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This Is It
By
M. Stowe, Jan 20, 2009
He calls you and says, “Hey man, we need to talk.” You know what this is about. Him calling you. Jenna’s phone
being off all day.
Tell him to come over.
Do not wait for him on the front steps or even near the front door. Take an icepack from the freezer. Go
downstairs to the basement where it is dark and cool.
Do not watch TV. Too many commercials. Too many excuses to get up and check the window. Put in a DVD. Something
with guns. No funny stuff. No chicks. Something masculine. Stay mad. Stay focused.
Sit on the edge of the couch. Put the icepack on your shoulder. Turn up the volume on the stereo. Press play on
the remote.
He’ll want you on the front steps. Expects to see you pacing in the driveway. He hopes your parents are home.
They are not. They are in Aruba.
Bullets like firecrackers shake the sound system. Twisted metal rocks the portrait of Great-Grampa Earl.
You sense the knock at the door. Turn down the sound. Confirm it. Let him wait another half minute.
Shut off the movie, the TV, and the stereo. Walk slowly up the stairs. Return the icepack to the freezer. Go
slowly back across the kitchen and through the living room. Open the front door. Open it wide. Stand behind the
screen door. Do not say a word.
“Hey,” he will say.
Say nothing. Cross your arms.
“We need to talk.”
Say to him, “So talk.”
He’ll scratch his head. Look around the neighborhood. Run his hand over his face. Look at you. Then down at his
feet.
Picture this: Burst from behind the door. Grab his hair. Punch him until his eyes come out his ears.
See it. Don’t do it.
When he says, “Can I come in?” you shake your head.
When he says, “Can we go for a ride?” you say, “No.”
Then he’ll ask, “Are your parents home?” Shake your head again, this time slower. “No, huh?” he’ll say. Clear
your throat. Say: “Talk.”
Picture this: Drag his carcass out to the woods. Take a knife and split him from neck to navel. Leave him there.
Climb a tree. Wait for the coyotes.
Whatever you do, do not picture her. Her long black hair. The streak of teal she dyed and braided. Her green
eyes. The stud beneath her lip. The way she smiled at you.
He’ll say, “I have something to confess.”
Uncross your arms and step outside. Close the door deliberately. Stand tall. Re-cross your arms. Breathe through
your nose.
“I met up with Jenna last night,” he’ll tell you. “At Al’s. The party? I know you were working late.”
Do not stare at the spot in the driveway where the Cherokee is supposed to be. Do not touch your shoulder in
memory. Try not to think about the delivery truck that ran the red light. Ignore the image of the fireman
breaking the windshield to get you out of your seat. Forget that Jenna’s phone went straight to voicemail.
He’ll say, “Did you talk to Jenna today?”
Do not change your expression. This is it. You had this thought when you tried to call her last night. Confirmed
it when you tried and tried again today.
He promised Jenna he would tell you everything.
Suppress the image of her with him. Her hot breath in his ear. The spot on her chest that turns pink when she
sweats. His lips on that spot. Two drunks rolling around in a filthy basement thinking they are noiseless.
People, friends, up in the kitchen pretending not to notice the empty chairs around the table.
Try not to remember your first time with Jenna. The tenderness. Running your fingers over her skin. Undressing
her. Kissing her. Her fingernails dusting your neck and ears. The love swimming in those green eyes.
He says, “I suppose you want to hit me.”
Tell him no. Tell him goodbye. Go back inside. Close the door. Walk slowly across the living room and into the
kitchen. Take the icepack from the freezer. Put it on your shoulder.
M. Stowe is a graduate of the University of Massachusetts at Amherst. Recently married, his dowry includes
a mysterious Thermos in the refrigerator, a bumble bee, and two cats. His work has appeared in Peeks &
Valleys and Riverwind.
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