= Trouble Sneezes Your Way
  by Anthony Neil Smith

Take off again. I dare you. Just point your feet towards that open door and leave. You didn't want this, you didn't plan on it going this way, but this is what you get.

You didn't plant the bomb, but you were in the wrong place at the right time. Even got some glass in your hair, you were so close. Ten in the morning. The sports bar in front of you goes poof, two people killed, and you run away in your high heels.

Sure, I'd run too. I'd run, but I'd hang around, come back, wait to tell my story, take some of the heat off me. But you, you were heading for the hills. (If that fat woman hadn't recognized you the next day when you were buying the hair dye, we wouldn't be here now.)

It was the wrong people who died. That was unfortunate any way you look at it. They were like you, at the wrong place. But none of you had any idea. It went off while you were ten feet away, looking across the street the whole time, silently counting down, "Five...four...three--"

Like the biggest sneeze you'd ever heard. And the bar windows with the red borders and the neon Budweiser and Miller signs exploded with a shattering tinkle that you turned away from just in time. The slivers blew over your head and got stuck in the hair spray, bounced off your coat. You saw the old man with his seeing eye dog when he went down. You heard the screams from the woman inside who'd been wiping off a front table, getting ready for the lunch crowd, when the windows blew and cut the arteries in her neck.

The nurses and patients across the street at the clinic came outside afterwards, relieved, angry, scared. Who would bomb a sports bar? They knew it was meant for them instead.

You saw the drawing of yourself on the news: Ugly, square dark mug, hardly looked like you at all. "Police are looking for a possible witness, a five and a half foot tall woman with dark brown hair, wearing glasses, possibly injured in the blast. If you have any information, please call...."

I'll say it: Yeah, you were involved. You know where the bomber is right now? 

You're wrong. He's in the room next door. 

I'll tell you what happened: You didn't expect the bomb to be on your side anyway. Dr. Kenner's office was across the street, not marked as an abortion clinic. Your partner (I'll call him Jamie. That's close enough) probably didn't know what "obstetrician" meant. Or he must have misunderstood the directions: "Metallufta Road, Dr. Kenner's Abortion Death House," translated into "Corner of Wright Ave. and Metallufta, 3rd and Goal Sports Bar." Sure, an easy mistake, especially at night. You know how busy the abortion clinic is at two in the morning.

(Anyway, let's just say it was like that, hypothetically.)

Still smug? I'll bet you didn't expect Jamie to turn you in. Thought you had him wrapped around your big toe, huh? What was it? The sex? He's twenty--I can see this--slaving away at community college, not doing so well in your history class. You're thirty-five (quite attractive if you don't mind me saying). Nice legs to show off, you're looking smart in the glasses, smiling at him whenever you catch him looking.

Did Jamie know about the husband? Either he did and didn't care, or didn't know at all. But your husband doesn't know about Jamie yet. We're sure. Couple more hours though, WHOA! I would hate to be in that room when it happens. Hate to see how he'll act when he finds out his wife was screwing a young guy like that. At least his girlfriend is about your age. (Pick your affairs wisely next time, huh?)

For the cause! You were going to say that next, I know. Jamie didn't care about the cause. That's just you, tired of sitting through all those meetings talking and praying to close down the "baby murderer," you call him. And he kept right on going, business growing, thriving, and all the Child Saviors wanted to do was stand out front, sing hymns, wave the signs that said, "ADOPTION, NOT ABORTION," and "LET YOUR BABY HAVE THE SAME CHANCE YOUR MOM GAVE YOU."

But you wanted more. (No, shut up, let me finish.) You wanted quick. God too slow for you? Couldn't wait forty days, forty nights? So you talk to a few people in the underground, gather up some information, some pamphlets. "How To Build Your Own Bomb," or "Idiot's Guide To Explosives." Surprised how easy it was to build? Most of the stuff was around the house, out in the shed or the garage. Only took a couple of trips to the store, some nails, gravel, heavy-duty staples, and you had it, ready to go, hidden back in the guest room closet, under the afghans your grandmother left you.

So, you're thinking, "How am I going to do this? Who can I manipulate and use, who can I put the guilt trip on? I know: a young, horny, eager to please student! A good looking one." (If you're going to screw somebody, might as well pick a good one, no matter the reason.)

Jamie's tall, works out, but he isn't that bright. You could tell he was shy, not so confident. It started out slowly. You timed it perfectly. Subtle. He had no idea until we told him ourselves. He might have gone to jail for you. Good job you did, almost like brainwashing. I still think it was the sex. (You must be great, because it took us a good twelve hours to untangle everything you put in his head.) 

