Thank You Ma’am
by Gayle Arrowwood 2008
His knocking on the door is louder than the thunder rolling across the heavens. It’s 3 in the morning. It sounds like hell ripping into unknown parts, causing the earth to split up and the universe to be blown to bits which will flatten the cosmic bag we’re in.
When I scramble to the stairs, my daughter stands in the doorway to her bedroom. “Mom, what are you going to do?”
“We’ll talk about it after I do it. Please stay out of the way. This has been building up too long to be handled any other way.”
As I stumble down the steps, I envision a few hours ago. Daughter flees from her boyfriend—two black eyes, a busted cheekbone and stitches in her chin. She escapes from his little white cottage with the little picket fence at the edge of Tiny Town.
I’m in the kitchen. I turn on the light and study the freezer door for a moment. I scratch my forehead. Why on earth did I get out of bed? Why’d I come downstairs?
The drunken boyfriend is at the front door. A voice this time, a rotten low-down shout, the man’s crazy. He slobbers, “Sorry. Love her. She’s gotta give me a chance.”
He’s always got to be dramatic. Well, this is just too much. I yell, “Shut up, you sucker.”
I stare through the peep hole to make sure he is alone. My daughter stays near the steps. “Don’t worry. I won’t kill him, just maim him a little. He’ll survive.”
“That’s a shame.” She moves to the window where she can see it all.
Then I head back to the living room, to the gun case that I keep shiny and clean, just like the rifles in there. I grab one, load it, and stagger to the door, where that sucker still screeches, at three in the morning, now three seventeen.
I aim this mini-tank at the door, low, where his brains are, and lightening whams into his “thank you, ma’am.” I hear a groan, then “You…you...” Finally, the tumble down the steps. Now only the thunder rolls across the sky. He must have conked his head again.
Always stumbling down the steps, drunk or sober. That hard head doesn’t suffer much. Nibby neighbors are out there already with an undertone of laughter in their voices.
I can hear their words. “It’s about what he deserves.” “Yeah, he’ll be all right as soon as we get him to the hospital.” “I knew something like this was coming. Wilma was bound to lose it sooner or later..” “Didn’t hear the kid complain or try to stop her mother.”
I throw the rifle on the couch, and it accidentally fire into the thick arm of the sofa. “Let’s go into the kitchen and fix some coffee until the cops arrive. They can have some too. Maybe now, you’ll find someone else, someone sane.” We head for the kitchen.
When the police arrive, I open the door and say, “Come on in, Al, Fred. We were waiting for you. How about some coffee?”
“We can’t refuse the best coffee in town,” said Al.