He could smell her and hear her breathing, but he couldn’t see her from the doorway. The room was dark, and it smelled as if she had pissed the bed. Wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. He didn’t even like coming in here. He loved his mom, as all boys do, but she loved pills more than she loved him—than she loved anything.
He waited on the threshold for a few minutes, waiting to hear her breathing change, or for her to roll over in bed. When she didn’t, he sighed. It would be easier to say fuck you than goodbye. This way he could just get what he’d come for and leave.
It was in the closet.
Even Alan knew that the closet was a stupid place to hide something valuable. It was the first place a smart thief would look. But people hid things there anyway. His mom had probably forgotten she had put it there.
He walked through the bathroom and stepped onto the thick pile carpet of the walk-in closet. He pulled the door shut before he turned on the lights. On either side, all the way back, were dresses. Tommats had bought them for Alan’s mother. They were beautiful, but she never wore them anymore. She never did much of anything, except swallow pills and go to sleep.
Uncle Tommats used to come around to visit. Checkin’ up on his nephew, he would say. But then he would take his nephew’s mother into the bedroom. Alan knew what was going on. One of those times, Tommats had been drunk. And he’d left it behind.
Alan found it in a shoebox in the far back corner of the closet, under a pile of hangers.
It was heavy and black and ugly. It had a snub nose and a huge cylinder. The bullets were so big there were only five of them. He cocked the hammer back with his thumb. Then he worked the pistol with both hands, pulling the trigger and letting the hammer down slowly. The force with which that hammer wanted to snap back into place scared him. The hammer felt eager, hungry. What if he let it slip?
He put the pistol into his waistband as he had seen people do in the movies and on TV. Before he could even get out of the closet, it fell out on the carpet, landing with a muffled thud. He put it in his pocket, shut off the light, and opened the door.
Alan was certain that he hadn’t made a sound. But as he crossed the bedroom, his mother moaned and tossed in the bed. He saw her open her bloodshot eyes. She blinked hard and opened her eyes wide, struggling to see. It was her, thought Alan. It was his mom. She was going to ask him what he was doing. She was going to tell him not to go, because she loved him.
But when she spoke, she asked, “Tommy, is that you? Did you bring the pills?”
Alan left without answering.