The Times Are Never So Bad by Andre Dubus Page B

the sun is behind me, getting near the treetops across the lake. I’m wearing gym shorts and nothing else. I open the cooler and drop in the empty and take another; I know what my body looks like, with a sweat glisten and muscles moving while I shift in the chair to pull a beer out of the ice, while I open it, while I hold it up to him as he stops spread-legged in front of me.
    â€˜Want a beer, John?’
    I don’t know what pisses him off most, the beer or John; his chest starts working with his breath, then he slaps the can and it rolls foaming on the wharf, stops at the space between two boards.
    â€˜You don’t like Miller,’ I say. ‘I think I got a Bud in there.’
    He unsnaps his nightstick, moves it from his left hand to his right, then lowers it, holding it down at arm’s length, gripping it hard and resting its end in his left hand. This time I don’t shift: I watch his eyes and pull the cooler to me and reach down through the ice and water. I open the beer and take a long swallow.
    â€˜ Asshole ,’ he says. ‘You want to rape somebody, ass hole? You want to set fucking fires? ’
    I watch his eyes. At the bottom of my vision I see the stick moving up and down, tapping his left hand. I lower the beer to the wharf and his eyes go with it, just a glance, his head twitching left and down; I grab the stick with my left hand and let the beer drop and get my right on it too. He holds on and I pull myself out of the chair, looking up at his eyes and pushing the stick down. My chest is close to his; we stand there holding the stick.
    â€˜What’s the gun for, John?’ I’ve got an overhand grip; I work my wrists up and down, turning the stick, and his face gets red as he holds on. I don’t stop. ‘You want to waste me, John? Huh? Go for it.’
    I’m pumping: I can raise and lower the stick and his arms and shoulders till the sun goes down, and now he knows it and he knows I know it; he is sweating and his teeth are clenched and his face is very red with the sun on it. All at once I know I will not hurt him; this comes as fast as laughing, is like laughing.
    â€˜Go for the gun, John. And they’ll cut it out of your ass.’ I walk him backward a few steps, just to watch him keep his balance. ‘They can take Polly’s nose out too.’
    â€˜Fucker,’ he says through his teeth.
    â€˜Yes I did, John. Lots of times. On the first date too. Did she tell you that?’ He tries to shove me back and lift the stick; all he does is strain. ‘It wasn’t a date, even. I came in from fishing, and there she was, drinking at Michael’s. We went to her place and fucked, and know what she said? After? She said, Once you get the clothes off, the rest is easy. Now what the fuck does that mean, John? What does that mean? ’
    I’m ahead of him again. Before he gets to the gun my left hand is on it; I swing the stick up above my head, his left hand still on it; I unsnap the holster and start lifting the gun up against his hand pressing down; it comes slowly but it never stops, and his elbow bends as his hand goes up his ribs. When the gun clears the holster he shifts his grip, grabs it at the cylinder, but his fingers slip off and claw air as I throw it backward over my shoulder and grab his wrist before the gun splashes. I lift the stick as high as I can. He still has some reach, so I jerk it down and free, and throw it with a backhand sidearm into the lake. He is panting. I am too, but I shut my mouth on it.
    â€˜Go home, John.’
    â€˜You leave her alone.’
    He is breathing so hard and is so red that I get a picture of him on his back on the wharf and I’m breathing into his mouth.
    â€˜Go get some dinner, John.’
    â€˜You—’ Then he has to cough; it nearly doubles him over, and he turns to the railing and holds it, leans over it, and hacks up a lunger. I turn away and pick up the beer I