White Man's Problems by Kevin Morris Page B

rise of panic. He played out the scenes to follow: Henry slowly dying, Sondra crying, Bella shrieking, Rita stunned, and Bella and Rita both staring at him in judgment, forgiving him slowly over years but never, ever, ever forgetting. He stood up and looked for anything—he thought about running next door to the Stanhope’s house. He had to do something. He dropped down to the ground again. “Hey…Ok, buddy…Hi, boy…You’re a good boy…a good king boy…Yeah, that’s right. Relax, big boy…” With the next wave of desperation, the defensive back part of his brain took over. He put his shoulder under the bumper and, with a furious groan, tried to lift the car up. It didn’t work.
    Mulligan came to a knee and tried to collect himself. He thought about hitting the car’s OnStar Service button but decided there would not be enough time for whomever they get to come to the rescue to get there. Henry’s eyes had that dumb, lovable, low-brain-wave stare, although it was plainly fading. He was crying a little. Mulligan considered dialing 911, but that seemed like it would be even slower than OnStar . He jumped to his feet and started running down the driveway to look for help. A few steps later, it hit him: The jack! Of course! The fucking jack! Racing to the driver’s-side window, he hit the trunk icon, sending the lid on its automated rise. He threw the golf clubs and the rest of the compartment’s contents to the side, pulled out the carpeted trunk floor, and began unscrewing the wing nut holding the jack in place. It came out in two pieces, and an instruction sheet was buried below. Mulligan stared at the directions for a few seconds, grasping what he could. He put the stand into the risers and placed the combined unit in front of the right rear tire.
    It was then that he realized he was missing the small tool needed to ratchet the thing up. Where is the fucking crank ? Under the car, Henry struggled and groaned and wore the same heartbreaking stare of confusion. Mulligan peered again at the image of a small elbow-like piece of iron. He tore through a brown paper bag full of hangers and old CDs. Not finding anything, he ripped out the spare tire, hoping the missing crank had fallen into the nether regions of the trunk. He went back to the littered driveway and dumped the contents of his golf bag. Out came his oversize driver, his irons, his putter, half a dozen Titleist twos—which bounced down toward the mailbox—dried-up Cohibas, a cigar cutter, lighters, ball marks, and divot fixers.
    He sat on the blacktop amid the array of shit he carried around in his car every day. It was all his fault—twice over. Not only had he run the dog over, he also could not save him. This is it, Mulligan said to himself. This is where I come apart. This is the kind of thing that happens in real life. The bad thing. He tried to take it in, to taste it like the second week of prison food, like the flesh and the blood. Sometimes the bad thing happens . He felt the unwelcome guest of sense memory, a panicky flashback to when three kids from his high school were killed by a drunk driver—the petrified feeling that accompanies abrupt confrontation with a horrible accident. There is no safety net. Sometimes it is just all bad. He made a decision to settle into the pain and, in this purgatorial time between the lightning bolt and the crack, to sit and watch Henry die.
    Then he had an idea. He ran into the garage and pushed a stepladder up against the large wall cabinets. At the top, he found what he was looking for: a red toolbox, barely touched since Christmas five years ago when Dennis had given it to him as a half joke. The elevated resting place showed how little Mulligan thought of it, and, pulling it down, he was reminded of how heavy it was. He managed himself off the ladder, ran out to the car, and threw the toolbox down—more anxious metal clangs pressed into