The old wooden storm door is closed, but I can see through the glass. It’s dark outside, and the inside lights and television make the living room glow.
The Old Man in his recliner. One leg propped on the footrest. Della is on the couch to his left. She’s sitting upright like a sphinx, staring past me, and into nowhere. Jas stands between her knees, spinning something on the coffee table.
“Do it again, J. Walter!” When I reach the top of the porch steps, I can see it all: The Old Man laughing. Della stone-faced. Jas working hard to get his wobbly makeshift top to spin. A .357 Ruger Blackhawk in a toddler’s hands.
My heart stops.
“Show your mommy your new toy, J. Walter,” the Old Man laughs.
Jas looks up and smiles. “Mommy!”
I open the door—look for another gun or a knife—then rush in front of the Old Man and lift Jas above the chaos. I stumble over a jug of wine as I carry him toward the door; dark red spills across the carpet.
The Ruger slowly stops—no longer a carousel or whatever the fuck they told him it was.
And just for a second, my old dream came back—the dream they said I couldn’t possibly remember: the fireplace, the mantle, the photo, the gun, a toddler watching grown-ups actin' ugly.
This was the final straw—a step before the blood—and the last time I saw my Old Man conscious.
***