111

"There are things I need to tell you," Jack says later, when he and Sam are alone. "About Charlie, and how he died."

"Jack, you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"Yes, I do. Because it's been eating at me for too long. And I'm afraid of what it's doing to me." He runs a hand through his hair, and then reaches out and takes her hand in his. "This is stuff I've never told anybody."

"I'm right here."

"No matter what? It isn't pretty."

"No matter what," she says, closing both hands around his. "I promise... I'm not going anywhere."

He is quiet for a time, gathering his courage. "Sara hated the idea of the gun in the house," he begins at last. "But I insisted, saying we needed it for protection, in case... just in case... I don't know why she didn't get rid of it while I was gone... I'm not blaming her!" he says quickly, in alarm, hearing how that sounds. "It was not her fault, not at all. It's all on me... all my fault... I was convinced that she and Charlie would be safer with protection. She knew how to shoot—we'd done a lot of target shooting in the past. None of it was her fault.

"I'd been home on leave for three days. The mission had gone perfectly, for once, so I got back sooner than I'd expected. It was a sunny summer day. August the seventh. Sara was going to the store to get milk—we were almost out. I followed her out the front door, and was teasing her about not being prepared... I don't know. We stood there in the driveway talking for a few minutes. We were planning to go to the lake for the weekend and we were trying to think if there was anything else we needed from the store... I kissed her and she made a joke about something, and started to get in the car, and that's when we heard the shot..." His hand tightens on Sam's.

"I reacted like I would on the battlefield. I ran, headed for the front door... It couldn't have taken more than a few seconds—opening the door, climbing the stairs. And then I was in our bedroom, and there was Charlie lying there... and blood.

"I was on the floor beside him, trying to stop the bleeding, and Sara was at the door and I screamed at her to call 911...

"There was so much blood. How could such a small body have so much blood in it... I tried to stop the bleeding... I don't know how long I was there on the floor with him. But then the paramedics were there and they shoved me aside...

"I begged them to save him...

"I remember Sara sobbing. She screamed at me and called me a murderer. I was just praying that he would live. But I already knew it was too late—there was just too much blood..." He drops his head and stops talking for a while. Sam's hand feels as if it will break in two. Jack's face is tortured with memory, and tears are on his cheeks.

"I had brought the gun home on the leave before that, two months earlier," he resumes finally. "Charlie was curious right away. He wanted to see it, and when I held it up to show him, of course he wanted to touch it. I didn't let him. I took it away—said it wasn't a toy, it wasn't for him to touch. I put it in the case and set it on the top shelf in my bedroom closet. He shocked me then...he threw a tantrum—one of the few I ever saw him have.

"Sara used to say he had them when he was two or three. You kind of expect it then. Terrible twos, you know. I mean, a kid thinks they're the center of the universe, after all. If they don't get what they want—they scream and holler and let you know how unhappy they are. Sara said Charlie was no different than any other kid. When he wanted something, he wanted it—end of story as far as he was concerned. She dealt with them—however she did it, and laughed about it for the most part, so I figured they couldn't have been so bad.

"But I never saw much of that behavior. I wasn't home a lot, and when I was she would say he was so happy to see me, he would be good the whole time. We played a lot when I was at home—he and I were always together, so I guess he didn't get much chance to be unhappy. Sara said he was upset and misbehaved for days every time I left—but she never dwelt on it so I guess I didn't think much about it.

"Anyway, the little upsets I saw him have were easy to solve. But she said I spoiled him. Don't always give in to him, she said. Because someday you're not going to be able to give him whatever it is he wants.

"It was June when I came home and brought the gun with me. He was seven, almost eight—way past the tantrum stage, I figured. I mean, eight years old—

"His birthday was just three weeks away. He was a big boy. Too old for tantrums—old enough to understand why he couldn't..." His voice breaks, and Sam clings tightly to his hand. After a little while, he goes on.

