Wanting Rita Read Free Page B

chubby softness.
    Darla, 12-years old, blond and glowing with grace, was seated at the kitchen table eating breakfast. As she turned toward him to say, “Good morning, Daddy,” as she often did, he raised the gun and fired twice into her head. She died instantly.
    The shots jolted Rita with a savage horror, but her brain locked up and froze her rigid. It took minutes, it seemed, before the yellow plate of pancakes slipped from her grasp and shattered on the floor. With its impact, her heart seemed to explode. She burst into a wild, agonizing scream.
    Dusty was five feet away. He leveled the gun at Rita’s head. His thick arm was steady, his hand still, his pool-blue eyes serene. Rita lost her voice. The sight of her lifeless daughter sent a knifing pain that washed her face to whiteness. Death eclipsed the fire in her eyes. Her screams fell into a near silent anguish, a low, terrifying moan.
    Dusty was motionless. He did not seem to see. His eyes seemed to see nothing at all. Rita shut her wet eyes tightly, waiting for the slam and shock of the bullet’s impact. Welcoming it. Praying for it. When she heard the shot, she screamed and kept screaming until she lost her voice. Until the next door neighbor rushed over.
    Rita’s eyes opened. Through tears and a stabbing shock, she saw Dusty sprawled on the floor. He’d blown the back of his head off.

Chapter Two
     
    I entered Jack’s Diner. It seemed smaller and grimier than I had remembered, and it was immediately obvious that it had long lost its novelty and shine. The yellow plastic upholstered booths were sagging and patched with black masking tape, looking deflated and wounded. The almond tiled floors had worn, shiny gray patches around the cashier station and at the sloping entrances to the bathrooms. Faded yellow walls held old high school football, baseball and basketball team photos, where players stood or crouched in poses of strength, staring with the bold, proud eyes of conquerors. There was also the random oil painting of old trains, steaming through canyons and tunnels and across towering trestles, probably an art class project from many years ago.
    Memories flooded back to me. The smell of coffee, bacon and eggs reminded me of early mornings, and that low dragging energy I felt after an unsuccessful night hunting for elusive excitement—or any girl who would stoop to talk to me. And for a brief moment, I had the gift of time travel to the past. I heard the toasts, the cheers and the shouting matches, the recaps after the games. I saw the proud glossy faces of old classmates roaming the booths, girlfriends in tow, slapping shoulders and smoking cigarettes, while Bon Jovi sang Livin’ On A Prayer from the scratchy overhead speakers. I saw adults with bright eyes, straight backs and open grins, enjoying the show, remembering their day and believing that the cycle would go on like this forever.
     
    That morning, Jack’s wasn’t busy. Four booths were vacant, as were two swivel chairs at the counter. There was no music from the speakers, and other than the occasional rattle of dishes and the dull ring of the order-up bell, there was an eerie pall, like a museum past closing time. Chins rested in hands over coffee, and sleepy eyes stared indifferently, avoiding the windows and the persistent rain, weakly acknowledging the plates of food when delivered. I plunged my dripping umbrella into the bucket along with others, stuffed my hands into my back jean pockets and lowered my head.
    Waitresses in blue nylon dresses, with white ruffles at the hems, covered the floor in a lazy shuffle. I quickly examined their faces. I did not see Rita and I was grateful. I wanted to get settled first. Then it occurred to me that I may have seen her but didn’t recognize her. After all, she could have changed, drastically.
    I advanced to the counter, eyes down, shoulders up. I swung into the swivel chair, folded my hands on the sandy Formica countertop and waited, uneasily,