Sam Holladay was sixty-three years old when he jabbed a snub-nosed .38 revolver into Simon Bell’s chest and pulled the trigger, knocking him flat, like he’d been shoved, and dead, the bullet passing through his heart and exiting at his left shoulder, trailing blood and tissue like the tail of a comet. It was a July Sunday. It was late morning, long pine shadows drawn on the flat ground. Bell had, the day before, driven a riding mower over the lawn so the air smelled of cut grass and the clippings stuck to the men’s shoes and clung to Bell’s hair, where he lay on the ground. Sam Holladay stood over him a moment, then went into Bell’s house and called the police himself.
He had expected to have to face some sort of consequence right off, but the house was quiet and empty. He’d been there before, years ago, and the place still looked the same to him. All the furniture exactly as he remembered it, the same pictures on the mantel. He let himself wander back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress, his forearms across his knees. He made the call, then went into the kitchen for a glass of water. The sink was a clutter of crusted dishes, a week’s worth at least, piled precariously to the edge. When he leaned his face close to wet his fingers and dab his eyelids with cool water, he could smell the faint, damp thickness of rot. A few empty beer bottles on the counter, like glass skyscrapers of a model city. A pot of coffee burned to carbon. He tried to think of his wife, closed his eyes and imagined her in another kitchen, their kitchen, not twenty yards away, pictured her taking copper pots from their hooks on the wall and arranging them on the stove. She was, he knew, making breakfast. He wondered if she’d heard the shot–she played the radio too loud when she cooked–if, just for an instant, she’d turned away from the stove to look in the direction of the report. He didn’t know what would happen now, what events would follow, but he worried about her. Through the window above the sink, Holladay could make out Simon Bell’s body, just a shape in the grass, no more ominous or frightening than a dress shop mannequin.
Grove Press
