Long Made Short by Stephen Dixon Page B

circles—right?” “You’re asking me?” “Bead, a bead,
     or maybe it’s ‘draw a bead,’ but like you’re aiming.” “The beads I know are little
     stones and ornaments around the neck and droplets and so on. Of sweat. I still can’t
     believe what you did though.” “Neither can I. I aimed my finger at it—like this,”
     and he pointed his finger at her, “and then when it seemed to be closest to me and
     my hand wasn’t shaking so much, I fired. Bang-bang. I didn’t pull any trigger, though,
     meaning, use another finger as if I were pulling one.” He still had his finger on
     her. “Maybe I should move it away from you just to be safe.” “Don’t be silly. We both
     are. It was a coincidence. The crow died of a heart attack, but not one brought on
     by you, or something like that when you pretended to shoot it. Pull it if you want.
     Shoot it. Go bang-bang, even bang-bang-bang. Three shots for the price of two. Suddenly
     today I’m feeling very brave.” “Bang-bang,” he said. Her face got distorted, hands
     sort of stiffened into claws, and she fell to the ground. “Darling,” he said and got
     on his knees. Her eyes were closed. She was on her side, and he put his ear to her
     chest, moved it around above her breasts, her back about where he thought her heart
     would be behind, then her nose and mouth. He didn’t hear or feel anything. He did
     it again: chest, back, nose and mouth, and then put his mouth on hers, kept her mouth
     open with his hands, and breathed into it, took his mouth away, took in a mouthful
     of air, breathed into her again, pulled away. “Oh Christ, what have I done? What have
     I done, goddamnit?” he screamed out. He stood, forced his fist into his palm, screamed
     “What the hell have I done? I’ve killed my wife. It can’t be so.” Got on the ground,
     listened to her chest, mouth, put his hand on her neck where he thought her pulse
     might be, was none, felt around her neck and temples, didn’t try her wrist because
     he was never able to find it there, turned her over on her stomach, straddled her,
     did what he thought was the thing to do to get someone breathing again. Pushed down
     with his hands, sat up, pushed, sat up. Lay down next to her and put his ear to her
     mouth; turned her over and put his ear where he thought her heart was. Nothing. He
     pointed his finger and pressed it into his forehead. “Bang-bang,” he said. “Bang-bang.
     Bang-bang.” I’m not shot, he thought. Not even hurt. “Come on, sweetheart, you got
     to be kidding.” He sat her up, held her while he listened to where he thought her
     heart was. Thought he heard something. Touched her neck. He felt something. Forced
     her eyes open. They looked alive. She smiled. “You,” he said, “you nearly gave me a heart attack there.” “You’d kill yourself for me?
     I peeked. Oh my dearest,” and she hugged him. “Yes I would,” he said. “I was so full
     of guilt and everything else. Sadness. I suddenly believed…well, who wouldn’t after
     he shot that bird down? The bird,” and he stood up, helped her up and ran to where
     the crow had landed.
    It was still there. “I don’t want to put my head near its heart or beak, for those
     things can bite. No wonder I hit it. Look at its size.” “Kick it,” she said, walking
     over. “You mean nudge it with my foot. Okay. But if it jumps it’s going to startle
     me.” He touched it with the tip of his shoe, then jabbed it. The crow moved but didn’t
     seem alive. “Think it’s alive but just pretending?” he said. “I wouldn’t doubt it—Seriously,”
     she said, “I don’t think so. I think it got that heart attack or the cerebral equal
     of one—a flying stroke or something winged animals get only when they’re flying, and
     not particularly when people below are shooting their fingers at them, but that’s
     all. Your bang-bang and its fatal heart failure or stroke are only coincidental, one