Hawley's Heart - John Fetto

Hawley had a good heart. He would help people not just Johanna, but some nights, it would race, beating so hard it would burst from his chest, and she’d lean over him in bed and find him staring wide-eyed at nothing as if there were someone in the room, threatening him, so powerful he dared not move, and she’d touch him and ask what is it, what do you see, but he would just stare, hyper ventilating, sweat running down his forward, staring at something she couldn’t see.

“What is it?” Hawley didn’t answer. Johanna got up, rolled out of bed and a ran to the bathroom, filling a glass of water and wetting a towel, then rushed back into the room. He was crouched on the floor. She heard a drawer open and metal snapping together, when he raised up, he was holding something the length of a broom, but made of black metal. He held it still with both hands, elbows out.

“Shhh,” he said. “Do you hear them?”

“What?”

“Quite. Maybe they’ll pass.”

Johanna heard them walking outside. Kids from the high school after Friday’s game. Probably drunk. They must have parked far away because they the parking gets so crowded. Their voices rose as the marched by and Hawley pivoted, pointing the piece of metal toward them, still crouched still ready. They heard a car door slam, an engine start, and a car roll away.

Slowly Hawley lowered the black metal, he sat on the bed, and then lied down, back to her, cradling the piece of metal between his arms.