The Brutal Facts
February 13, 1998 (Friday the 13th)

Mary and I arose at Mom's and was dressed by the time we realized that it was Friday the 13th.  I laughed when I learned of it, and said, "This must be my lucky day!"  I have never had a superstitious bone in my body.  This makes me comfortable with darkness and things that go "bump" in the night.  Even though I am still not superstitious, Friday the 13th now makes me very sad.  This one was the first of three that we had in 1998.

COLUMBUS - 10:00 AM:  Mary and I say our good-byes to Mom, and set off for Riverside Hospital to await Christina's release.

AT HOME - 10:00 AM:  Larry talks with his dad for awhile outside in the driveway.  They talk about fire procedures for the fire department where they both are volunteers.  Larry leaves in his service van shortly after.

COLUMBUS - 11:00 AM:  Mary and I sit and talk with Christina about the operation.  She is all smiles, relieved that her suffering is over and that she will be released soon.  We help her get her things ready for the long three-hour trip ahead.  The drive back to Meigs County is a good two hour trip, but I know I will have to drive slowly and make a couple of stops, so I figure on three hours.

AT HOME - 11:00 AM:  Larry's dad looks out the window and sees that Larry's service van is back in the drive.  He is not alarmed.  Larry often works at home assembling the electronic systems that he will later install.

COLUMBUS - 12:00 Noon:  The hospital wants to wait until Christina is strong enough to make the trip home.  Mary and I go down to the gift shop and buy Valentine Candy for Alexis, my granddaughter, while Christina eats her lunch.  Valentine's Day is tomorrow.

AT HOME - 12:00 Noon:  Larry's dad goes down the steep driveway and gets his mail along with our mail.  He brings our mail over and knocks on the door.  There is no answer.  He opens the storm door and places our mail between the storm door and the inside door.  He doesn't realize that Larry is not in the house.

Sometime before noon, Larry had already taken off his tools, his pager, and flashlight which he carried on his belt.  He laid them on the night stand in our bedroom.  He took all of the money out of his wallet, and laid it on the kitchen table, and then put his wallet back into his pocket.  He removed his Llama 45 automatic from the computer desk drawer.  He found the clip I kept hidden among our computer books. He pulled his Carhartt coveralls over his work uniform. He put our dog, Dingo, in the basement.

 He walked toward the winter mud of the (now empty) pasture.  He passed the two bales of uneaten hay that still lay where he had thrown them, the two buckets of uneaten grain.  He half-walks, half-slides down a muddy hill beside the barn.  He makes his way across a sodden valley, and then starts up another hill to a 10-acre piece of flat pasture-land.  He walks the entire length of the 10 acres until he gets to the rear fence.

Is the gun swinging in his hand the entire way?  I will never know.  It probably was.  A 45 automatic is a large gun, a little too large to carry in a pocket.  The pasture is very secluded, lots of trees, no chance of being seen.  Larry crosses the fence and starts down the almost vertical hillside.  He finds a double-trunked tree and sits down on the cold ground, with his left shoulder braced against it; his feet stretched out in front of him.

COLUMBUS - 1:00 PM:  Mary, Christina, and I sit and talk while waiting for word that she can go home.  Christina is still connected to an IV.  Pain medication has been ordered to make her more comfortable on the ride home.

AT HOME - 1:00 PM:  The service van still sits in the driveway.  The mail still lies between the doors.  Larry is still sitting on the cold ground, beneath the knurled lifeless tree limbs of Winter.  The temperature is 40 degrees.  From his barren perch, he can view the creek, far below, and the small hayfield beyond, where we have toiled so often, cooling ourselves in the creek.  He can see State Route 248 winding around the hayfield.  He is smoking a cigarette, and thinking, maybe crying.  I will never know.

COLUMBUS - 2:00 PM:  Mary, Christina, and I are getting restless.  Even though we had been told the day before, that the doctor probably wouldn't release her until 5:00 PM, we are hoping that it will be sooner.  We pester the nurses some, but we are all in good spirits, almost a festive mood.  It has been a tough week for all of us.  We are wore out from the worry, relieved that the operation has been a success.  It is Friday and we are anxious to get home, flee back to normalcy again.  Pizza night.

AT HOME - 2:00 PM:  The service van still sits in the driveway.  The mail still lies between the doors.  Larry still sits on the steep frigid hill, braced against the tree to keep from tumbling on down.  The 45 is probably lying on the ground beside him. He has to be cold just sitting there, feeling the dampness soak through his clothes.  He is chain-smoking and fighting his genetically programmed and most basic of human instincts - the will to survive.

What is he thinking?  Is the little boy in him crying?  Pleading for mercy?  Is he faltering in his resolve to die, weighing the pros and cons?  How many other times has he sat with gun in hand, only to change his mind and come back to the house?  Times I never knew about.

COLUMBUS - 3:00 PM:  The nurses are not budging, and the doctor has not appeared.  We settle in for the 5:00 release.

