Exit Wound

On December 22, 1983, Jarvis Meriwether made his way on foot to Craw County Hospital on the iciest night of the year. Craw County didn’t see much in the emergency room except broken bones and heart attacks. But tonight, Jarvis was bringing them a gun shot wound. The bullet had entered his hamstring and exited his quadricep. He could feel the blood in his socks, his flat foot sucking the wetness each time he took a step. He’d tried experimenting with bending his knee, but that had been a mistake. The blood pulsed out each time he bore weight on the leg. His hands shook. Sweat rolled down his back, tears from his eyes, snot from his nose. He dragged his forearm across his face and let the worn flannel absorb the wetness.

He looked up to find the moon. He felt like if he could just put his eyes on it he’d be okay. After a moment he found it behind him, hanging full but dull, circled with a halo of light, a bull’s eye in the night sky. Jarvis struggled past a speed limit sign, broke off an icicle and stuck it in his mouth.

Darlene hadn’t meant to. He’d come up on her hard and fast, sure, but she was a good woman, a little stupid, but not mean. But there was no space to contemplate his wife’s stupidity or blame. The freezing air and the loss of blood were making it harder to will his muscles into action and he had a few blocks left to go yet. No cars were on the road. The ice had left the small town empty and silent except for Jarvis’ grunting that pushed the air from his mouth, white and frosty, in great, burdened puffs. A few inches above his knee, the wound wept warm blood. A shocked circle of bloody denim tendrils reached out into the bitter air and just where the surface rounded, began to freeze.

Surely, Darlene hadn’t known. She wasn’t that good a shot. He’d started to run at her, to try and scare her a little, and she’d fired a gun he hadn’t even known she was holding. She shouted something loud and broken Jarvis couldn’t make out and slammed the door, leaving him in the front yard, thrown flat on his ass. What he felt first, before the bullet, was a whisper of pride, maybe even excitement, that his wife had actually pulled the trigger. That was the kind of woman he wanted. When he realized he’d been hit, he said to the night, “She shot me.”

Eventually he reached Craw County Hospital, stumbled through the automatic doors of the hospital and let the push of heated air move over his wet, aching body. Jarvis closed his eyes as the bright, lavender-white light took him. A gurney, a needle, scissors at his jeans, oxygen mask, tugging, pulling. He slipped into the timeless float of anesthesia and saw Darlene’s face. The spots on her irises, the baby-soft skin of her earlobes. He felt her hands, the brittle, ridged nails running over his lower back, her mouth sucking his upper lip.

When he woke mid-morning he saw Darlene’s face in every nurse that came to check his IV and clean and dress the leaking wound. He called out to one, tried to reach a hand out to grab her. She puts his hand on the bed firmly, covered it with the blanket, then moved on to his moaning roommate. Jarvis slipped again into the darkroom of morphine-inspired unconsciousness, dreaming in red and black.

He awakened and looked outside. The snow was beginning to melt. The sun was high in the sky. He will go home today. He will kiss her soft earlobes, hold her freckled hands. He will kiss away the tears of regret. He will take her back. She’s not a monster after all. His sons will come running; he will catch them up, fall onto the couch. They will climb up his leg; Darlene will tell them to be careful, laughing. They will eat a meal together as a family, maybe fried chicken. She will bring him the frosty beer he’s been dreaming about. Darlene will put the boys to bed, then they will fall into bed themselves, tired and happy. She will be timid, afraid to touch him, but he will reassure her. It will be brand new. She will stroke his forehead, change the dressing clumsily, bring him pain medicine, and they will fall into a deep sleep wrapped up in one another; limbs, hair, breath. Yes, he can see it now. He is going home.

Darlene packed everything she could force into the dying station wagon. She will drive until the children are begging her to stop. Until she’s so exhausted she considers a stopping at a dirty diner, ordering French fries and orange juice, and then leaving them there. She will drive until she runs out of road or money, whichever happens first.