Short Story: “Four Step”

For those of you close enough to me to follow me on social media, you probably know that I’ve entered NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge. I passed through the first heat unscathed, but the second really made me bite my nails. My prompt made me quite uncomfortable: a comedy about a butcher and learning how to drive. I wrote, scrapped, rewrote, submitted, and kissed my chance of the final goodbye.

But through the grace of the literary gods (hail Hydra), I scraped by fourth in my heat. The top five in each moved on to the final round, where the top ten (out of forty) will receive prizes. I’m not in love with this story, but hey, it served me well enough. Without further adieu, I give you “Four Step.” Continue reading


The bones of a first chapter.

As a “writer,” one of the biggest obstacles I encounter is motivation. I think loads of us have great ideas, but we can think and research them to death without ever writing a sentence. Last week, I shook off the dust and started to write something that I believe can reach novel (or at least novella) length. In the interest of momentum, and not burying a Word document behind so many windows that I will never look at it again, I’ve decided to share the first chapter, to prove to myself and others that I can do this.

Coming up with a decent working title, however, is a different story… Continue reading

Short Story: Guessing Games

First, a little background. I decided to enter a short story contest that my friend discovered. It consisted of three rounds in which you receive a three-part prompt: a genre, a subject, and a character. After each round, the word length and time to complete the story shrink as only the top five entries in each heat progress.

Well, the results are in for the first round, and I’ve moved on! I managed to nab third place in my heat, which asked me to write a romantic comedy involving anger and a limo driver. Those who know me know how funny this is since I am not a romcom fan. My writing M.O. tends to be “if I’m stuck, just kill someone off.” That’s not very romantic or comedic, unless your humor is black, which mine does tend to be. Anyway, since I have to write my ass off this weekend for the second round, I thought I’d share this shocking feat of romantic comedy I’ve supposedly accomplished. Read on if you fancy.

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Short Story: Blood.

I’m sorry I haven’t posted any fiction in a while. NaNoWriMo was a very, very rough draft this year, so you were all spared those words. This is the first story I’ve finished since November. I was driven to write this after the atrocity that was the Bonnie and Clyde “television event” that consisted of lies that only made their story more boring. Stephen King has a fascinating novella called “1922” that has a brief but memorable depiction of a couple on the run, and I wanted to know more about them. Also, as I said in my recommendation of Tired Pony’s latest album, most of the songs, particularly “The Ghost of the Mountain,” stirred some plot in my mind. The influences meshed together in my mind to get me writing again, so there’s that little exercise for you. Enjoy!

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Ten Tips for NaNoWriMo.

Oh blog, how I do neglect thee. I apologize humbly for this month of silence. As you may or may not know, I do some music blogging on the side, paid only in MP3s and tickets and the satisfaction of a job well done, except during CMJ when I also get paid in free drinks. So there was a lot of reviewing to be done, and those beers/vodka tonics/whatevers weren’t gonna drink themselves. And then I wound up at an Ed Sheeran afterparty for more free drinks. And then I went to LA to see one of my favorite bands. No regrets, just adventures!

But this brings us to the worst possible time to blog: NaNoWriMo. To writers, this name is like kryptonite. To others, it probably sounds like some arbitrary anime title. For those of you who are curious, or who can’t stand an acronym and can’t be bothered to Google, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. It’s actually an international project, so I don’t know why it’s not InNoWriMo. Nobody tells me nuffin’. Anyway, November (another “No”) is when writers across the globe decide to alienate their loved ones even more than usual to write 50,000 words in one month. This binge writing is supposed to swat away the cobwebs, blast away excuses and make it easier to get a very, very rough first draft out. In case that word count seems obscure to you, offers this list of novels roughly that length:

  • The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams (46,333 words)
  • The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks (52,000 words)
  • The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane (50,776 words)
  • The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald (50,061 words)
  • Lost Horizon by James Hilton
  • Shattered by Dean Koontz
  • Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
  • Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
  • Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.
  • The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells
  • Gadsby: A Story of Over 50,000 Words Without Using the Letter “E” by Ernest Vincent Wright
  • As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner (56,695 words)