AT HOME - 3:00 PM:  The service van still sits in the driveway.  The mail still lies between the doors.  Larry is still thinking, fighting, smoking, and very cold.  Cigarette butts litter the ground around him.  He watches the cars go by on State Route 248.  Is he watching for me?  I will have to pass this way to get home.  I don't think so.  He isn't expecting me home until around 8:00.  Is he hoping I will come earlier?  Save him from this terror of dying?  Rescue him back into this greater terror of living?

Is he practicing the exact position to hold the gun, so there is no chance of error, a living vegetable?  Is he calculating how he will fall, as not to roll down the hill into the creek?  Is he terrified of the pain and the dreadful unknown, of passing from life into death?  Why does he choose such a barren, cold, uncomfortable place to die?  Is he hating me?
 
 
 
 

COLUMBUS - 4:00 PM:  I am so anxious to get home.  For the moment, I have chosen to forget about our marital problems.  I am living for the moment.  I want so desperately to get home to my safe comfortable haven.  I want to see Larry's face, hear his soft voice say, "welcome home" like he always does when I have been away for awhile.  I can picture him coming out the back door when he hears my car pull up the drive, to help me carry things in.  I yearn to go back to the time when we still loved one another, when we end every phone conversation with, "I love you".  Another hour to go yet.  Four hours before I will be home.

AT HOME - 4:00 PM:  The service van still sits in the driveway.  The mail still lies between the doors.  Larry is still alive, still chain-smoking.  The pile of cigarette butts is growing.  Approximately five hours have gone by, while he continues his lonely vigil..  He is no doubt cursing himself for being such a coward.  He is morbidly afraid to pull the trigger, but just as afraid to continue on with a life that he feels is not worth living.

He has to do it!  There is no other way.  He remembers calling his mom a few nights before, to verify what day my birthday falls on.  He can't remember if it is the day before Valentine's Day (Feb. 13th) , or the day after (Feb. 15th).  She tells him it is the day before (Feb. 13th).  She is wrong, but Larry has no way of knowing.  My birthday is on Feb. 15th.  He has to do it on my birthday.  The perfect revenge, or the perfect gift?  I will never know.  Everything is set up, everything in place.  He will never find a more perfect time again.  He can't back out now.

"Won't she be sorry for hurting me?  I will ruin her birthday forever.  She deserves it.  I will make her suffer as she has made me suffer.  I won't even leave her a note.  She is not worth the time it would take to write a note.  She will go through the rest of her miserable life knowing just how much I despised her.  She will have to live with the guilt that she killed me.  Maybe, she will even have a nervous breakdown, coming home to find me dead, after the severe strain she has been under, worrying that her daughter was going to die.  I won't even leave a will, so she will have to go through the hell of probate.  That will guarantee months more of misery for her.  Yes, I have to do it before she gets home, for the maximum effect."

"Won't she be relieved to be rid of a worthless piece of shit like me?  I have failed to make her happy, even betrayed her.  It is my fault that she had to sell the horses.  It is my fault that she cried.  The best thing I could do for her now, is to remove myself from her life forever.  She can start over with someone that makes her happy.  I have managed to mess up everything that's ever been important to me, failed in everything I  tried to do, and now I have even destroyed my marriage.  She has finally seen me for who I really am.  What a fool I was to think I could hide the monster I am from her or anyone else for that matter.  I have just been fooling myself.  Everyone can see, have always been able to see, how worthless I truly am.  Yes, I have to do it now.  Everyone will be better off without me messing things up like I always have.  This is the perfect gift, the only gift, I can give her now."

COLUMBUS - 5:00 PM:  Finally!  The doctor signs the release and we are on our way home.  Christina makes a profound comment on the way.  She tells us about a strange sensation she has, about our lives being separated by an "event."  She explains that she feels that this day is the "event", which will separate the two halves of our lives, and make us recall our lives before the event as being drastically different from our lives after the event.  I believe she is talking about her near-death experience, and I can certainly see how all of our lives will be changed, having watched her suffer for months, knowing that she could have died, but now gloriously happy that she is still alive to spend the rest of her life with us.  We are speeding along the highway, happy to be alive, happy to be going home.

AT HOME - 5:00 PM:  The service van still sits in the driveway.  The mail still lies between the doors.  Larry is down to his last few cigarettes, the pack nearly empty.  He is chilled to the bone.  The time is nearly at hand.  Still he waits, dreading to do the thing he must do.  It will be dark soon.  He must hurry and get it over with.  Once again, he berates himself for being the loser he is, not even able to muster up enough courage to pull a stupid trigger.  He has failed in everything else.  Is he to fail in this too?

Nelsonville - 6:00 PM:  We are nearing Nelsonville where we will stop and get gasoline.  I am happy to have the madness of Columbus and Lancaster behind me.  Nelsonville has the last traffic light that I will see before I get home.  It is almost completely dark now, but I don't mind, because traffic will be sparse after Nelsonville.  We are half way home.  I am looking forward to surprising Alexis with her Valentine candy, when I drop Christina off at home.

It seems that life has finally taken a turn for the better.  Maybe there is still hope for Larry and I.  If I could just get him to open up to me.  If I just knew how to break though that silence.  But then, maybe his silence means that he really wants out.  Perhaps, my continual prodding of him into unwanted conversation, when all he wants is to be out of the marriage, is causing his silence.  Sigh . . . I don't know.  I don't even want to think about it tonight.  I want to pretend that everything is normal, like Larry does . . . just for tonight.  I am bone weary.  I need at least a facade of normalcy.

