Read Online The Walk by Richard Paul Evans - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Paul Evans
Tags: Literary
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over to the cemetery to get your van. It’s parked downstairs. Your keys are on the table. I’ll be back around two. Make yourself at home. There’s coffee in the pot and some Pop-Tarts. (I know you like those.) If you need to go, I understand. Please, please, please call me. I care about you.
Love,
Falene
I put my shoes on then lifted my keys from the table. I wrote “Thank you” over her note. Then I drove home.
CHAPTER
Twenty
There is a moment in all acts when there is no turning back: the step over the cliff, the finger committing to the trigger and the hammer falling, the bullet erupting from the chamber, unstoppable . . .
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Returning to an empty house was harder than I thought it would be. Could be. It seemed the pain increased as I got closer. Two blocks from the house, I almost hyperventilated. I got mad at myself. “Pull yourself together, man.”
My father had already gone home. He left a note for me on the kitchen table. It just read: “Eight o’clock flight. Call when you can.”
I walked through the house, not sure what I was supposed to do. Not that there weren’t things to do. The house was a disaster. There were dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hampers, fast-food sacks and wrappers on the counters. There were still piles of unopened mail and newspapers inside the door.
At first I lay down, but I couldn’t find relief, so I set to washing clothes. As I lifted one of McKale’s undershirts, I held it against my face. I could still smell her.
That afternoon the postman came to my door. He held a clipboard and a registered letter.
“You need to sign for this,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Registered mail. I just need your signature saying youreceived it. Right here.” He pointed to a short line. I signed so he’d leave. I shut the door, then opened the envelope. It was a notice from the bank informing me that my house has been foreclosed on and would go up for auction next Thursday. I dropped the letter on the ground. I honestly didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. The world had already caved in on me; what did it matter if another brick or two fell?
I didn’t eat that night. The idea of putting food in my mouth made me want to gag. Falene called around eight, but I couldn’t answer the phone. Not even for her. Grief had settled around me like smog. By nightfall, my heart had become a boxing match, and there were two men inside of me contending for the possession of my
future.
Fighting out of the blue corner, in white trunks, is LIFE. And in the red corner, wearing solid black trunks, is DEATH.
The fight had begun even before I was aware of it. Probably the moment I first saw McKale in her hospital bed.
After nine rounds, DEATH has gained the upper hand, showing LIFE no mercy. Constant jabs have left LIFE reeling. LIFE’s no longer the cocky prize-belt winner who weeks before paraded around as champ. LIFE has lost his legs. He’s on the ropes. DEATH senses victory and moves in for the kill. He’s relentless, landing one punch after another. It’s painful to watch, folks. LIFE is taking a beating, too tired and dazed to even block the blows.
The crowd senses blood and roars. They don’t care who wins, they just want a good fight.
At 2:00 A.M . the battle was in its final rounds. I was sitting at the kitchen table, holding two open bot-
tles of McKale’s unused prescriptions—oxycodone and
codeine—enough of each to end the fight. On the table in front of me was something to wash them down—an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Ironically, in the early months of my advertising agency, I had done some pro-bono work for the Suicide Prevention Association of Seattle. The words I wrote for their radio commercial still resonated with me:
Suicide—a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
A catchy slogan, but the words rang hollow to me. There was nothing temporary about McKale’s death. I had lost everything. My business,
Love,
Falene
I put my shoes on then lifted my keys from the table. I wrote “Thank you” over her note. Then I drove home.
CHAPTER
Twenty
There is a moment in all acts when there is no turning back: the step over the cliff, the finger committing to the trigger and the hammer falling, the bullet erupting from the chamber, unstoppable . . .
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Returning to an empty house was harder than I thought it would be. Could be. It seemed the pain increased as I got closer. Two blocks from the house, I almost hyperventilated. I got mad at myself. “Pull yourself together, man.”
My father had already gone home. He left a note for me on the kitchen table. It just read: “Eight o’clock flight. Call when you can.”
I walked through the house, not sure what I was supposed to do. Not that there weren’t things to do. The house was a disaster. There were dishes in the sink, overflowing clothes hampers, fast-food sacks and wrappers on the counters. There were still piles of unopened mail and newspapers inside the door.
At first I lay down, but I couldn’t find relief, so I set to washing clothes. As I lifted one of McKale’s undershirts, I held it against my face. I could still smell her.
That afternoon the postman came to my door. He held a clipboard and a registered letter.
“You need to sign for this,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Registered mail. I just need your signature saying youreceived it. Right here.” He pointed to a short line. I signed so he’d leave. I shut the door, then opened the envelope. It was a notice from the bank informing me that my house has been foreclosed on and would go up for auction next Thursday. I dropped the letter on the ground. I honestly didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. The world had already caved in on me; what did it matter if another brick or two fell?
I didn’t eat that night. The idea of putting food in my mouth made me want to gag. Falene called around eight, but I couldn’t answer the phone. Not even for her. Grief had settled around me like smog. By nightfall, my heart had become a boxing match, and there were two men inside of me contending for the possession of my
future.
Fighting out of the blue corner, in white trunks, is LIFE. And in the red corner, wearing solid black trunks, is DEATH.
The fight had begun even before I was aware of it. Probably the moment I first saw McKale in her hospital bed.
After nine rounds, DEATH has gained the upper hand, showing LIFE no mercy. Constant jabs have left LIFE reeling. LIFE’s no longer the cocky prize-belt winner who weeks before paraded around as champ. LIFE has lost his legs. He’s on the ropes. DEATH senses victory and moves in for the kill. He’s relentless, landing one punch after another. It’s painful to watch, folks. LIFE is taking a beating, too tired and dazed to even block the blows.
The crowd senses blood and roars. They don’t care who wins, they just want a good fight.
At 2:00 A.M . the battle was in its final rounds. I was sitting at the kitchen table, holding two open bot-
tles of McKale’s unused prescriptions—oxycodone and
codeine—enough of each to end the fight. On the table in front of me was something to wash them down—an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
Ironically, in the early months of my advertising agency, I had done some pro-bono work for the Suicide Prevention Association of Seattle. The words I wrote for their radio commercial still resonated with me:
Suicide—a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
A catchy slogan, but the words rang hollow to me. There was nothing temporary about McKale’s death. I had lost everything. My business,
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