Lucky Day Read Online Free
Author: Barry Lyga
here?
His meds sat in the pill-reminder doohickey on the table. Before her illness, Joyce had been hale and healthy, never taking anything stronger than Pepto-Bismol. But he’d started on the blood-pressure meds early on, and she’d teased him about his “old-man medicine.” The reminder thingamabob—a plastic, lidded grid of Sunday through Saturday, marked off in little pockets of morning, afternoon, and evening—had been hers, the ultimate acknowledgment that she wasn’t just sick: She was Sick.
He popped the pills and washed them down with water straight from the tap. Back in the living room, the TV was still chattering, this time showing G. William’s opponent in the election.
“…just want to ask one question. Just one. What on earth is going on over there in Lobo’s Nod? There hasn’t been a murder there since—I looked this up—since 1977. Nineteen seventy-seven! Jimmy Carter was president! And now we have this missing girl—and I hope and pray she comes home safe—and today’s murder. What is going on over there?”
“Obviously, you think it’s time for someone new in the sheriff’s department, but does the recent disappearance of Cara Swinton and now this murder make your case for you?” a reporter asked.
Translation: If the current guy was competent, this wouldn’t have happened, right?
“Look, what’s happened is a tragedy. And I’m not going to exploit it for political gain. No. This isn’t about politics. This is about safety. About protecting our children. It transcends politics. And the people of Lobo’s Nod—the people of this county—deserve to be safe. They expect it, and it’s their God-given right.”
With a snarl, G. William shut off the TV. His arms and legs had gone numb and tingly. It happened sometimes. His doctor claimed the pills had his blood pressure under control, that the numbness and tingling sensation were symptoms of anxiety. G. William believed him, but every time it happened, it still caught him off-guard and his first thought was This is it. This is the heart attack. The big one I’ve been putting on layaway for years. It’s finally been bought and paid for and it’s coming.
Talk about anxiety.
He slept that night on the sofa, as usual. He tried not to go into the bedroom they’d shared, usually doing so only to get a change of clothes. He would not even sleep in the bed they’d shared. A bed—a real bed—had been a succor he could not permit himself.
Halfway through the night, he woke to the sound of sobbing—quiet, pathetic, choking tears floating in the still night. At first he thought he’d left the TV on, but soon enough realized—as wet fingers came away from his cheek—the true origin of the sounds. He lay there on the sofa, not knowing why he was crying or for whom. Was it for Joyce? For the Swinton and Reed girls? Or was it for himself? For poor old G. William Tanner, who only wanted one more term, one more chance to do something meaningful before shuffling off to a lonely, uncompanioned retirement?
It didn’t matter, he decided, and drifted back off to sleep.
Chapter 3
He woke early, with first light. An old habit, unabated by age or fat.
He was in the bathtub. Clothed, at least. The tub dry, at least.
And yet…
You’re losing it.
He struggled out of the tub. Not the first time this had happened. Sleepwalking? Maybe. Grief and lack of sleep did strange things to people. He pushed the thought away. It surged back at him, tidal, and he shoved until it retreated.
At the office, the local daily paper waited on his desk, facedown. When it was facedown, that always meant bad news. Whichever deputy on the ass-end of the midnight shift had left it was trying to spare his feelings. No one ever realized that making him turn the paper over just made it worse. The anticipation. Hadn’t any of these yahoos ever ripped off a single damn Band-Aid in their lives?
TWO??? was all the headline said.
He stared at it for a moment.
His meds sat in the pill-reminder doohickey on the table. Before her illness, Joyce had been hale and healthy, never taking anything stronger than Pepto-Bismol. But he’d started on the blood-pressure meds early on, and she’d teased him about his “old-man medicine.” The reminder thingamabob—a plastic, lidded grid of Sunday through Saturday, marked off in little pockets of morning, afternoon, and evening—had been hers, the ultimate acknowledgment that she wasn’t just sick: She was Sick.
He popped the pills and washed them down with water straight from the tap. Back in the living room, the TV was still chattering, this time showing G. William’s opponent in the election.
“…just want to ask one question. Just one. What on earth is going on over there in Lobo’s Nod? There hasn’t been a murder there since—I looked this up—since 1977. Nineteen seventy-seven! Jimmy Carter was president! And now we have this missing girl—and I hope and pray she comes home safe—and today’s murder. What is going on over there?”
“Obviously, you think it’s time for someone new in the sheriff’s department, but does the recent disappearance of Cara Swinton and now this murder make your case for you?” a reporter asked.
Translation: If the current guy was competent, this wouldn’t have happened, right?
“Look, what’s happened is a tragedy. And I’m not going to exploit it for political gain. No. This isn’t about politics. This is about safety. About protecting our children. It transcends politics. And the people of Lobo’s Nod—the people of this county—deserve to be safe. They expect it, and it’s their God-given right.”
With a snarl, G. William shut off the TV. His arms and legs had gone numb and tingly. It happened sometimes. His doctor claimed the pills had his blood pressure under control, that the numbness and tingling sensation were symptoms of anxiety. G. William believed him, but every time it happened, it still caught him off-guard and his first thought was This is it. This is the heart attack. The big one I’ve been putting on layaway for years. It’s finally been bought and paid for and it’s coming.
Talk about anxiety.
He slept that night on the sofa, as usual. He tried not to go into the bedroom they’d shared, usually doing so only to get a change of clothes. He would not even sleep in the bed they’d shared. A bed—a real bed—had been a succor he could not permit himself.
Halfway through the night, he woke to the sound of sobbing—quiet, pathetic, choking tears floating in the still night. At first he thought he’d left the TV on, but soon enough realized—as wet fingers came away from his cheek—the true origin of the sounds. He lay there on the sofa, not knowing why he was crying or for whom. Was it for Joyce? For the Swinton and Reed girls? Or was it for himself? For poor old G. William Tanner, who only wanted one more term, one more chance to do something meaningful before shuffling off to a lonely, uncompanioned retirement?
It didn’t matter, he decided, and drifted back off to sleep.
Chapter 3
He woke early, with first light. An old habit, unabated by age or fat.
He was in the bathtub. Clothed, at least. The tub dry, at least.
And yet…
You’re losing it.
He struggled out of the tub. Not the first time this had happened. Sleepwalking? Maybe. Grief and lack of sleep did strange things to people. He pushed the thought away. It surged back at him, tidal, and he shoved until it retreated.
At the office, the local daily paper waited on his desk, facedown. When it was facedown, that always meant bad news. Whichever deputy on the ass-end of the midnight shift had left it was trying to spare his feelings. No one ever realized that making him turn the paper over just made it worse. The anticipation. Hadn’t any of these yahoos ever ripped off a single damn Band-Aid in their lives?
TWO??? was all the headline said.
He stared at it for a moment.
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