_All Dave Miller wanted to do was commit suicide in peace. He tried,
but the things that happened after he'd pulled the trigger were all
wrong. Like everyone standing around like statues. No St. Peter, no
pearly gate, no pitchforks or halos. He might just as well have
saved the bullet!_
Dave Miller would never have done it, had he been in his right mind. The
Millers were not a melancholy stock, hardly the sort of people you
expect to read about in the morning paper who have taken their lives the
night before. But Dave Miller was drunk--abominably, roaringly so--and
the barrel of the big revolver, as he stood against the sink, made a
ring of coldness against his right temple.
Dawn was beginning to stain the frosty kitchen windows. In the faint
light, the letter lay a gray square against the drain-board tiles. With
the melodramatic gesture of the very drunk, Miller had scrawled across
the envelope:
"This is why I did it!"
[Illustration: Dave Miller pushed with all his strength, but the girl
was as unmovable as Gibraltar.]
He had found Helen's letter in the envelope when he staggered into their
bedroom fifteen minutes ago--at a quarter after five. As had frequently
happened during the past year, he'd come home from the store a little
late ... about twelve hours late, in fact. And this time Helen had done
what she had long threatened to do. She had left him.
The letter was brief, containing a world of heartbreak and broken hopes.
"I don't mind having to scrimp, Dave. No woman minds that if she feels
she is really helping her husband over a rough spot. When business went
bad a year ago, I told you I was ready to help in any way I could. But
you haven't let me. You quit fighting when things got difficult, and put
in all your money and energy on liquor and horses and cards. I could
stand being married to a drunkard, Dave, but not to a coward ..."
So she was trying to show him. But Miller told himself he'd show her
instead. Coward, eh? Maybe this would teach her a lesson! Hell of a lot
of help she'd been! Nag at him every time he took a drink. Holler bloody
murder when he put twenty-five bucks on a horse, with a chance to make
five hundred. What man wouldn't do those things?
His drug store was on the skids. Could he be blamed for drinking a
little too much, if alcohol dissolved the morbid vapors of his mind?
Miller stiffened angrily, and tightened his finger on the trigger. But
he had one moment of frank insight just before the hammer dropped and
brought the world tumbling about his ears. It brought with it a
realization that the whole thing was his fault. Helen was right--he was
a coward. There was a poignant ache in his heart. She'd been as loyal as
they came, he knew that.
He could have spent his nights thinking up new business tricks, instead
of swilling whiskey. Could have gone out of his way to be pleasant to
customers, not snap at them when he had a terrific hangover. And even
Miller knew nobody ever made any money on the horses--at least, not when
he needed it. But horses and whiskey and business had become tragically
confused in his mind; so here he was, full of liquor and madness, with a
gun to his head.
Then again anger swept his mind clean of reason, and he threw his chin
up and gripped the gun tight.
"Run out on me, will she!" he muttered thickly. "Well--this'll show
her!"