Member Poem

Certain Habits
Steven Wittenberg Gordon
 
Caroline’s living room.
Something wrong. 
My six-shooter drawn.
A deep voice
from the direction
of one of the pair
of high-backed chairs
that faced the fireplace.
 
You won’t be needing that, detective.
I’ve been expecting you. 
Have a seat by the fire with me.
 
I was cocky.
 
“Why don’t you stand up real slow
with your hands in the air
before I pump you full of lead.”
 
Suddenly flat on my back.
The pale man over me. 
My right arm pinned at the wrist
by one of his feet.
The other at my throat.
 
I have no quarrel with you, detective,
but I will end your life right now
if you give me further cause. 
Give me your word that you won’t persist
in further futile efforts
to apprehend me,
and I will let you go. 
We may then have a seat by the fire
and converse in a civilized manner.
 
The strong recoil of my gun.
My shooting arm freed.
The pale man shaken.
The foot at my throat weakened. 
My gun brought to bear. 
The pale man’s surprised expression.
 
“You want to have a conversation?  Fine! 
We can have a nice long chat.  
But if you move anything other than
those pale, bloodless lips of yours, I’ll shoot. 
Now, what have you done with Caroline?”
 
Miss Chase is safe, detective. 
She left with me voluntarily
and is under my protection. 
I returned here to her home
and waited for you at her insistence. 
She has confessed that she once had
certain, ah, feelings for you,
and believes that she owes you
an explanation for her recent erratic behavior. 
Oh, yes, and she wanted me to tell you
that your services on her behalf
will no longer be required.
 
“There’s no way Caroline
went anywhere with you
of her own free will. 
What have you done with her?”
 
I have not done anything with her, detective,
except to convince her to accompany me
on the journey of a lifetime,
an offer to which she readily and enthusiastically agreed. 
Is that too much for you to believe, detective?
 
“Damn straight it’s too much. 
Caroline’s whole world is here in this town. 
She’d never leave her school children without a teacher
or leave her ailing mother to the care of strangers. 
When she came to my office last week,
she was genuinely afraid for her life.
A life she cherishes.
Her life here. 
She’d never run off with the likes of you. 
So, for the last time,
what have you done with her? 
Answer me true,
or I’ll fill you full of holes.”
 
“Please don’t, John,” said a female voice
behind the door to an adjoining room. 
The door opened.
 
“Caroline!  Thank God! 
I have the situation under control. 
Your ordeal is over. 
Come here and get behind me.”
 
Instead she
moved between
the pale man and me.
 
“Caroline!  What are you doing? 
Get over here behind me!”
 
How pale she!
Almost as pale as the pale man. 
 
“Oh, Caroline! 
What has he done to you?”
 
Nothing that she did not ask me to do.
Caroline is one of my kind now,
as you can plainly see. 
Accept it and move on, detective. 
In life, she admired you,
perhaps even loved you,
and it is in honor of her request
that I am allowing you to live. 
But do not try my patience further.
 
My revolver emptied
into my client.
The bullets through her
pale face and neck
into the upper chest
of the pale man behind her.
The force of the bullets
a distraction. 
My gun spent.
The Bowie knife from my boot sheath.
Deep into Caroline’s heart. 
Her eyes.
A faint glow of relief in them.
Then darkness.
Forever.
Then ash. 
 
My momentum.
The pale man.
My knife in his chest
but well below the heart.  
On the floor now.
Over and over. 
His heart nicked.
Alone on my back.
Covered with ash.
The dripping blood.
The puncture wounds in my neck.
A fleetingly thought about
my Bowie knife
ancient Roman style.
Then darkness.
Forever.
But not ash.
My skin sickly pale and cold.
My heart still. 
 
“That was over four hundred years ago. 
Since then, I traded in my old six-shooter
for a phaser pistol. 
But I still wear cowboy boots
and keep my Bowie knife in one of them. 
Certain habits,
like certain clients,
are hard to forget, I guess.”