Linda knows what the sound means as soon as she hears it. Although she had been sound asleep- it is 3:36 AM- her mind is clear instantly. She’d never heard a gunshot before, but it sounds just like in the movies. And a gunshot in her home can only mean one thing. Her brain moves at lightning speed, skipping the obvious. Where the hell did he get a gun?

     She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t leap out of bed. There is nothing she can do now. Years of preventing this event melt away in an instant. She slips into sweatpants and throws on a shirt and walks downstairs, feeling both afraid and surprisingly calm. The sound had come from downstairs. You’re about to see your dead son. She reaches the landing and turns towards the kitchen. Just before the kitchen becomes visible comes the second shot. This time she does scream, a quick involuntary yelp. On the floor is Benny. Falling forward, head glancing off the kitchen table and slumping onto the linoleum is Wes.

     Wes she expected, is to some degree prepared for. But Benny? What the hell? His face is nothing but red. It’s not a face anymore. Linda approaches. The shot seems to have been delivered into his head from the top down into his brain. A sure kill. He had fallen on his side, lying in an expanding pool of collective blood from the two dead. Linda staggers around the bodies and leans on the fridge. A mostly empty bottle of rum and crushed cans of root beer are scattered across the counter. Wow, Wes. I really raised a classy drinker. There’s a note. An actual twinge of excitement grabs Linda, and a shiver shoots up her spine. Here are his last words.

     Linda puts her hand on her heart and feels it racing. She becomes aware of her thoughts, which she realizes have been directing her in a clear, slow voice since she sat up in bed. She has to slow down, experience these moments. This is the last time she will ever share with Wes. Damn it, he can’t take this away. In a day his body will be somewhere else, her kitchen will be clean. But damn you Wes, we’re both here now and this is it for us and for once I’m in control, I don’t have to be afraid anymore. Don’t read the note yet. It’s not going anywhere. She grabs a mug, pours some rum, drinks slowly, sipping and holding it to her breast. She addresses Wes out loud. Your mother doesn’t need to mix her liquor. Root beer. You would down a bunch of root beer on your last night. A smile.

     OK, let’s see that note. Mom, I’m sorry about all this. It’s been a life of pain, and I hope you can appreciate that this is the best thing I can do for myself. Yes, son, I can appreciate that. She really can, but now she is seeing him scoring a goal for his 5^th grade soccer team. She examines the statement, looking at the body on the floor, then seeing him score a goal. Now it makes sense, now it doesn’t. He used to score so many goals. But he was proudest when the team had a big lead and the coach told them to stop scoring. Then they played keep-away, passing the ball in triangles, striving only to maintain possession. Did you see how we did that? They barely touched the ball in the whole second half! In tenth grade when he quit the team, Linda wanted it to be ok. The drums, the drums, Wes assured her. He was just interested in different things now. But banging on a drum set couldn’t replace the freedom she used to see in him chasing the ball around, the beautiful control of energy he displayed, his natural bent toward the concepts of the game. Passing, he was always such a great passer. Linda saw it as a reflection of a remarkable emotional intelligence. An intelligence which told her that they both knew it wasn’t ok, and he knew that she knew. But so much went unspoken with Wes. The reality in his mind was outrageous, so he learned to simply speak in acceptable terms. He wasn’t trying to fool her when he told her things were good, he just didn’t know how to say that they weren’t.