Visitations by Jonas Saul Page A

says.
     
    Now what do I do? I don’t want to get shot. For my leaves, for my Honey-Locust leaves, I get to my knees.
     
    “All the way. To your stomach.”
     
    I refuse to talk so I shake my head back and forth.
     
    The strange man raises the gun to his eye and points it at me. We’re in a long hallway, the living room opening to my right and I think he might shoot me.
     
    “I said all the way down.”
     
    I shake my head again.
     
    I hear footsteps behind me. For fear of being shot, I don’t move. I want to turn around, but I don’t want a bullet for it.
     
    “I thought I told you to get outside and stay outside,” he says.
     
    “I know, but I can’t leave you alone.” It’s the woman’s voice. “What if you needed my help?”
     
    “I don’t need no help. I was just getting him to the ground so as to tie him up until the police get here.”
     
    “He don’t look like he’s on the ground. He’s only on his knees.”
     
    “I was working on it. Now let me do this.”
     
    The long gun takes up its position, aimed at me again. I push off the wall on my left and dive for the dirty rug on the floor of the living room.
     
    A loud boom echoes in the house. My hearing disappears. I race my hands over my body. No blood. No wounds.
     
    I scramble to my feet as my hearing ebbs back. But all I hear is screaming. A woman screaming.
     
    She was directly behind me in the hallway. The gun went off. I wasn’t there to get hit. She got hit.
     
    The strange man is a blur as he runs by the living room alcove. I peek around the corner. He’s on the floor, holding the woman’s foot. It looks like an ankle wound. She’ll live.
     
    I bolt for the kitchen. My field press is waiting. I carefully wrap a string around the newspaper like a present and pick it up. When I peek into the hallway, the man has set the gun down. He’s got a cloth of some kind. I can see he’s applying pressure to the wound.
     
    I hate her screams. I have to leave. In three steps I’m in the laundry room. I unlock the deadbolt and step out into the early evening air.
     
    A voice comes through the air at me from all sides.
     
    “WE HEARD A GUNSHOT! IS EVERYONE OKAY IN THERE?”
     
    It sounds like one of those handheld metal things cops use to make their voices loud.
     
    “WE’VE GOT THE PLACE SURROUNDED. WE WANT TO TALK!”
     
    I look left and right. I don’t see anybody. I drop my shoulders and start for the trees. Maybe they won’t see me.
     
    I’ve done nothing wrong. I helped a man back to his house. This is all a bad case of mistakes.
     
    I’m only thirty yards from the trees. I’m going to make it. I feel great.
     
    “Hey, you there, freeze!”
     
    I hate it when people yell at me. I always run when people yell.
     
    “STOP! POLICE! I’LL SHOOT!”
     
    I run hard. I didn’t run hard enough when the boys came to put boots to my head all those years ago. The trees are steps away. Shelter, security, and comfort await me.
     
    I can hear the trees calling my name.
     
    Serenity can be found in the strangest of places, the oddest times. I thought of the many journeys I’ve had in forests just like the one I’m entering. How many times I’ve sat and stared at the sky while having lunch. How many times I’ve fallen asleep in a bed of grass and soft leaves.
     
    Ohhh, the leaves. How I love leaves.
     
    My arm doesn’t hurt anymore. I feel whole. When I sit up, I’m surprised at how fast I’m standing. It was like I stood with the effort of a thought.
     
    I see my satchel on the ground. I see the umbrella too. It’s still attached to the side of a man the police officers are surrounding.
     
    One of the cops is using both hands to push my chest. They’ve holstered their weapons. They must have shot me.
     
    The field press sits by itself a few feet from my body. I’m standing by it now. My fingers try to touch the Honey-Locust leaves before they’re blown away in the breeze.
     
    They tumble from me. My