Death on Orange Shag

August 24^th 1983

Miami Herald: 

           A Metro-Dade policeman was in critical but stable condition late Friday, recovering from a bullet wound inflicted by his estranged wife after discovering him at his Southwest Dade trailer park with another woman, police said. He was the only one who didn't fire a gun out of all the people in his trailer.

Imagine that. The policeman, the good guy, didn't get a shot off.

Good guy, my ass. As the other woman, I was privy to what went on that night.

 I don't recall much; it's just snippets of the action, a hazy blur. We finished a Thorn Birds marathon. Grabbing the empty bottle of Chardonnay beside the well-worn plaid couch, I got up, stretched, and yawned.

"How do you tolerate this romantic shit?” I asked Dante

He looked up at me with the same drowsy gaze.

 "I happen to enjoy it," he said, looking offended.

"Just because there was no alien devastation or zombie apocalypse doesn't make it mind-numbing,” he added.

He lazily reached one of my long tan legs, but I scooted out of the way, picking up our wine glasses and bringing them to the kitchen that filled a corner of his neat but hideous double-wide trailer. A throwback from the seventies with wood paneling and musty orange shag carpeting. The only thing missing was the velvet painting of a bullfight and a Stuckey's Pecan Log in the fridge. But, hell, who was I to judge?

"The book is much better," I told him.

Wump! A pillow flew past my head, hit a cabinet, and landed by my feet.

"Hey, what the hell was that for?" I tossed it back.

"No reason. I need a shower. You want to join me?"

"I've got to clean up," I told him.

It was tempting. He was damn good-looking for a ginger. He just smiled and headed to the bathroom.

           I rinsed out the glasses, tossed the empty bottle into the trash, and walked to the back of the trailer to the bedroom, another room surrounded by faux wood. The bed was neatly made with Dante's police utility belt lying in the center. I turned down the bed around it. I’ll let him deal with it, not keen on disturbing it, knowing I would set off one of the gadgets or shoot myself. Moving toward the back of the room to turn on a lamp, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, tall, thin, almost boyish, with wild, curly blonde hair, when a deafening BANG interrupted the sound of the television I had forgotten to turn off.

The noise came from the bathroom. The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood straight. Grabbing the phone next to me, I dialed 911.

BANG! Another gunshot reverberated through the home. I was trapped in a corner with nowhere to escape while the operator listened to my desperate pleas. Then I saw her. She stood at the bedroom door, a gun in her hand. Her stare seething with hate. There was recognition for a brief second before I instinctively turned around to face the corner and felt the first bullet slam into me, knocking the breath out of my lungs, then a second. With a muffled thud, the phone fell to the floor, and the operator frantically called my name. I felt no pain, only a spreading numbness. My legs gave away beneath me as I crumpled to the floor. I could vaguely hear Dante weakly shouting my name and the operator's voice as I lay still, barely breathing.

Where did she go? I wondered for a moment until I heard her muffled shriek,

“I killed her, I killed her.

I tried to pinpoint the voice. It sounded like it came from the den where moments ago we were relaxing. I couldn't be sure; my ears were ringing.

           Suddenly, the mattress began to shudder. There was a scuffle above me; muffled grunts and struggling bodies colliding were all I could hear. The utility belt hit the floor as they continued the fight. Something glinting, metallic, caught my eye. It moved slowly from its hiding place between the mattress and the box spring as the bed jostled. It was a gun.

Dragging myself closer, I fingered the weapon and gently pulled it out. My mind flashed back to high school and my gun-obsessed boyfriend reminding me to check the safety. I struggled to push myself onto my hands and knees. I needed to know what was happening. Looking down, I saw my blood pooling on the garish orange shag turning it the color of mercurochrome. A loud thump made me freeze. One or both of them had hit the floor. Finally, I found the strength to pull my body up on my knees and peered over the edge of the queen-sized bed. The bed linens were crumpled with splotches of blood dotting the sheets. Her head appeared, and she slowly turned to face me. Her eyes locked onto mine, a cold stare. Without hesitation, without thinking, I raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The force of the recoil knocked me back to the carpet. 

           Once again, there was a thump on the other side of the bed. I held my breath for a moment as I strained to listen. It was silent except for a deep-throated gurgling that sent a chill down my spine. Where the hell was that coming from?

My mind was racing. I wanted to cry out, where’s Dante?  I strained to hear footsteps, any movement. My body felt heavy and unresponsive as it no longer belonged to me. In the back of my mind, I wondered why. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and relief washed over me, but I held tight to that gun, not entirely sure I was safe. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, I woke to see several faces staring down at me, some smiling and others looking concerned, their eyes sharp with worry. “Stay with us,” someone called out. Paramedics and police officers gently lifted my body from the corner and onto a stretcher, rolling me out into the humid night air.

Thank G-d I wouldn’t die in a ’70s man cave was my last thought as I was loaded into the ambulance.