Page 98 - Vol. VI #1

The Dying Kind (continued from preceding page )
She flopped back on the bed, and pulled a joint out of her bag of pills along with the lighter. She tried to keep the contents of the bag hidden, not wanting to share everything she had with Ran- dall, but he was too distracted or post-sex sleepy to notice.
“What makes someone become a hospice care- giver? Can’t be the money.”
She lit the joint, took a long drag and passed it to Randall. She held the smoke in her lungs for many beats before slowly exhaling. Her brain was speeding, and she tried to hold down the panic under the fire of Randall’s questioning.
“Money is money.”
Randall handed the joint back to her. She tapped ash into the top of a crystal jewelry box from the dresser.
“My dad died a few weeks ago. I know what you’re going through.”
“Did you kill him?” Randall gave the same kind of mean chuckle his mother had on the lawn. Sheila took another drag and thought about what to say. He was just trying to provoke her.
“’Cause I think sometimes about killing Ma, here,” he said. “A pillow over the face for a few moments, sure would solve a lot of problems.”
Sheila leaned forward. Her ears started ringing and her head throbbed, as though a bomb had gone off in the room. She told herself it was the Adderall and took another hit from the joint. The bedroom window facing the side yard had be- come completely dark.
“I didn’t kill him,” she said. “What kind of question is that?”
“You sound like my wife,” Randall said. He rose from the bed, extending his hand for the joint.
“Did you ask her if she killed her father?”
She followed him into the kitchen, where he took
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