"He absolutely blew a gasket—screamed and yelled at me... and I kept saying no. Finally I yelled back at him... I... grabbed his arm, and he hit me with his fist. I picked him up, kicking and screaming, and took him into his room... told him he had to stay there until he could behave... I had to lock the door to keep him in... God. I locked him in his room..." Jack closes his eyes. "I locked my son in his room," he whispers. Sam holds on. "I stood out in the hall, and waited for him to say I'm sorry, I want to come out, Daddy... But, he never did. He...started throwing things... bouncing stuff off the walls... broke a couple of things... finally he started sobbing... eventually he got quiet, and fell asleep... I stayed out of the room the whole time because I was furious..." He tries to pull away from Sam, but she won't let him go.

"I was so angry... and shocked that he would behave like that. I never told Sara about it. She wasn't home—she'd gone somewhere for the afternoon. I went in and cleaned up his room while he was asleep—got rid of the broken stuff. Charlie was okay when he woke up, a little quiet that night at supper. But the next day he was back to normal. I never told her about it. I don't know why not... and I've regretted it—God! I've regretted it! If I'd told her, I'm sure she'd have made me take the gun away—or taken it away herself if I wouldn't..."

He turns and faces her. "You see, Sam, I really believed we needed the gun—I thought Sara should have it in the house for protection. She said she'd never use it—but I still insisted...

"If I'd told her about the tantrum, Charlie wouldn't have died..." He is crying now, holding onto Sam's hand, but when she tries to put her arms around him, he moves away, shaking his head, unwilling to accept her comfort. It is several minutes before he can speak again.

"I talked to Charlie later—about the gun—I had no idea what to say about the tantrum, so I didn't say anything at all. I told him again that he was not allowed to handle it, that it wasn't a toy... and he agreed. He promised never to touch it. Asked me if someday I'd teach him to shoot— Shit! He sounded so perfectly okay about it that I even began to think I'd imagined the entire incident—or exaggerated it in my head! But I didn't.

"By the time I left on the next assignment, three weeks later, I had practically put the whole thing out of my mind. There was no problem. Charlie was back to normal...

"But he was lying to me. Or maybe not lying exactly—just saying what I wanted to hear. He really, really wanted to handle that gun, and that was more powerful than any promise he gave me. I didn't understand—I didn't understand at all... I'd forgotten what it's like to be a kid... how you can want something so bad that nothing else matters! We forget that after we grow up...

"After... afterwards, I found bullets hidden in his room... After he'd... after it happened. I'm sure he'd climbed up into that closet and gotten it down more than once before that last day... played with it. Played with the shells... unloaded and loaded the gun... maybe lots of times, who knows... It's what I would have done when I was his age—and God help me, I never even considered that... it's what I would've done..." His voice trails off. The silence lasts for several minutes.

When he speaks again, it is barely audible. Sam has to move closer in order to hear. "On that day Sara and I weren't out of the house more than a few minutes before... before we heard the shot... He didn't just climb up there and figure it all out that quickly for the first time. He'd done it before..."

He lays his head back on the couch, no longer even trying to wipe away the tears. "I didn't tell Sara that either... about thinking he'd done it before... it was too late, then, anyway. I didn't say much of anything to her afterward... or to anyone else. I was too ashamed... too guilty." Jack stops talking then. He is motionless on the couch, staring into nothing. After a while he closes his eyes.

Sam is stunned. She has no idea what to do with the pain he has shared with her. At last she has an inkling of how deep his feelings of guilt go, and it is overwhelming. She does not know how to help him. There is nothing she can think of to say that will ease pain like this. Finally, she crawls up as close as she can to him, her body against his, with her head under his chin, her arms around him, and simply holds him as tightly as she can.

After a while, she can tell he has fallen asleep, but she does not move away, simply tucks herself in closer to his body, and closes her eyes. Her slight shifting makes him stir and he turns toward her and wraps his arms around her. It is a long time before Sam sleeps.