Nebraska

“There was a guy looking for you,” Rex says.

Max was gathering the pencils and brushes and tapping them together. He didn't even notice me there.

“He looked pretty dangerous,” Rex says.

Max just dropped pieces of glass in a trash can. They clanged on the tin. He struggled to his feet like a workingman with a chunk of pavement in his hands. He looked for just a second at Rex, then he went to the chest of drawers and began picking up clothes.

The kid sat down at the lunchroom counter and unzipped his cracked leather coat. From the other end of the counter Max watched him. He had been talking to the waitress when the door opened. The waitress gave the kid water and a menu. The kid rubbed his knees with his hands as he read. He said, “I'll have a roast pork tenderloin with applesauce and mashed potatoes.”

“Is that on the menu?”

“I've changed my mind,” the kid said. “Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.”

The waitress didn't know what to say.

The kid smiled, and then he stopped smiling. He flicked the menu away. “Just give me ham and eggs.”

She wrote on her order pad. “How do you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled.”

The waitress spoke through the wicket to the cook. The kid put his chin in his hand. He turned his water glass.

Max stared as he drank from his coffee cup and set the cup down in the saucer. The kid jerked his head.

“What are you looking at?”

Max put a quarter next to his cup. “Nothing.”

Max went to the coat tree. He pulled off a mackinaw jacket and buttoned it on. The kid was swiveled around on his stool. “The hell. You were looking at me.”

The waitress had gone through the swinging door in the kitchen. Max blew his nose in a handkerchief. He smiled at the kid. “You're not half of what I was.”

The kid smiled and leaned back on the counter. “But I'm what's around these days.”

It will happen this way:

He'll kick at the door and it will fly open, banging against the wall. Max will be at his easel. He'll try to stand. The kid will hold his gun out and fire. Max will slump off his stool. He'll spill his paints. He'll slam to the floor.

Or Max will open the door and the kid will be to his left. He'll ram the pistol in Max's ear. He'll hold his arm out straight and fire twice.

Or he'll rap three times on the door. When it opens, he'll push his shotgun under Max's nose. Max will stumble back, then sit slowly on the bed where he'll hold his head in his hands. The kid will close the door softly behind him. Max will say, “What are you waiting for?” and the kid will ask, “Where do you want it?” Max will look up, and the kid's gun will buck and the old man will grab his eyes.

Or the kid will let the pistol hang down by his thigh. He'll knock on the door. Max will answer. The kid will step inside, shoving the old man. The pistol will grate against Max's belt buckle until he's backed to the striped bedroom wall. The kid will fire three times, burning the brown flannel shirt. Smoke will crawl up over the collar. The old man will slide to the floor, smearing red on the wall behind him.

Or the door will open a crack. Max will peer out. The kid will shoot, throwing him to the floor. The kid will walk into the room. Max will crawl to a chair, holding his side. He'll sit there in khakis and a blue shirt going black with the blood. He'll say, “I think I'm gonna puke.” The kid will say, “Go ahead.” He'll say, “I gotta go to the bathroom.” He'll pull himself there with the bedposts. Water will run in the sink. He'll come out with a gun. But the kid will fire, and Max's arm will jerk back, his

pistol flying. He'll spin and smack his face against a table in his fall.

Or Max will jiggle his keys in one hand while the other clamps groceries tight to his buttoned gray sweater. He'll open the door. The kid will be sitting there in the purple chair by the brushes with a shotgun laid over his legs. The old man will lean against the doorjamb. The groceries will fall. The kid will fire both barrels at the old man's face, hurling him back across the hall. Apples will roll off the rug.

Rex took a wad of rags from a barrel in the garage while I sat against his mom's car brushing my hair. He unwrapped a gun and wiped it off with his shirttail. He sat against his motorcycle seat and turned the chamber round and round, hearing every click. Then he got cold without a coat and covered the gun again and crammed it down his pants. He gave me a weird look. He said, “Ready?”

Max tried to sleep but couldn't. He got up and put on a robe, then took a double-barrel shotgun from the closet, and two shells from a box in one of the drawers. He sat in a stuffed chair by his brushes, lowered the gun butt to the floor, and leaned forward until his eyebrows touched metal. Then he tripped both triggers.

Rex was just about to climb the stairs when he heard the shotgun noise. He just stood there sort of blue and disappointed until I took his hand and pulled him away and we walked over to the lunchroom. Ron was there in a booth in the back. He'd had the pork tenderloin. We sat in the booth with him and as usual he told me how pretty I looked. Rex just sulked, he was so disappointed.

“You should be happy,” Ron said.