The following is an excerpt from Confusion.
© 2004 by Eric Dalen, all rights reserved.
Aaron followed Jenny up the stairs to
the second floor and down to the end of the hall where the graffiti
tapered off. She
stopped at a door and hesitated.
She was staring in disbelief at something, and when he
followed her gaze, he saw what she saw: The door was open slightly.
"Here," he said, handing Christopher
over to her. Then he
withdrew the gun he had tucked in his waistband, one of the guns he
had plucked off his apartment floor, one he didn't think he'd need
but had decided to take anyway.
Jenny seemed more startled to see the
weapon in his hand than he felt holding it.
He saw the look in her eye -- alarm, then fright.
He pushed the door open and walked in
slowly, carefully, listening as much as watching, feeling as if he
were in a movie and thinking that if this were a movie, then he
could handle it. But it
wasn't.
Lights were on and he could see down a
hallway to what looked to be the living room.
He passed by the kitchen, taking it in suspiciously, seeing
nothing unusual. Clean
but in need of renovation -- peeling tile, banged up stove,
discolored countertops, scarred and uneven cupboards.
Aaron continued toward the living room
until he saw the toes up ahead.
Then he stopped.
He listened again -- then looked back
the way he came, seeing Jenny watching as she held his dozing son.
He hoped nothing showed on his face, then turned back and
moved forward cautiously, holding the gun up like a torch, returning
his attention to the toes, seeing more of the foot turn into the
lower leg as he came closer. Dark
skin. Then bare knee,
thigh and pubic hair all coming into view.
He paused.
A woman.
A naked woman sitting on the floor.
"Hello?" he said softly, stepping back a
pace. No need to alarm
anyone needlessly.
He waited.
No response.
He stepped forward again, knowing now
the alarm would be his, turning the corner, realizing the truth
before he saw it, shocked anyway.
She was black,
mid‑to-late-twenties, sitting on the ratty green carpet, her
body propped up against an end table, head back, mouth open.
The blood was incredible.
The table, lamp, couch, wall, all splattered with it.
It had run down the plaster and dried.
She had been dead for a couple of hours, at least.
Aaron backed out quickly, almost
tripping over himself as he did so, going down the hall and out into
the corridor, facing away from what he had seen, staring at a door
marked 224, his arms at his sides, one of his hands holding the
handgun.
"What?" Jenny asked, alarmed.
He shook his head for a moment, then
found a couple of words. "A
woman. She's--"
"Darlene!
Oh my God!" Still
holding Chris, she tried to go in, but Aaron turned and snagged her
arm, pulling her back.
"No, no, don't go in. It's ... it's too late."
"Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh
Darlene." She burst
into tears, holding Chris' head against her shoulder as if she were
protecting the child, her face distorted with pain and tears.
"Oh,
God, I've got to see her, I've got to."
"No, you shouldn't. She's really bad."
She looked squarely at Aaron.
"I have to see her."
He shook his head slightly.
"You
should just go in and get what you need.
You ... won't want to remember her like that."
She stared at him, thinking, then moved
Chris off her hip for Aaron to take.
"I'll just be a couple of minutes,"
Jenny said.
She turned and walked in the apartment.
A few moments later he faintly heard her moan "Oh my God."
She had looked anyway.
"Where are we?" Chris asked, now awake.
"In an apartment building in Los
Angeles."
"Who's that lady?"
"A friend of mine. Her name is Jenny. Can
you remember that?"
"Jenny."
"Right."
Chris laid his head against Aaron's
shoulder, and Aaron stroked his son, feeling the gentle warmth of
the boy, the softness of the light brown hair, the roundness of his
head, all perfect and wonderful.
We'll never be as close as we are right
now,
he thought, and this brought a sadness that made him feel cold --
colder than he already felt. He
held his son a little tighter.
Jenny stepped out a minute later,
crying, with a plastic grocery bag filled with clothes.
She set it on the ground outside the door, then turned
silently to go back inside.
"Why is she crying?" Chris asked.
"She's very sad. Her friend is ... sick."
"Oh," was all his son said, not
surprised, not excited, sounding more sleepy than anything.
"Is
she going to the hospital?"
"No."
Aaron closed his eyes, feeling the irony that telling the
truth was not any easier than lying at this point.
"No,
not to the hospital."
© 2004 by Eric Dalen, all rights reserved.