As repetitive as Chuck Palahniuk is, that word count probably drops to 40,000, but I digress. It’s long enough to tell a full story, and writing roughly 1,667 words a day to stay on task is not hard. Unless of course you fly to LA for a long weekend away from the computer, finding yourself four days behind around the first week. Which I did. But I caught up, and you can too! So, my writerly friends, if you have time to read (and since I took time out of my busy novel writing to share this), here are my ten tips to make it to the finish line.

1. Write every day. Duh, right? But sometimes you will not feel like it. You will hate every word you put down. It’s a rough draft, and everything accumulates. You’d much rather be ahead than behind come November 29th, trust me.

2. Don’t outline. I know some people who are meticulous planners. I am not one of them. I have no fucking clue what’s happening in my novel, and it’s already surprised me several times. Brainstorming all month is so much better than once at the beginning. Give your novel space to grow.

3. Binge when you can, but know your limits. Sometimes you’re inspired and want to write five thousand words in a day, which is awesome! Go team you! But sometimes you’re just really far behind and want to knock it out. Resist the urge to spend the whole day with an adult diaper and Dunkin’ Donuts as your only friends. If you hate it, it’s not worth doing. Pace yourself. There’s time yet.

4. Accept imperfections. Some things in my novel make little sense. I just haven’t had the time to research them fully. This month is about imagination. Let reality creep in after you’ve built your own world. One day, you will be able to breathe again and reread your novel. That is the time to get critical. Do not line edit, or you will never make it.

5. Stop with the frou-frou names. Something that can take me out of a novel immediately is the character names. If your story is set in Kansas, then your lead is probably not a girl named Katniss Palladium, unless of course you’re writing something dystopian, in which case I want a footnote crediting this blog entry. If your names are overly complicated, everything else is in peril.

6. Don’t be afraid of a little drama. If you’re writing something deeply intellectual but have the urge to do something terrible to a character (a cancer diagnosis, the death of a pet, alien abduction), explore that. This month is for you and what you want to write. Enjoy it, you horrible, sadistic shit.

7. Have a buddy/bully. I used to try NaNoWriMo every year only to crash and burn. It was too close to finals, I was busy with college, blah blah blah. Now that I’m a real adult without a life, I have time! But more importantly, I have a friend also writing. She yells at me to get my writing done, and I yell back. We share plot points and drafts, then yell at each other for our “this sucks but…” disclaimers.

8. Talk about it. Often. People often don’t understand what the NaNoWriMo process is like because they’ve never forced themselves to sit in front of their computers living on carbs, coffee and the occasional booze for a whole month. After all, it doesn’t take that long to binge watch “Breaking Bad.” Remind them of your hobby. If you go out, mention your progress. Get some ideas, or at least be so obnoxious that nobody will invite you anywhere until December.

9. Keep your plot in mind. Don’t just fall back on dialogue because it’s quick and easy to write, as tempting as that may be. Every bit of action should go toward building your story in some minor or major way. This really is a short novel, barely more than a novella, so your scenes should have purpose. If you listened to me say not to outline, this will be no problem whatsoever since you may have no clue what you’re writing.

10. When in doubt, kill off a character. Look, this approach has always worked for me. That’s something, right? Right?!

Short Story: Annabelle.

I’ve probably read too much Stephen King lately. I started this story, then left it to fester for a while as I was distracted with life matters. Then I read King’s brilliant On Writing, and I felt motivated to finally let the story take me where it wished rather than forcing myself to plot things out. It didn’t go as I planned. That’s a good thing. So here is the very rough draft so I don’t revise it and decide I hate everything. Needless to say, it’s a bit dark.

Continue reading

We Ran: chapter 14.

