Page 3 of The Art of Dying

She took a step toward me. “Can’t believe you went up to Boston and joined the fucking Marines.”

“Yeah? So?”

“I remember you talking to recruiters your senior year. Your mom didn’t want you to do it.”

“Well, she’s not here anymore to worry about me. And after the towers fell… I needed to feel like I was doing something to fight back.”

She sighed. “Fine. Then at least keep your fucking nose clean.”

“Will do.”

I watched as she returned to her car. The red and blue lights went dark, and she slowly backed out of the drive.

I closed the door and turned the bolt lock. The wooden floors creaked under my feet as I walked to the back of the house, past my parents’ darkened bedroom. Just four months before, Dad would be snoring from his side of the bed, closest to the door to protect Ma. She’d be sitting up, reading with a small light, her glasses barely hanging at the tip of her nose. I wondered about their last moments in Ma’s Lincoln, if they were holding hands, if they were talking or singing along to the radio, or if they were just comfortable in the silence as they enjoyed their Sunday drive.

I lay down in my bed, images of the front of the car teetering over the cliff’s edge, Mom looking over at Dad with fear in her eyes, and Dad offering the only thing he could, one last smile to say he loved her before the tire slipped and the car fell end over end to the bottom, ninety feet below. Dad had told everyone who’d listen that the Y2K scare was a bunch of bullshit and then didn’t even get the chance to gloat about being right.

Just when I decided to look for a bottle of whiskey to help me sleep, there was another knock at the door. This time, more aggressive.

“God dammit, Vaz!” I said, sitting up. I coughed a few times before spotting a pair of sweatpants in the corner. I slipped them on and stomped to the front door. Before I twisted the bolt lock, I realized the absence of flashing lights on my wall.

I side-stepped to the window and peeked out the blinds. Cubby stood on my porch, one eye swollen shut. He was holding a baseball bat, and six of his brothers were standing behind him also holding their weapons of choice.

I reached under the entry table, pulled my third favorite pistol from its holster and then opened the door with my free hand, keeping my handgun hidden.

“Evening, boys,” I said.

“We got some business to tend to,” Cubby said with a smirk.

“No, I think it was settled back at the bar, unless you just want your eyes to match?”

Cubby’s smile slowly vanished. “Don’t make us pull you out of your house, Kitsch. We’d hate to tear anything up.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You got your ass beat, Cubby. You gathered your boys and rode all the way here in single digit temps so they could try to do what you couldn’t? How does that make you feel like less of a pussy?”

Cubby slid his bat across the wooden boards of my porch and then swung at a front window, shattering it.

I closed one eye tight. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Before I could take a step, a pop went off, making Cubby and his cronies yelp and duck.

Standing by the curb holding a Ruger 9mm in the air was Mack, wearing pink silk pajama pants, a fluffy white robe, and brown suede boots.

“What the fuck, Mack? You’re shooting at us?” Cubby yelled.

“Get back on your bikes and go,” she said, taking a few more steps. “Don’t make me have to explain to Alecia why I blew out your kneecaps.”

I pulled my Sig Sauer and pressed it against Cubby’s cheek. He froze.

“You should listen to her,” I said, pushing it further into his skin.

He nodded quickly.

All seven members rushed to their motorcycles and revved the engines, wasting no time to disappear down the dark street.

I put my Sig back into the holster under the table and then held the screen door open to invite Mack inside, but she was already on her way home.

“Hey!” I called after her.

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