A Single Shot

John pushes past the kid. Holding on to both rails for support, he lurches up the wooden stairs to the third-floor platform. He leans against the entrance-way door, hearing inside, above soft music, piggish grunts, moans, one-and two-syllable verbal barks. Through the door he sees past the kitchen into the living room, where the light flickers. He thinks, “How can the world end in a single day?” He is past reason, several drinks beyond thought. He puts his hand on the door handle and turns. The door is locked. He smashes the paper bag into the lowest section of glass, reaches through the hole, unlocks the door, yanks it open, and runs through the kitchen into the living room, where a naked woman holding a pizza slice sits cross-legged on the floor before a television set. John starts to speak, then hears behind him a click and a man’s voice. “Drop the goddamn bag.”

John doesn’t recognize the voice or the woman. He’s not sure he recognizes the house. People are fucking on the television. He says, “Is this 1201 Belmont?”

The woman giggles.

The voice says, “I’m not shitting you, man.”

John drops the bag.

“Now, who the fuck are you and what do you want?”

“I think I got the wrong house,” says John.

“Most fucking likely.”

“No,” says the woman. She tosses the half-eaten pizza slice into the box next to her. She looks sweat-soaked or greased. Her nipples are red flares. She’s bald between her legs. “No, he don’t.”

“How do you know?” says the voice.

“That’s John.”

“John?”

“The husband.”

John hears a baby cry in back. “What’s going on here?”

Frowning sheepishly, the woman pulls a blanket from the couch, wraps it around herself from the neck down. “I’m Moira’s friend, Carla. From Puffy’s?”

John’s thoughts can’t find anywhere to land. He looks more closely at the woman and thinks maybe he’s seen her around. He recognizes the blanket covering her as the one Moira’s mother made them for a wedding present. That’s their television set playing. Their couch. “What are you doing in Moira’s house?”

“Babysitting.”

“Babysitting?”

“For Nolan.” The woman stands up. “Moira’s out.”

“Out where?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Christ,” says John. “You’re watching porno movies.”

“We got a constitutional right,” says the voice.

“You got a fucking gun on me?”

“I put it away.”

John doesn’t turn around. “And fucking in front of my kid!”

“He was asleep,” says the woman.

“Till you woke him, John.”

“Fuck you,” says John. He glances at the television screen, on which three men in wolves’ masks are screwing Little Red Riding-Hood. “Both of you!”

“I’ll get him,” says the woman, starting for the back bedroom.

“No, you don’t,” says John. “You don’t go in there with my kid!” He looks around at the room filled with empty beer cans, a half-full vodka bottle, ashtrays with butts of something smoked in them. “You better have your clothes on when I come back,” he barks over his shoulder at the man. “I don’t want to see your sorry ass naked in my wife’s house! Christ, what’s the matter with Moira?” He reaches down, switches off the television set. In the ensuing hush, the kid’s wail becomes more pronounced. John starts toward it.

“Better let me,” says the woman.

“What?”

“He ain’t used to seeing you.”

“Ain’t what?”

“You’re apt to scare him.”

“I’d punch you in the mouth,” says John, pushing past her, toward the sound. “ ’Cept I been taught better!”

“Okay,” says John. “Okay. Easy now.” His arms and legs pedaling madly, the kid lies on his back, squawking like a bird begging for a worm. John’s words have no effect on him. He’s like a lump of wood standing there. “Daddy’s here.”

Above the crib hangs a mobile of small animals. Pushing one with his finger, John makes them spin. The kid wails louder. John grabs the animals to stop them. The mobile pulls free from its mooring and lands in the crib. The kid screams like he’s dying. John tosses the mobile onto the vanity. A Vaseline jar is knocked to the floor. The kid hollers, “Mommy!”

John didn’t know he could talk. Part of him is elated. He leans into the crib and gushes, “I’m Daddy. Can you say Daddy?”

The kid looks mortified.

He hates me, thinks John. Already he’s decided. Probably thinks I abandoned him. Or he knows I’m evil inside. Can see right into my soul. Christ, he tells himself, he ain’t a year old. How can he know anything? Why won’t he stop crying, though. What would Moira do? Pick him up, maybe? He reaches down, puts his arms beneath Nolan’s back. He lifts him. The boy goes completely still. A moment later, he lets out such a scream John nearly drops him. “What’s the matter?” he asks, in a panicked voice that petrifies both of them. “Did I hurt you? Did someone else? For Christ sake. Show me where!”