It started with small talk, about an upcoming test, about a research paper. Then you'd see him in the halls, make a point to talk to him, smile, brush your fingers across his hand, compliments pouring from you. Let's say this took a month, with class meeting three times a week. By then, you could tell he was wound, ready to be sprung. Then it was--what? Dinner, so you could discuss his progress? Meet him in the library at a back table to "proofread" his book report? 

You took the wedding ring off. You said students and teachers had to be careful together, and suggested a ride to a Ramada Inn one afternoon. Like your husband would know. He didn't get in until six, anyway. You could spend a couple of hours riding the boy, get a charge from that all on its own, and then fill his head, slowly at first, with pillow talk about how tragic it was, women killing babies because, "They weren't careful like you and me, Jamie. I mean, don't jump in the sack without your insurance, you don't want a kid. No need to make the kid pay for your own mistakes. That's why the world's in so much trouble. People don't take responsibility for their actions, and God's not happy with them." (Of course, he's probably not happy with adultery either, but we won't get into that.)

He started to buy it. You move on to specifics: Dr. Kenner's clinic. The Child Saviors not doing a thing to help at all, just praying and singing. "Look, it's not like David just prayed to kill Goliath. He picked up the rocks and went and did it. Jesus himself didn't just wish that the moneychangers would leave the temple. He drove them out with a whip. Why would it be any different if we...." The bomb. The place, the time, you spin it out for him, and he eats it up. And you screw him one more time, just to drive it home. The extra point. 

Two in the morning: the bomb is wrapped up in newspapers in a blue plastic grocery bag that Jamie drops in the trashcan/ashtray sitting by the double wooden doors of 3rd and Goal, not the one in front of Dr. Kenner's office. What was Jamie thinking? Was he just stupid, or did he chicken out? Maybe you didn't explain it to him as clearly as you thought. Or he had a sudden glimmer of insight and decided to blow up the wrong building on purpose. Think about it: Why not the optometrist next door to the clinic? Or a doctor with a similar name, like Kantor, across town? After all, he didn't do it for the cause in the first place. He did it for you.

(Don't get all indignant now.) Look at your part in this. You didn't want your fingerprints all over the operation or your face on the street the night before. You were home being the loving wife, asking Hubby about his day and not hearing anything he said. Everything you had in you was focused on the bomb, on Jamie doing his part, on the new jewel for your crown, right?

Can you answer this for me? What type of person would try to kill somebody with a homemade bomb? Not a specific person, but everyone in the building, that's what you wanted.

Could have been a sixteen year old girl in that office, scared to death. Could've been somebody there for a routine check-up, not having an abortion at all. 

I bet you think you didn't do anything wrong, since you killed the wrong people. (You think we should go easy on you for that.) Just call it an accident and let it go, better prepare ourselves for next time.

What sort of person? You. You and your boy toy. You and your conscience. You wanted to feel better about yourself and the world and think you did some good, so now I got two dead people who didn't ask for it, see it coming, or deserve it. 

That's got to be the reason, see, because the other possibility is just too cold blooded, meaningless. I don't care what your statement says. I don't believe a person would blow up a bar because you thought your husband would be in there with his girlfriend. No, it doesn't make sense, and you could have found out easily enough they weren't there anyway.

(Oh, yeah, we found him. He was with her, just like you thought, but they were at her apartment. Did you know he was into leather?)

Back to the victims: I had to tell that woman's teenage son and daughter why a neon beer sign killed their mom. You didn't know she had been working there five years, and had just enrolled at the community college so she could start towards a degree in hotel management. That she probably would have taken your American History course in the spring. Of course not. How could you have known?

What? Oh, the old man. Well, his kids have been waiting for him to die for ten years. He was loaded. But he was still a mess to clean up. And the kids have to pay for the cremation now.

I'll be back in a few minutes. You want some coffee or something? A tissue, maybe?

ANTHONY NEIL SMITH is a fiction editor with Mississippi Review Web and co-editor of Plots With Guns. His work has appeared in Exquisite Corpse, Barcelona Review, Blue Murder, Nefarious, Thrilling Detective, 12-Gauge Review, Futures, and several others, with work forthcoming in Dead Mule. He sometimes collaborates with Victor Gischler. He currently lives in Mississippi, where, as Jim White sings, "things are always better than they seem." Email him at ansmith@netdoor.com.

Copyright (c) 2001 Anthony Neil Smith