Tritanopia

By Lincoln Reed

Derek sprints out the door with a handful of cash. Sweat beads trickle down his forehead. Black glasses fog above the facemask that hugs his chin and shields his mouth. The mask slips down his nose, dangling just over his lips as he hustles to his rusty pickup truck. Police sirens wail in the distance. Derek slams the driver’s door shut. Keys jangle. The engine fumbles. Screeches. Putters.

Then it happens.

The wad of money explodes into a red cloud, spraying the inside of the dilapidated interior like a glitter bomb, staining every pore and fabric in a scarlet haze. For a moment, time stops. He’s blind. Then the glasses fly off. The mask, too.

Dust settles. An acrid smell lingers in the air.

During a pandemic, it should be easier than ever to rob a bank. Lobbies are empty. Staff is at limited capacity. Patrons must wear masks, even bank robbers! Yes, especially the latter—burglars who value health and public safety but also wield a 9mm.

Derek is one such thief.

He studies his reflection in the rearview mirror. He’s red. Literally. All of him… except his eyes and mouth. He resembles a man wearing a crimson ski mask, perhaps the disguise he should have worn in the first place—proper attire for a robber.

The scent of powder gives way to a bitter copper.

Oh no…  it’s blood! I’m bleeding? The gun misfired? I’m shot?

Screaming police sirens close in. They’ll soon have him in handcuffs. Hauled away and…

I’ll be dead by then.

Derek stumbles from the truck. With a stack of paper bills in one hand and a gun in the other, he crosses an empty alley toward the town’s lone church steeple. He bangs on the side door. He hammers harder, half hoping he’ll bust through.

Dizziness. Nausea. Hold on!

The lock turns and the entrance cracks open. A man with a priestly collar squints at him. “Yes?”

Derek reveals the handgun and pushes himself inside. The door locks behind.

“Father, help me. I’m dying!”

“My son, you’re… you’re so blue.”

“I ain’t sad, Father. I’m shot! Give me last rites!”

The priest eyes the paper bills and the gun. “If you’re injured, we should call an ambulance.”

“No time! I’m bleed’n out!” Derek grabs at his jacket. “See?”

The priest’s head tips to the side. “Nothing a little Stain-Away can’t fix.”

“Really? A joke?”

“Sincerely, all you need is a strong cleaner.”

Derek grits his teeth. I’m at a church, ain’t I? “Got the cops on my tail! And I ain’t going back. No, sir. Heaven’s what I need. Now, say the prayer!”

The priest guides Derek to a bench. “I’ll be needing that first.”

Derek pulls a single bill from the stack and extends it toward the clergyman.

The priest frowns. “The gun.”

Reluctantly, Derek clicks on the safety and surrenders his weapon. It’s not like he’ll be needing it where he’s going.

“You’ve robbed a bank, I assume?”

“That matters?”

The priest shrugs. “Confession is key.”

Derek blinks. The room starts to spin. “Hurry, Father. Please.”

“What’s the money for, my son?”

Derek studies the man sitting beside him. What do I have to lose? “Ain’t a sob story. Unlucky is all. Told myself I’d pay it back once—”

“For you or another?”

“My…” Derek’s voice cracks. “My son.”

“Medical bills?”

Derek hesitates. The priest nods with understanding. “It’s not too late. Your son is in God’s hands.”

“I… I know.”

“Can’t help him like this. Turn yourself in. That will be best. God will forgive you.”

“That’s why I’m here. Quick. I don’t have time.”

Derek’s heart pounds as the priest leads him through the Act of Contrition. If the clergyman is faking the process, perhaps biding time until the police arrive, Derek doesn’t know, but the verses and cadence of his words sound legitimate enough. Derek exhales heavily through his nose, savoring each dust-tainted breath. Not long now. When the priest finishes, Derek hands him the cash.

“My parish cannot accept stolen money. You understand.”

“It ain’t for you.” Derek guides the priest to the window where they have a view of the graveyard. “Use it for the headstone.”

“Yours?”

Derek presses the money into the man’s open palm. His gut churns, the words clogging in his throat. “Make sure my kid gets a headstone. He deserves one. Promised his mom I’d come through. This was the only way.”

The air conditioning unit whirs. The priest looks at Derek and then back to the cash. He points to the tainted money. “What color is this?”

“My blood?”

“So, you think it’s red?”

“Ain’t that what blood is?”

The priest eyes Derek in a contemplative manner. “In my profession, you pick up random tidbits. One of those things is Tritanopia. You’re color blind to blue, yes?”

“But the gun—”

“Must have missed you. Banks use blue dye bombs for stolen cash. You look like a Smurf.”

“I’m going to heaven though, right?” Derek motions a stained hand toward the ceiling, wanting to believe the priest but not yet convinced this isn’t a cruel prank. “I’m see’n my son again. You did last rites. I’m squared away, ain’t I?”

“You’re not going. At least, not today. Unless you’re allergic to dye. Then you would be dye-ing.”

Derek’s nose and forehead smudge against the window. The clergyman sets a hand on his shoulder. “I’m a priest, not a comedian.”

“Hardy-har. Now what am I go’n to do?”

“My parish helps with an inmate rehabilitation program. If you turn yourself in, we could raise money to put toward the gravestone.”

“You’d do that?”

The priest raises his eyebrows. “I’m not allowed to lie.”

“Or steal.”

“Exactly. But, I can help you make it right.”

Derek stares at his reflection in the window. “Tritan-what?”

“Tritanopia. Small percent chance. But, you’re one.”

“So that sky’s not pink?”

“It’s blue,” says the priest, “as far as the eye can see.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a professor, writer, and editor. He holds a BA in film and media production from Taylor University and an MFA in creative writing from Miami University of Ohio. More than a dozen of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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