AT HOME - 6:00 PM:  The service van still sits in the driveway.  The mail still lies between the doors.  Larry has smoked his last cigarette.  The pack is empty.  The time has come.  He tears the empty pack open, until the white underside is showing.  He stretches it flat on his lap with the white side facing him.  He takes a pen from his pocket, and writes "Happy Birthday" on it.  Then he takes a small screwdriver from his shirt pocket.  Without rising from the ground, he reaches up and stakes the cryptic message to the tree with the screwdriver.  "Everyone will know who caused me to take my own life!"  Or maybe, "Now she will know that I loved her enough to give her the supreme gift . . . my very life!"  I will have no way of ever knowing.

This last is hard for me to fathom.  Why would someone have to go to such lengths, when all he would ever have to do is open his mouth and tell me, or show me in little ways, or stop cheating on me.

Some force inside of him still recoils in fear from picking up the gun.  But, if he doesn't do it, how will he explain his absence from work, being out of contact all day, not answering his pager or cell phone?  He cannot bear the thought of this kind of conflict. "Sherry would have no problem covering for me.  She has done it before."  But, this is unacceptable too.  He would first have to tell her where he had been all day.  No matter what he tells her, she will not believe him now.  She no longer trusts him.  There is no way out for him this time.  Still he wavers.
 

He doesn't have any more cigarettes to smoke.  It is getting colder.  It is completely dark now. He suddenly longs for the comfort and warmth of the house.  He is hungry.  He could back out now, and she would never know.  He could retrieve his money from the kitchen table, drive to the store for more cigarettes.  Everything would appear normal when she gets home, if it just wasn't for having to explain his absence from work.  "Wait a minute!  What about her birthday?  Today is her birthday, and I haven't bought anything for her!  She already hates me.  This will just make her hate me more, subject me to more humiliation!"

Sometimes it's the smallest things that put us over the edge.

Can't back out!  Can't back out!  His self-loathing is reaching new lows.  "You spineless coward!  You know you have to do it eventually!  How many times are you going to back out before you finally do what has to be done!  You don't deserve to live!  You have always known this!"  "But, what if there really is a god?"  "What stupid superstitious nonsense!"  "You have never believed in the existence of a god.  Why start now?"  "You will never know what hit you"  "In seconds, you will be free of this existence, no more pain, no more humiliation, just mindless oblivion, endless sleep!"  "For once in your life, do something right!"

He picks up the gun and cocks it.  The hammer is back and ready.  He turns it around to face him.  He places the barrel carefully in his mouth, knowing that this powerful handgun will kick upward, when he pulls the trigger.  He must make sure that it is positioned properly, to fire upward into his brainstem, rather than blow a hole in his cheek. He knows the former will bring almost instant death, where the latter might allow him to live to face an even greater humiliation.  His mind is spinning again, the little boy inside crying out for mercy, searching desperately for a way out, bargaining.  The metal feels cold in his mouth, a caustic metallic taste.  He wonders absently who will find his body.  He figures it will be his own Fire and Rescue unit, his friends.  He is past the point of caring.

He hardens his heart against the pleading of the small frightened boy.  The good he has ever done, the vast knowledge he has acquired throughout his lifetime, the love he has known from his wife, his granddaughter, the friendships he has forged, the awards he has won . . . all forgotten.  All of his 41 years of accomplishments pushed away and forgotten.  Only self-loathing remains.

He places a finger around the trigger.  Just one slight squeeze and it will all be over.  So much easier than backing out, having to explain, going on with life.  He leans his head against the tree for support.  He gauges that the force of the blast will propel his upper torso backwards onto the ground.  The rest of his body will be against the tree, preventing him from rolling on down the hill.  He also knows that the force of the blast will literally blow his head apart.  He was decorated as a "45 Pistol Marksman" while in the Navy.  He knows exactly what this gun will do.  He is comforted in the knowledge that none of his family will ever see him again.  It will have to be a closed casket, because his head will literally be gone.  He was wrong about that little detail.

The man known as Larry, closes his eyes tightly against the impending  blast.  A cold trembling finger finally squeezes the trigger. A BLINDING FLASH.  A SEARING PAIN . . . AND THEN NOTHING . . .

In those last seconds, did Larry visualize the blood soaked leaves around the tree?  The dark stain of brain matter on the tree trunk that supported his head?  The unthinkable horror that those of us who loved him would see?  Could he imagine the terrible ragged screams of his wife?  The pitiful wailing of his beloved granddaughter?  The deep racking sobs of his father?  The tears and disbelief of those who loved him, those who called him friend, employee, coworker?

He had roughly seven hours of thinking, out there on that hillside.  I am sure that it all went through his head.  But, in the end, it didn't matter anymore to him.  The last strength he would ever have, was used to squeeze the trigger, and forever take that strength away.  The coroner reported that he died in less than 5 minutes.  I imagine that he felt little pain.  I hope not.  We who are left carry the pain . . .  a forever kind.