Blindness(87)

We pass through three more restaurants, each of them closed, and we start to laugh hysterically with each new closed sign. “I think the gods are trying to tell me something,” Mac says, rubbing his round belly. He has put on a few, but I think it’s because for the first time in years he has joy in his life. We’ve both come to this place, and it was really hard and painful to get here, but it’s wonderful.

“Hey, how about we get doughnuts and a liter of Coke and pig out at home in front of the TV?” I say, elbowing him and pointing to the convenience store flashing “24/7.”

“Charlie, I’m a cop—you had me at doughnuts,” he laughs, his chuckle deep and raspy from years of smoking his pipe. It’s a habit I want him to quit, but one I’ll work on later. Tonight, I just want to celebrate with my daddy.

We pull into a spot, between two really beat up cars.

“You just wait here, keep the motor running. I don’t want to have to jump her,” he says, getting out and signaling to me to lock the door behind him. I do as he says, I always do. My dad’s paranoid about my safety.

I pick up my trophy and read the front, tilting it to reflect from the store’s bright lights. “Kentucky State Champion.” I’ve never really had something like this…an achievement, I guess? I felt proud, and it was a strange feeling. I was so used to feeling like I was nothing, like I was a burden or an accident. I haven’t really thought about my mother in months, but for some reason—tonight—she’s on my mind. I haven’t seen her since the day she dropped me off with Mac, and I used to wonder where she was, what she looked like, if she was well, or…alive?

The man standing at the clerk’s counter inside reminds me of her. He’s twitchy, and his arms are covered in bruises. He’s wearing a loose white tank top, and it’s dirty. He looks almost homeless. I wonder where Mac is, and I start panning the windows, trying to find him. I notice him crouched down behind the bakery counter, his finger to his lips as he’s mouthing something to the store clerk.

Something’s not right.

The clerk’s eyes are wide, and his hands are raised. He’s shaking his head, talking nervously to the man in the tank top.

I see the gun!

I look back for Mac, and I panic. He’s no longer there. I scoot over to his seat and put my hand on the gear. He must be sneaking out of the store, and when he does, I’ll have him jump in, and I’ll speed away. Or if that guy looks like he’s going to shoot, I’ll ram through the window.

My fingers are tingling, my hand muscles flexing on the gear, ready to slide it into position. My heart is pounding loudly in my ears, and my mouth is watering, like it does before I throw up.

Where is he? Mac…where is he?

I’m about to push the gas when the guy at the counter raises his arm, like he’s about to shoot, and out of nowhere, Mac tackles him, pushing him into the counter and wrapping his hand around the man’s wrist, pounding it repeatedly into the register until the gun is forced loose from his grip.

The gun falls to the floor, and my dad kicks it to the side, away from the man as he pulls his arms behind his body, holding them together. Mac’s yelling something to the clerk, pointing his head to the phone, but the clerk still isn’t moving. He’s just standing there, and he still looks scared. He’s in shock, I think.

Then I see him.

The shots fire, and my dad falls to the ground.

Blood is everywhere.

The man in the shirt runs through the doors first, ripping the door open for the car next to me and cranking the engine loudly. His wheels are spinning so fast they’re smoking, and he’s backing out, backing away from me. I look at him, right in the eyes, and then I duck out of instinct. He’s pulled sideways behind me, blocking the truck in, and I start to shake with fear.

They’re going to shoot me next.

I look back into the store, looking for Mac. But instead I see him—my father’s killer. He runs at the truck so fast that he smashes into the front bumper, slamming his knee into it. He looks up, right at me, and his face is ghost white, void of any emotion but fear, and I memorize every last feature of him.

He’s by me seconds later, jumping through the window of the car, and I watch as it pulls away, no license plate on the back to read.

I can hear the wailing sounds of the store clerk inside. He’s racing around the counter, trying to wake up my dad, feeling his pulse and shaking his body.

I leave the car running, the door open behind me, and I race into the store, sliding on my knees at his side.

“Daddy!” I cry. “Daddy, can you hear me? Stay with me, oh god, Daddy please!”

The store clerk is dialing 911, and I hear him give the address.

“Tell them he’s a police officer! Officer down!” I yell loudly enough for the operator to hear.

Within minutes, I see the lights flashing behind me, and I know everyone’s here. I feel Brian pulling at my shoulders, urging me off of the ground, away from him. But I can’t leave his side. I won’t.

“Charlie, you have to let them work,” he says, finally lifting me from under my arms. I drag my feet, reluctantly.

I watch from outside, standing next to Brian, my arm tucked in his for support, while the paramedics work on Mac. I see bag after bag come out from the fire truck and watch as officers swarm the area, pull tape from the camera, talk to the clerk. I’ve seen it all so many times, usually well after the tragedy, while my dad worked a scene.