“I brung you this,” Nelson said, pulling a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from his sweatshirt pocket and thrusting it toward Edward Everett.
“I just thought you could use something,” Edward Everett said, not taking the money. “You need to eat,” he said. “When’s the last time you ate?”
“I don’t know,” he said. He tugged at the fuzz on his chin, hard enough that it seemed it should hurt. “Yesterday, maybe. Fuck, what day is it? What does it matter?”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Sunday,” Nelson said in a way that suggested the word was one he was trying out for the first time. “Sun. Day.”
“You should use that,” Edward Everett said, nodding at the bill in Nelson’s hand.
“I’m no charity case,” he said. “Besides, a twenty ain’t going to fix much, Skip.” He held out the bill but when Edward Everett didn’t take it, he let it flutter to the floor.
“Look, Nels—Ross, sit down. I’ll get you something to eat. I have to get going.”
“Ball game?” Nelson said. “Season’s still going on?”
“Last game,” Edward Everett said. “We’re—” Tied with Quad Cities, he was going to say but caught himself. If he were Nelson, he wouldn’t want to know anything about that. He finished his sentence, “—wrapping things up.”
“The guys miss me, Skip?” Nelson said. “I know how it is. It’s like I was never there. I seen it when I was one of the guys that stuck. The hole closes up behind you. Shoomp. Like a fucking vacuum.”
“No, Nelson—Ross.”
“Don’t lie to me, Skip. It’s like a fucking vacuum.”
“I’m going to get you some food,” he said. “If you just eat—”
“It’s feed a cold, starve a fever,” Nelson said. “This ain’t a cold, Skip.”
“Look, I’ll get you something,” he said; he went out to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He had no idea what Nelson would want. “What are you in the mood for?” he called, as if he were entertaining an ordinary guest, a friend who had just dropped by for a visit.
Nelson didn’t respond. Edward Everett took a loaf of bread and three wrapped slices of cheese out of the refrigerator. He could at least make him a sandwich; something was better than nothing.
From the living room, he could hear Grizzly growling in a low, menacing way and he went to check on him. Nelson was standing on the couch, rocking side to side on the cushions to keep his balance. It reminded Edward Everett of a child bouncing on a bed. Grizzly was crouched low, his hindquarters up, his teeth bared.
“Get him the fuck away from me,” Nelson said, slapping at his sweatshirt pocket. When he brought his hand back up, he was holding a gun.
Edward Everett dropped the bread and cheese. “What the fuck, Nelson?”
Grizzly lunged toward the couch, trying to leap onto it, but fell short. Startled, Nelson tumbled over the back of it, slamming against a box of the game log cards Edward Everett had brought up from the basement weeks earlier, the box tearing open, cards skittering across the floor. Again Grizzly leaped for the couch, and made it that time, barking furiously, Nelson scrambling to his feet, slipping on the loose cards, pointing the gun in the direction of the dog, his hand shaking. Edward Everett eyed the front door and then the kitchen behind him: which was the easier way out? If he ran, would Nelson shoot him?
“Ross,” he said in a voice he hoped was calming, but he could hear a tremor in it.
“Do something about the fucking dog,” Nelson shouted, still pointing the gun toward Grizzly, who was barking and leaping toward him. “I hate dogs.”
“Let me get him.” Edward Everett took a tentative step toward the couch. “Just getting the dog,” he said, holding up his hand at an angle: a foolish gesture, he realized, as if that would shield him if Nelson pulled the trigger. He snatched at Grizzly’s collar but the dog twisted, snapping at him, biting the base of his right thumb, drawing blood and getting away. The second time he reached for the dog’s collar, he managed to snag it, picking him up, Grizzly flailing the air with his paws, his teeth flashing. He held him at arm’s length, barely keeping his fingers laced through the collar, managed to open the door to the closet near the front door, hurled the dog in and slammed the door. On the other side, Grizzly flung himself against the door, the hangers on which Edward Everett had hung his coats clanging.