .45 caliber M1911 pistol Walter had purchased three days earlier.

“Peter, stop. Stop, don’t move. Just hand me the gun, okay?”

“Peter?” Hearing the words, Sammy ran back up the stairs, stopping just behind her brother. “Peter, put down that gun!” she nearly screeched in Walter’s ear.

Condescendingly, he looked at his sister. “Shut up,” he hissed. He looked back to his nephew and smiled as pleasantly as he could. “Peter? Let me have the gun. Come on.”

Knowing from his mother’s reaction that something was apparently very wrong, Peter slowly approached his uncle. He raised the gun to the extended hand and Walter closed his fingers around the barrel, lifting the weapon away.

“Thank you, Peter.” He reached for his holster. “Take him downstairs, please,” he told Sammy.

He saw her lift her son into her protective arms as he stepped into the bedroom. He checked the handgrip but there was no magazine. Dropping down to sit on the edge of his bed, Walter opened the drawer to the nightstand. The loaded magazine was still where he had placed it. He drew back on the upper receiver and saw there was no round chambered and sighed his relief. Sitting there, he then looked across to stare out into the hallway.

Am I really that messed up? he wondered, thinking now of his broken car window. I was getting’ ready to — go out and shoot people. Really just — shoot ’em. Hell, I don’t even know who they are — any of ’em. He stood and stepped to the closet. Holstering the pistol, he set it on the upper shelf. Closing the closet door, he locked it. Jesus, that was close. Gotta — talk to Mom an’ Sammy about all this. He started back down the stairs. Think I’ll talk to my doctor too — maybe get a prescription for tranquilizers or something. Maybe that’s all I need, huh? Maybe a different job — different supervisor? Hell, I dunno — maybe that’s really all…

“Walter. You have a gun in this house?” came his mother’s accusing tone from the bottom step. She held out the bag he had brought home. “These — are bullets.”

“Yeah, they are. Mom? Sammy? Could we sit down?” he asked, laying his hand on the back of a dining chair. “Talk about stuff? You know, my stuff, your stuff, Peter’s stuff?”

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