The Golden Globe

For the first time a furrow of doubt creased John Valentine's brow as he saw his son's battered condition. He held out his hand, started to say something, then turned away from them both. When he faced them again, there were tears in his eyes. He grimaced, rubbed his face.

"Listen to me," he said, sadly. "And look at you. I've done it again, haven't I?"

"Father..."

"No, son, don't say anything. I stand revealed, once more, as a coward and a poltroon. Look what I've done to you."

"Father, I know you never mean—"

"Sparky!" Elwood warned.

"You stay out of this!" Valentine bellowed. "Ke

"Yes, Father."

"Then all I can do is apologize again. I have overplayed my role, and there is no forgiveness for that, but I hope I still have your love."

"You do, Father."

Valentine held out his hand toward his son.

"Then let's go get you to a medic, and after that, to the police. You can file charges against me."

"No, Father."

"It's your decision. I'll abide by it. Perhaps it would be best for me. I can't seem to control my temper. Maybe there is some way I can be helped."

"Father, I—"

"You know I've never had much use for psychiatry. It seems to me they know less about the human mind than I do. But maybe there is some form of medication, some pill or brain treatment...."

"That's an awful idea," Sparky said. "You know how those pills you used to take after that... after the time you... well, you know what I mean. You could hardly remember your lines after a walk across the stage."

Valentine smiled. "You remember that, do you? Oh, it wasn't so bad. And if I have to, we'll just cast someone else in my role. I'll stay on as director." He laughed. "Who ever said a director needs to remember lines?"

He still had his hand extended toward his son, and now there was a hint of edginess in his eyes, as if he knew the gesture had gone on too long, with no response from Sparky. The boy had not said no, but he hadn't taken the hand, either.

"Come on, son. Let's get out of here. We'll put the whole show on hiatus if we have to. We'll get you up to snuff on the fencing. No more cutting, I promise. We can talk about the rest of it, too. I'm going to change, Ke

After a momentary hesitation Sparky started toward his father.

"Hold it right there, Sparky," Destry said. Sparky stopped.

"Now, I'm only going to say this once, my friend," he said, never taking his eyes from Valentine. "A minute ago you said you were quitting the show. You said you needed some time to think things through. Most of all, you said you were making your own decisions now. I took it as a declaration of independence from your father."

"Sir," Valentine said, coldly, slashing his sword through the empty air, "you are interfering. This is none of your business."

"I think it is. You asked me a minute ago why I brought these." He rested the heels of his hands on the gun butts. "I'm not a violent man, Mr. Valentine. These were my father's pistols. I hung them up a long time ago, but there comes a time when you have to put them on again. When violence has to be met with violence. Now, I know Sparky isn't capable of resisting you, physically. So I will, if I have to."

For the first time he glanced at the young man.

"So what's it going to be, Sparky? I'll back your play, whatever it is. But I want you to know this. If you go with him, well, that's your choice. But if you do, I'll go away, and you'll never see me again."

Sparky looked from one man to the other. It was high noon, right there on the stage of the Valentine Theater. Tom Destry and John Valentine never glanced at him, their gazes locked. Valentine's eyes blazed with fury. Destry was calm and resolute.

"Let's go, Ke

Sparky looked back and forth. He was so tired, so desperately tired. And in the end, he thought later, that was the biggest factor in his choice. There was only one way he'd ever get any rest.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said, and walked toward his friend.

"No!" Valentine shouted, and raised his sword, charging toward the two of them.

"Elwood, don't!"

But the gun was out of its holster. Valentine was only a few feet away, already starting to slash downward with the blade. Sparky grabbed Elwood's arm and the gun fired. The shot took Valentine in the forehead and threw him back in a cloud of smoke and blood.

Sparky was going to wrestle the weapon from Elwood/Destry, but the man made no resistance, and Sparky was left standing, holding the hot gun barrel. He stared down at it. Etched on the side were the words THIMBLE THEATER PROP DEPARTMENT.

A prop gun? Fake blood?

He went down on one knee and touched his father's face. There was a hole an inch above his right eye. Blood was pumping sluggishly from it, to pool in the eye socket and then run down into the ear. The left eye was open and the pupil was a black hole that swallowed all hope.

"Doctors," Sparky mumbled. "We have to get medical help." He put his hand under his father's head, meaning to lift and cradle it until help arrived. What he felt back there was a hole he could put his fist in, and jagged edges of bone. Valentine lay in a pool of blood and in this red sea were islands of other matter.

"I'm afraid it can't be fixed, Sparky," Destry said.

Sparky pulled his hand back. There were chunks of brain clinging to it.

"Help him," Sparky whimpered. He looked up at Destry, who stood a little apart looking solemnly down at the man he had just killed.

"I wouldn't have cared if he was just coming at me," Destry said. "But you saw it. He was trying to kill you. He forced my hand."

Sparky didn't register anything the man said. He kept looking from his father's ruined face to the pistol in his hand. He might have knelt there forever but he heard footsteps coming from backstage. He looked up.

It was Hildy Johnson and Rose, the assistant stage manager. They stopped while still in the wings, looking out to the stage.

"Sorry, Mr. Valentine," Rose said. "We heard a noise...." She began to turn from the scene of fake mayhem. It wasn't any of her business. But Hildy was frowning, and Rose looked at Sparky's face.

Sparky stood, and the gun thudded to the floor. He held up his bloody hand to show it to Destry... to Elwood....

No one was there.

Rose began to scream.

Hildy started ru

Sparky ran.

In a very real sense, I've been ru

I opened my eyes, looked around me as if emerging from a dream, and there's certainly a sense in which that is very real, too. But the dream had never before left me in the little park, right across the corridor from the scene of the crime. I determined I was out of the dream now, not in it. All my life, this has been a harder determination than you might suppose.

I don't revisit that memory a lot. I've never been far from it, never tried to deny its "reality," so to speak. I have become adept at veering away from it when I feel it approaching.

But every few years it is worth taking it out and examining it. To see if it has changed, after these seventy long years.

Because, you see, I believe very little of it. Neither should you.

The most vivid memory of my life is a lie.

It's a very theatrical memory, isn't it? My father is shot to death—the bullet destroyed the brain, which is the only organ we can't repair, the only wound we ca