When the playwright’s mother pulled a gun from her purse, Kenneth assumed she was joking. It was just another absurdity on top of the first absurdity that this was the playwright’s mother. It must be a toy or a stage prop or maybe even licorice. It was black like licorice. Would a white woman even carry a gun? She waved it at him as if it were nothing worse than a steam iron.
The first time the gun went off, Molly nearly jumped out of her skin. And then it went off again, which was damn embarrassing.
The first shot sounded no worse than a cap pistol to Kenneth’s untrained ear. Then he saw the woman’s face. She looked frightened, as if the gun were suddenly alive and out of her control. She seemed to grab for it, even though the gun never left her hand.
It went off again and something bit Kenneth’s arm: his right arm, the underside, between the wrist and the elbow.
Was he shot? Was that possible?
His arm stung, but not much worse than a bad insect bite or a cigarette burn. In fact, his coat sleeve bore a tiny rip like a cigarette burn. The worst physical pain Kenneth had ever experienced was a toothache. This wasn’t nearly as bad.
Not at first. But it grew, a white pain that became whiter, stronger. Kenneth decided to be a man and bear it in silence. But the pain became white hot. Until there was no possible response except to shout or cry something. And the first words to come to mind were: “Oh my God, I’ve been shot!”
And someone laughed. Kenneth actually heard some son of a bitch laughing.
Then another voice shouted, “Oh shit, he’s bleeding!”
Caleb was out on the terrace waiting to speak to Jessie and bring her inside when he heard the odd noises. Popping ballons? Firecrackers? He turned around and saw people facing the sofa, where his mother sat. He stepped through the door. He saw Molly sitting like a statue on the sofa with—Kenneth Prager? He recognized the long, lean critic from photos and television. What is he doing at my birthday party? He was clutching his right arm, which seemed to be bleeding. And Caleb’s mother held a small black revolver.
“Mom?”
He hurried over and knelt beside her. Without time to think it through, he heard himself say, “Mom? Just give me the gun. Please? Everything’s fine. Just give me the gun.”
She looked at him as if he were nuts talking to her in such an insipid tone. “Here. Take it. Please.”
He recognized their father’s old snub-nosed .38 from home. She handed it to him with the barrel pointed at the floor.
“Careful,” said Jessie, standing directly behind him. “You’ll get your fingerprints on it.”
“What? And get charged with murder instead of Mom?” Only this wasn’t murder, not yet. But Caleb didn’t know what to do with the gun. He kept it pointed at the floor, clicked the safety on, then snapped the cylinder out and began to pry out bullets.
Toby rushed into the room. “Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s been shot? Somebody. Quick. Dial 911.”
“I’m dialing it already!” Jessie snarled as she punched the beeping numbers of her cell phone.
“Here, let me look,” said Toby. “Good grief, you’re bleeding. You’re bleeding bad. Lie down. I know first aid. Lie down on the floor. Keep your arm up.”
Prager didn’t move. He stared at his coat sleeve, which was now wet and black, then he looked up and saw the audience.
People stood scattered around the room, watching, wondering, worrying, not knowing what to do.
Caleb handed the revolver and bullets to Jessie and came forward to help Toby ease Prager down to the floor.
“I don’t think it’s an artery,” said Toby. “So we don’t need a tourniquet. Direct pressure’ll do. We need some towels or cloths.”
He sounded a bit too sure of himself, falsely confident, like an actor overdoing a part, which worried Caleb. But Toby knew the part and nobody else did, so he let Toby take charge.
“Towels in the bathroom!” Caleb shouted. “Bring some towels.”
Frank Earp ran off to fetch towels.
Henry Lewse appeared. He sat on the sofa arm, leaned down, and set a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “There, there,” he told her. “There, there.” His trousers were marked up with black chalk or soot. He too seemed to be playing a part in a scene, and playing it well.
“They’re on their way,” said Jessie, closing up her cell phone. “They’re sending an ambulance from St. Vincent’s, but the cops’ll be here first. So what do we tell them?”
Caleb looked up again, first at Jessie, then at their mother.
Molly sat perfectly still, as calm as stone, watching the men at her feet. Her hands were locked in her lap, her left hand gripping her guilty right hand.
There was a blink of bright light, a camera flash. Cameron Ditchley stood across the room with a pocket-size digital camera.
Toby laid the man on his back. He pulled off the man’s jacket and passed it to Caleb. The man wore a white shirt. Suddenly his blood was bright red like paint. Toby took a deep breath—he was sure he would faint—but the swoony nausea passed. The moment took over, the action continued. He applied pressure to the flat of the arm with both hands, one on top of the other, like they’d taught him in the Boy Scouts in Milwaukee. The blood felt hot on his hands, then sticky. Then he was using towels, white terry cloth, and the blood became squishy.
“You’ll be okay,” he told the man. “You’ll be fine.”
The man had turned away, unable to look at his own blood. His face was candle-wax white. His five o’clock shadow looked like black pepper on his white skin. His head was raised. Caleb had rolled up the man’s jacket and set it under his neck.
Toby didn’t know if he was helping the man or hurting him. Maybe the wound was minor and would stop bleeding on its own. Or the man would bleed to death anyway. Toby didn’t know, yet there was nothing else for him to do but continue. He could only go through the motions and hope they were the right motions.
Here was Caleb beside him. What did Caleb think? But he was not doing this for Caleb. No. Caleb no longer counted. And here was Henry too, but Henry didn’t count either. His dick in Toby’s mouth was nothing compared to a gunshot wound. No, Toby was taking action solely for the sake of this poor man, this stranger. And for the experience. Toby was able to hold himself together, keep his panic under control by thinking, Remember this. Every sensory memory, thought, and emotion. You can use them all one day.