Free Visitations by Jonas Saul Page B

past a washer and dryer and into a narrow hallway. There aren’t any lights on, but I don’t think the half-blind stranger really minds.
     
    I stop at a door where the stranger entered and wait. Why didn’t I put the long gun down? I’m still holding it in the hallway of this stranger’s house. I could’ve put it on the dryer or the washer. I step back into the laundry room and try to lift the long gun. It’s stuck. I pull, but it feels snagged. I look down and see my umbrella’s wooden handle has gotten caught in the trigger guard.
     
    I twist the gun and give it one last pull. It catches on the umbrella and this time a roar belts out of the long gun. But that isn't the worst of it. The recoil bites into my unprepared shoulder, tearing at it like a noose yanking on a neck.
     
    A serious fire shoots through my arm. It feels foreign. My eyes widen at how much pain my shoulder is experiencing.
     
    A hole has formed in the drywall. I can see into the hallway, through the hole.
     
    The woman I saw in the upper window appears before me. The pain must be intense because I hadn’t noticed her standing there. She has a large rolling pin in her hand.
     
    Before I can get out of the way, she’s on me. I try to duck my head, but my left arm isn’t working well and my right arm is pinned to my chest. It had been holding my aching shoulder.
     
    She hit me in the head. I’m not sure what I’m feeling now. There’s a pounding, but I can’t breathe too well. My shoulder still doesn’t feel like it belongs to me. I try to move my head, but it aches. I move it anyway. I think I’m screaming now.
     
    The woman is convulsing on top of me. Her weight makes it difficult to breathe. I roll and she falls off. My nose inhales deep, my lungs fill, the pounding in my head drops from a ten to a seven.
     
    More movement at the door. My stranger is there, his face still red. No doubt called by the roar of the long gun and the shriek of the strange woman.
     
    “Asthma,” is all he says before he bolts from the doorway.
     
    He’s back now with an inhaler or puffer or whatever they call it.
     
    I lean against the wall, the gun beside me. The woman is sitting up. She appears to be breathing better. My stranger can see and talk too, although his eyes are very red. He’s explaining to the odd woman what happened and how stupid he must have been. He should never have entered the house with pepper spray on his face and a lingering scent on me. He should’ve known she’d get a reaction to it.
     
    I hear the word police. The odd woman speaks it.
     
    I use the wall to stand. Halfway up I grab the long gun. Might need something to defend myself if the police are coming.
     
    The strange man looks at me with a question on his face. I shrug and gasp. Man does my shoulder hurt. Funny how I took for granted a shrugging motion, and now it tosses coal on the flames of a fire I can’t ignore.
     
    “What are you gonna do, mister?” the stranger asks.
     
    I don’t talk much to people. They’re okay, but years ago I decided I wouldn’t talk to them anymore. Only when I really had to. I even pretend at times that I can’t talk. I use a pen and paper to communicate with tellers, waitresses, and cab drivers. I point at my mouth and show them with my hands that I can’t use it.
     
    It just seemed all my life people laughed at me when I talked. It wasn’t always this way; only after I was nearly killed by those teenagers and their boots. I was beat up to within an inch of my life the doctor said. Brain damage. But they never took away my love of leaves, so it’s okay.
     
    At least I remember why I was beat up so bad. It was because of the death of Jimmy Urdith. No one believed me when I said it wasn’t my fault. They laughed at me then and they laugh at me now.
     
    So I try really hard not to talk to people.
     
    I step away from the strangers on the floor and lock the bolt on the laundry room door. I use the long gun’s barrel