The Coward

        John walked through the open gate and along a narrow, paved road.
Marble and granite monuments, some adorned with wilted flowers, others with
faded flags, divided the lawn into rows and columns.
        His legs stiffened in the wind, toes numb and tingling as he kicked 
through a pile of dead leaves.  He flexed his fingers and felt the lack of
sensation in his hands.  Removing a flask from his pocket, he unscrewed the
lid and dropped it on the ground.  He bent over to find it, drool spilling
from his mouth, running down his chin.  Righting himself, he drank from the
flask, whiskey warm in his throat.
        He found a twin gravestone and knelt before it.  Half the stone was
engraved with his wife's name, years of birth and death.  The letters glowed
in the setting sun.  Carolyn A. Mosely, 1957 - 1990.  He leaned back against
his own half of the stone, still polished smooth, and repeated her epitaph
to himself, words he had composed nine years ago.  He remembered her face
from their last moment together, when her brow relaxed, her lips closed
gently, peacefully.

        It had happened on a hot August evening at the local ATM, after they
withdrew cash for grocery shopping.  As they were leaving, three men erupted
from a car, stripped of plates and idling behind them.  One man pulled a
pistol and held it in front of himself, two others fanning out to either side.
        A stand of pine trees concealed the bank from the main road.  Despite
the rush of cars and flash of headlights between the branches, John and Carol
were alone with three armed thugs.  The video camera above and behind them was
recording snapshots of the event, but the police wouldn't review the footage
for another twelve hours.
        "Empty your wallets," one of them said, his voice deep and thick,
words garbled.  John obliged, emptying cash from his wallet, removing his
watch and thrusting the whole crumpled mess toward him.  The mugger opened a
paper bag, and John emptied his hand inside it.
        "You!" the mugger said, aiming the pistol at Carolyn, "Empty your purse!
Your rings, too!"  John froze, urine flooding his pants.  The warmth flowed down
his legs as he fell to the ground, immobilized.
        She fumbled in her purse, slowly removing her wallet, unzipping it, 
removing several bills.  He extended his sweating, tattooed arm, grabbed the
purse, pulled it from her hands, knocking her down.  She dropped the bills, over
a hundred in cash scattering in a gust of wind.  Just then, another car pulled
into the lot, then spun around violently, tires screeching, smoking the air with
burnt rubber.  One of the muggers took aim, but the car passed out of view
behind the trees.  Hopefully, the driver would summon the police.
        "Goddamn you!" the mugger shouted.  He cocked the pistol, aimed it at
Carol, sitting on the ground beside John.  He swung his aim back and forth,
between them.  "You think I'm playing?" he said.  "I don't fuckin' play!"
John followed the neat, black hole in the barrel.  A tapered slug lay a few
inches back.
        Shaking with fear, John grabbed Carolyn's arm, her skin damp and
clammy.  She seemed a stranger to him, no longer the passionate, strong woman
he knew.
        "You pick who I shoot first!" he shouted.  John couldn't look up
at him, afraid that he was being given the choice.  "Hey, I'm talkin'
to you!"  John raised his glance slowly, the gun shaking a foot away,
white-knuckled hands gripping the stock.  He broke down, covered his head
with his hands, whimpered, sobbed, struggled to speak between his quivering
lips.
        "Her," he said, shocked at his own choice as he watched her.
        She glanced back, then suddenly calmed and faced the mugger.  Her
eyes grew wide, glassy.  She looked innocent, a faint smile appearing on
her full, pink lips.
        BANG!
        John closed his eyes as she snapped back against the wall.  There was
a vibration from the impact, her lungs deflating as the bullet pierced her
chest and bored a hole into the bricks behind her.  A police siren wailed
nearby, blue and red lights strobing through the trees by the road.  The men
ran and jumped into the car.  The vehicle screeched backward, then forward,
speeding into an alley behind the bank. 
        He turned his head slowly, eyes pinched shut, tears streaming
down his face.  He reached over and touched her arm.  Her flesh was warm,
lifeless.

