Waiting Period

© 2003 Jess Butcher
All rights reserved.

The 10:40 cross-town bus pulled away from the stop as Cecil Huckabee sat frozen, gazing out a soot-stained window. He noticed the brittle-crimson tips of a street-side Water Oak clawing at the glass. Squinting, he placed his palm against the cool, transparent barrier. It seems an early fall, he mused, but the thought merged with the diesel fumes and clatter of the city, vanishing as quickly as it had come.

By the time the ninety-minute ride ended, an ocean of angry gray clouds had swallowed the September sun and Cecil's breathing had grown shallow. The same eyes that had absently scanned the gray cityscape during the cross-town journey now nervously darted from one object to the next. His thoughts drifted to Marie for a moment, but the sound of the salesclerk's voice started him back to the present.

"Yeah, the Colt Government Model is still a real nice weapon, no plastic, no gimmicks, heavy and reliable." The gun salesman pointed at a handgun in the case, a pudgy fingertip smudging the glass, a visible reminder of his recent luncheon respite with the Colonel's favorite recipe.

"How mu...much?" Cecil Huckabee's question was interrupted by a deep, phlegmy cough. He backed away from the display case and, bending at the waist, wiped his balled fist on a wrinkled trouser leg.

The meaty clerk rested both hands on the edge of the counter top and hesitated. "You okay?" he asked. His tone betrayed the question as one of curiosity rather than goodwill.

"Yeah," Cecil said with a deep exhalation. "I ... had heart surgery last year; this cold weather really gets to me." His comment was a shallow deception, but it was something to say, words to fill the uneasy space between the two men.

"Yes, sir, my Uncle Bill had the same surgery a few years back. Ol' Bill survived the operation, but too much John Barleycorn finally done him in!" The clerk punctuated his comment with a sharp snort of laughter.

Another man might have catalogued the clerk's comment as either good humor or condemnation. Cecil didn't react but stood mute, his blank gaze fixed on the flickering fluorescent bulb inside the display case that separated them.

Where did I fail her? he wondered. I suppose I drove her away but how could we have ... come to this? Cecil silently teetered at the edge of oblivion. The physical disease she had given him was indeed a lingering death, but something far more sinister plagued him. The shredded remnants of betrayed trust were tangled about his very soul, suffocating him, making every movement, each labored breath, more difficult than the last.

The gun salesman's broad smile slowly disappeared. He waited, head down, tattooed forearms flat against the countertop. The uncomfortable silence continued for a long moment as the clerk thumbed a shallow divot on the surface of the glass, a souvenir of a carelessly handled Smith & Wesson from years past.

"So, what do you think? Want to take a closer look at the Colt?" The question finally penetrated, startling Cecil.

"Oh ... yeah, sure ... if you don't mind. I've never owned a gun, so you'll have to show—"

"Don't worry about it; the 1911 is my all-time favorite," the clerk grinned. "This piece is a real classic, seven-shot magazine, mechanical and pressure safeties, 5-inch barrel ..."

The words rushed past Cecil as he nodded, feigning interest in the specifications of the weapon lying on the glass in front of him. Though he fought the urge, his thoughts drifted to the obscene, blood-black slash across Marie's throat, the sad expression on her face, the madness, the ... chopping.

The clerk paused, sensing his customer's preoccupation. "Mind if I ask why you're considering a large-frame automatic? If you've never owned a sidearm, I've got several other models that would be easier to handle."

"No, no, this one will be fine." Cecil blurted the words a bit too quickly, signaling an end to the sales presentation. "How much with bullets?" he asked.

A moment later the price was agreed upon. The clerk's grease-glazed fingertips stabbed Cecil Huckabee's name, address, and social security number across the chattering teeth of a stained computer keyboard.

"You can take the ammo today; it'll be fifteen days before I can release the Colt," the clerk said as he slipped a box of .45 caliber hollow-points into a plastic bag and shoved them across the counter top at Huckabee.

"Fifteen days?" Cecil's brow furrowed as he pondered the implications of the mandatory waiting period.

"Yep, that's the law. It's a good thing, though," the clerk added solemnly. "It helps keep guns away from the wrong element. You know what I mean?" The clerk grinned.

"I suppose," Cecil muttered before thanking the clerk and hurrying toward the bus stop to catch the next cross-town.

Two hours later Cecil Huckabee was seated in front of his television, the open cartridge box resting on the table beside him. He held a single bullet between index finger and thumb, silhouetted against the backdrop of CNN's endless ticker-tape of grim tidings. He appraised the missile solemnly, its single leaden eye coldly returning his stare.

"Fifteen days," he whispered to his new-found savior. "Not so much time to endure my cowardice, I suppose."

Cecil placed the single cartridge upright on the table, delicately balancing it next to its foam-encased platoon of compatriots. His gaze shifted to the closed bedroom door that separated him from the sickening sweet smell that beckoned. Thoughts drifting to those terrible moments, a sudden chill overtook him. He shuddered and reached for the afghan draped over the arm of his chair.

It did indeed seem an early fall. Cecil longed for the comfort of the desolate, endless night at the end of the waiting period. He sat motionless now, concentrating only on the wet rattle that punctuated his each shallow breath. Beyond the closed bedroom door a telephone rang, but he ignored its call.

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