Nineteen Minutes Read online

  A puff of white powder flew into his face.

  He coughed and shook his head. It figured; Joey had been lying.

  Idly, Peter opened up the sugar canister beside it and found himself staring down at a 9-millimeter semiautomatic.

  It was a Glock 17--probably the same one Mr. Weatherhall had carried as a policeman. Peter knew this because he knew about guns--he'd grown up with them. But there was a difference between a hunting rifle or a shotgun and this neat and compact weapon. His father said that anyone who wasn't in active law enforcement and kept a handgun was an idiot; it was more likely to do damage than protect you. The problem with a handgun was that the muzzle was so short that you forgot about holding it away from you for safety's sake; aiming was as simple and nonchalant as pointing your finger.

  Peter touched it. Cold; smooth. Mesmerizing. He brushed the trigger, cupping his hand around the gun; that slight, sleek weight.

  Footsteps.

  Peter jammed the cover back on the canister and whipped around, folding his arms in front of himself. Mr. Weatherhall appeared at the top of the stairs, cradling a red gas can. "All set," he said. "Bring it back full."

  "I will," Peter replied. He left the kitchen and did not look in the general direction of the canister, although it was what he wanted to do, more than anything.

  *

  After school, Matt arrived with chicken soup from a local restaurant and comic books. "What are you doing out of bed?" he asked.

  "You rang the doorbell," Josie said. "I had to answer it, didn't I?"

  He fussed over her as if she had mono or cancer, not just a virus, which is what she'd told him when he called her on his cell from school that morning. Tucking her back into bed, he settled her with the soup in her lap. "This is supposed to cure, like, anything, right?"

  "What about the comics?"

  Matt shrugged. "My mom used to get those for me when I was little and stayed home sick. I don't know. They always sort of made me feel better."

  As he sat down beside her on the bed, Josie picked up one of the comics. Why was Wonder Woman always so bodacious? If you were a 38DD, would you honestly go leaping off buildings and fighting crime without a good jogging bra?

  Thinking of that reminded Josie that she could barely put on her own bra these days, her breasts were so tender. And that made her recall the pregnancy test that she'd wrapped up in paper towels and thrown away outside in the garbage can so her mother wouldn't find it.

  "Drew's planning a shindig this Friday night," Matt said. "His parents are going to Foxwoods for the weekend." Matt frowned. "I hope you're feeling better by then, so you can go. What do you think you've got, anyway?"

  She turned to him and took a deep breath. "It's what I don't have. My period. I'm two weeks late. I took a pregnancy test today."

  "He's already talked to some guy at Sterling College about buying a couple of kegs from a frat. I'm telling you, this party will be off the hook."

  "Did you hear me?"

  Matt smiled at her the way you'd indulge a child who just told you the sky is falling. "I think you're overreacting."

  "It was positive."

  "Stress can do that."

  Josie's jaw dropped. "And what if it's not stress? What if it's, you know, real?"

  "Then we're in it together." Matt leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Baby," he said, "you could never get rid of me."

  *

  A few days later, when it snowed, Peter deliberately drained the snow blower of its gas, and then walked across the street to Mr. Weatherhall's house.

  "Don't tell me you ran out again," he said as he opened the door.

  "I guess my dad didn't get around to filling up our spare tank yet," Peter replied.

  "Gotta make time," Mr. Weatherhall said, but he was already moving into his house, leaving the door wide so Peter could follow. "Gotta stick to a schedule, that's how it's done."

  As they passed the television, Peter glanced at the cast of the Match Game. "Big Bertha is so big," Gene Rayburn was saying, "that instead of skydiving with a parachute, she uses a blank."

  The moment Mr. Weatherhall disappeared downstairs, Peter opened the sugar canister on the kitchen counter. The gun was still inside. Peter reached for it and reminded himself to breathe.

  He covered the canister and put it back exactly where it had been. Then he took the gun and jammed it, nose first, into the waistband of his jeans. His down jacket billowed over the front, so you couldn't see a bulge at all.

  He gingerly slid open the silverware drawer, peeked in the cabinets. It was when he ran his hand along the dusty top of the refrigerator that he felt the smooth body of a second handgun.

  "You know, it's wise to keep a spare tank . . ." Mr. Weatherhall's voice floated from the bottom of the basement stairs, accompanied by the percussion of his footsteps. Peter let go of the gun, snapped his hands back to his sides.

  He was sweating by the time Mr. Weatherhall walked into the kitchen. "You all right?" he asked, peering at Peter. "You look a little white around the gills."

  "I stayed up late doing homework. Thanks for the gas. Again."

  "You tell your dad I'm not bailing him out next time," Mr. Weatherhall said, and he waved Peter off from the porch.

  Peter waited until Mr. Weatherhall had closed the door, and then he started to run, kicking up snow in his wake. He left the gas can next to the snow blower and burst into his house. He locked his bedroom door, took the gun from his pants, and sat down.

  It was black and heavy crafted out of alloyed steel. What was really surprising was how fake the Glock looked--like a kid's toy gun--although Peter supposed he ought to be marveling instead at how realistic the toy guns actually were. He racked the slide and released it. He ejected the magazine.

  He closed his eyes and held the gun up to his head. "Bang," he whispered.

  Then he set the gun on his bed and pulled off one of his pillowcases. He wrapped the Glock inside it, rolling it up like a bandage. He slipped the gun between his mattress and his box spring and lay down.

  It would be like that fairy tale, the one with the princess who could feel a bean or a pea or whatever. Except Peter wasn't a prince, and the lump wouldn't keep him up at night.

  In fact, it might make him sleep better.

  *

  In Josie's dream, she was standing in the most beautiful tepee. The walls were made of buttery deerskin, sewed tight with golden thread. Stories had been painted all around her in shades of red, ochre, violet, and blue--tales of hunts and loves and losses. Rich buffalo skins were piled high for cushions; coals glowed like rubies in the firepit. When she looked up, she could see stars falling through the smoke hole.

  Suddenly Josie realized that her feet were sliding; worse, that there was no way to stop this. She glanced down and saw only sky; wondered whether she'd been silly enough to believe she could walk among the clouds, or if the ground beneath her feet had disappeared when she looked away.

  She started to fall. She could feel herself tumbling head over heels; felt the skirt she was wearing balloon and the wind rush between her legs. She didn't want to open her eyes, but she couldn't help peeking: the ground was rushing up at an alarming pace, postage-stamp squares of green and brown and blue that grew larger, more detailed, more realistic.

  There was her school. Her house. The roof over her bedroom. Josie felt herself hurtle toward it and she steeled herself for the inevitable crash. But you never hit the ground in your dreams; you never get to see yourself die. Instead, Josie felt herself splash, her clothes billowing like the sails of a jellyfish as she treaded warm water.

  She woke up, breathless, and realized that she still felt wet. She sat up, lifted up the covers, and saw the pool of blood beneath her.

  After three positive pregnancy tests, after her period was three weeks late--she was miscarrying.

  Thankgodthankgodthankgod. Josie buried her face in the sheets and started to cry.

  *

  Lewis was sitting