        Now, as John sat in the twilight chill, he remembered her face, her
calm expression, her soft skin.  Somehow, as her life hung in the balance,
she had found the courage to face her attacker without a word, a question, a
protest.
        If he could live only one instant of his life over again, he would 
have said "me", not "her" to the gun-wielding thug.  Then Carolyn would have
lived.  Though a bullet didn't pierce John's heart, he died that afternoon, a
coward beside her courage.
        On top of that, he lied afterward, denying reality from himself, her
family, the police.  He claimed that the killer had shot her without a word
and fled with his accomplices.  Since all three died shortly thereafter in
a high-speed chase with police, he was safe with his lie.  Once he had lied
to the police, changing his story would have admitted his deception.  After
the police had wrapped up the case, the newspaper asked him to take part in
a special feature on the spouses of people killed in violent crimes.  He
refused, despite their repeated phone calls and offers for payment.  He knew
they might learn the truth.  One lie led to a life of denial, depression.
        John knew the killer had given him a choice, that he would have killed
him, not his wife, had he asked for it.  He could never forgive his failure to
protect Carolyn, to make the ultimate sacrifice.  He couldn't bear to look at
her face until she lay placidly in her coffin.
        He visited Carolyn's grave often, crying, beating himself, apologizing
to her every day for the next nine years.  He remembered watching the northern
lights one night, after getting drunk and walking to the cemetery.  He talked
to the headstone while holding a large hunting knife, slicing open his fingers
as he caressed the blade, wishing for death before the dawn.
        Each day was an experience in self-consciousness, of watching himself
live from the outside.  He felt himself a puppet of sorts, manipulated by
fate, unable to control his own destiny and achieve resolution and atonement
for his cowardice.  He frequently recalled something his therapist told him,
to help him deal with his loss.
        "In times of extreme difficulty and stress, we reveal our true inner
selves.  Carolyn faced her own death bravely, staring into the barrel of a
gun.  She showed incredible courage..."
        John leaned against the gravestone, spread his palm across the cold
stone, then placed his cheek against the marble.  He had lost all feeling in
his hands, but the stone was pleasantly cool against his face.
        "I've been faithful to you," he said, his words slurring as he
struggled for breath.  "I never made love to another woman..."
        He recalled countless matchmaking attempts by family and friends, 
encouraging him to find a new life, a new love.  Most thought it would help
end his obsessive devotion to Carolyn.  He withdrew from his friends, and
his career stagnated.  He became a recluse, usually leaving the house only
for work and to shop for food once a week.
        Something moved in the corner of his eye, through his tears, and he
turned toward it.  Carolyn stood in the shadows between the trees, beside
the gravestone.  She wore the same blouse and shorts as the day she died.  A
deep, sanguine stain lay above her heart, the white sleeves of her blouse
spritzed with red.
        "I'm here, John," she whispered.  He had expected anger, but her
voice was soft and gentle.
        "If I could change things, you know I would."
        He wept as she walked toward him and sat down on the grass beside him.
He reached out to her, his hand passing effortlessly through her body.
        "I know you would.  I'm here to help you.  To let you change the past.
And then we'll be together."  Her deep brown eyes glistened from streetlights
two blocks away, beyond the cemetery.  His jaw was growing too stiff to talk.
        "Speak to me in your thoughts.  I can hear them."
        "I envy you," he thought, ashamed to look her in the eye.
        "Why?  Tell me."
        "Because you were brave, and I was a coward.  Because you accepted
death when I couldn't, and I'm still alive."
        "You've told me that already, hundreds of times.  I think there's
something else."
        "I've envied the last moment you experienced.  Those several seconds
of complete fearlessness.  It was like pure existence -- like death didn't
matter.  Then he killed you.  I wish you would have fought with me, asked him
to shoot me instead.  Why didn't you?"
        "Come with me.  I'll show you."

        The gravestone grew warm, then hot, smooth marble suddenly rough with
texture, mortared seams grating against his skin.  Sunlight blinded him, sweat
stung his eyes.  Carol whimpered beside him, her gasps lost in a gust of wind
reeking of cigarette smoke.  The man's shadow passed across John as he stared
at the ground.
        "You pick who I shoot first!" the man said.
        John ground his teeth together, lifted his head, stared into the 
killer's face, dark against the sun.  A gleaming pistol rattled a foot away.
He cocked the weapon.  John looked at the other two men.  Both stared at him
nervously.
        "Me," John whispered.  Then he calmed, turned to Carolyn, her eyes
grown wide with terror.  She was beautiful.  He wanted to kiss her, to tell
her he loved her.  He would miss her, their life together, their dreams.  No
children to raise, no grandchildren to spoil.  He found peace in his longing
for her, her love for him.  It was a moment of pure existence -- a moment
of loving her perfectly, and knowing she would live.
        BANG!

        John opened his eyes, sucked in the cold air.  He was alone again,
forgetting his numbness, frozen limbs, shallow breath.  He rolled over, heard
the clatter of empty pill bottles rolling from his pocket onto the pavement.
One last gulp of whiskey sloshed in the flask.  He wouldn't need it.
        "My Love, Who Lived and Died With Courage," he said.
        He fell into a deep and satisfying sleep.