Three Blind Mice
By Chad Eagleton

“We’re putting Dad in a home, doesn’t that bother you?”

He rubbed his hands across his face and sighed. “Of course it bothers me, but I can’t take this anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said.”

Her nostrils flared. “That’s not fair; you know I’d take Dad if I could.”

“That’s why he’s going to a home.”

She looked at her father sitting on the couch, staring at the television. “Do you even—I mean, do you just make him watch TV all day? Have you tried talking to him?”

He snatched the remote off the coffee table. “There’s nothing else for him to do. Sitting is it. His motor functions are going. He’s incontinent.  His memory is almost totally gone. He doesn’t know anyone. He can barely talk…he…he just rambles.” He stabbed the off button with his hand. The room suddenly quiet. “But fucking knock yourself out. Go ahead. Fucking see for yourself. He’s still going to the goddamn home. You can’t take him, so he’s going, before I eat a goddamn fucking bullet.” He flung the remote at the empty chair and left.

His sister’s breath came out in ragged gasps before she forced herself to smile and sit. “Dad?”

Her father’s lips moved, making a soft noise that sounded like chewing.

“Dad?” She asked again, stroking the wisps of grey hair behind his ears.

He looked at her. His brown eyes were glassy and dim. She felt her right knee begin to tremble against his leg. Her hand twitched.

Then her father smiled.

Tears spilled gently and slowly from her eyes. He took her hand in his and cupped her short fingers. His wedding ring clanked against hers as he patted the back of her hand. “Alma,” he said, “don’t you worry none, we’re getting out of here tomorrow.”

“My name,” she managed, “isn’t Alma, Dad. It’s Ann...Ann…your daughter, Ann.”

“Payroll comes on Thursday.” He nodded.

“Dad—“

“Come Saturday morning, you and me, Babe. You and me.”

“Dad, its Ann.”

Her father’s face slackened and then tensed. She saw something slipping away behind his eyes and his mouth moved, clamping shut like he was trying to hold onto it, to keep it from escaping across his teeth. “Ann—and the money is green. Green, but not like the uniforms. You like green, don’t you. Green like your eyes. Like the dress you wear on Saturdays. You wear that dress on Saturday.”

She bit her lip, forcing herself not to turn at the sound of her brother’s foot steps as he reentered the room. “Three of us. One, two, three. The three blind mice. See how they run. See how they run. Run from the boom. Bang. Crack. Loud, so loud. Didn’t know it would be that loud. My ears still ring…rang for days. And it’s not green; it’s not green, not at all. No.” Her father clutched her hand tighter, pulling it hard while digging his nails into the soft underside of her wrist. “It’s red. Red. Red roses and ribbons running like blood. Red. Red rover, red rover send Johnny on over.”

She cried out, trying to pull away. Her father held her tight. Her eyes raced and she looked for her brother, but he was already pushing past her, rushing to the chair and grabbing the remote.

The sudden flash of picture, the sudden loud sound drew her father’s attention away from her and her hand. His found the television set and his whole body softened, his shoulders falling as he released her hand and his own returned to curl in his lap.

She stood quickly and backed away. Her brother crossed behind the couch and squeezed her arm. “Why does--who…who’s Alma?”

“An old girlfriend. Family member. Television show. Doesn’t matter. He’d mentioned three or four other names. They’re no one. It’s gobbledygook. His brain misfiring.” He held her shoulders and looked into her teary eyes. “He belongs in a home.”

She nodded as her brother hugged her and they both looked down at their father, neither of them noticing that he wasn’t staring at the television set, but a spot on the back wall. The same spot he had stared at for years. The spot where the paint was discolored from time and longing and regret. The spot where he had hidden the payroll cash, a gun with duct tape on the grip, and a picture of a woman named Alma that soon no one would remember at all.

BIO: Most recently Chad's work has been found in Bad Things Magazine and the Pulp Pusher. When he's not writing, Chad is thinking about how much he'd like to be Alain Delon in Le Samourai.