I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stand being like this, even if just a memory has a shadow cast upon it by how he might be connected to the moment. It was okay for me to walk away from him because I’d been justified, but to hold out the olive branch of friendship only to have it slapped away? And what exactly is wrong with me? I still look mostly the same. Maybe too much the same. Maybe he wants me to look older, uglier, ill-used by all the years. Maybe he doesn’t want to forget what time we’re in and what we’ve gone through.

Maybe he just can’t stand being near me if he can’t be with me. Maybe he just doesn’t know what to say or how to even begin to talk to me anymore. That was always our problem: he couldn’t talk to me. Over the phone, when he was far away looking for work, he would dote on me like he would never see me again. The minute he got work that was local, our conversations stopped. He was too tired, too frustrated, too drunk, too everything but in love with me.

But some divorcees just can’t be friends. That makes perfect sense, our chemistry stopped ages ago, but that’s no reason to go to my father’s funeral and then refuse to see me later outside of the cemetery. Why not just send a note, make a phone call, or leave the flowers at his grave some other time? I don’t understand him. I suppose I never really have.

I can’t let this go though. I’ve tried for days, but I can’t get him out of my head. I feel like if I turn it around enough, I might finally figure it out, like staring at a Rubik’s cube long enough to finally understand that a few twists with align the colored blocks and make everything so simple.

It’s stupid to obsess about it this long though. All I really need to do in order to figure it out is go over to his house and ask him myself. But I don’t know where he lives. I could just ask around, but… No, that would just be a stupid idea. And it’s not so easy that I can just wander around looking at mailboxes.

If I am going to suck up my pride enough to go see him, I might as well just make the call that I’ve been dreading. I’ve been avoiding Damien for years, barely making eye contact at family occasions, but there’s no reason for us to let our personal issues get in the way now. It’s always been a problem with me, not him.

His phone rings excessively, and I start to worry that he’s not going to answer. He could be screening his calls, and if so, I’m sure I would be one of the last people he would want to talk to randomly. Or maybe he would. He’s always been a bit unpredictable like that.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cousin,” he says down the line, and I can hear the amusement in his voice as there’s some sort of glass clinking. Seems to be a bit early for things to be crazy at the bar, but I know better than to ever try to predict how people are going to act when their alcohol is involved. “Immediate relatives get too frustrating for you?”

I’m sure that he knows about my father, but the two of them were never close enough to actually be on friendly terms. Still, it grates on my nerves to know that he could throw a remark like that out there after the loss that I’ve suffered. “Look, I just need to ask a simple favor of you, okay? And it’s nothing that you haven’t done before.”

“Is that so? I seem to remember what your ‘simple favors’ tend to entail. It’s simple for you because you just sit back and watch people do exactly what you want, and then you decide what you want from there.”

I’m a bit startled by the outburst, and my natural response is to assume that he must be drunk. There can be no other explanation for him being that aggressive that quickly. Why would he harbor such aggression otherwise? It’s been years. What is everyone’s problem in just letting go and knowing when to move on? “Why are you acting this way?”

“Because I’m tired of you getting to call the shots.” There’s more clatter in the background, and I hear his hand roughly cover the receiver so he can shout something. Great, so not only is he rude, he’s having this conversation in front of others. That’s just lovely of him. “I don’t know if you can grasp the full extent to which you’ve fucked up lives over the last twenty years or more, so let me just break it down for you. You make Dustin leave everything behind and marry you, even though you don’t break ties yourself. You get mad when he tries to support you, but you don’t do anything to actually tell him this when he’s standing right in front of your face. You let your friends mock him, humiliate him, beat the shit out of him while you just stand by and then beat the shit out of his heart. You put me in a position where my friend can hardly trust me because I’ve been lying to him for so long, and I can’t even blame him for it because he’s right. So who can I blame? How about the person who’s been looking out for her own happiness since day one?”

I wish phones still had cords so I could fiddle with mine, something to do with my hands while I stand dumbfounded and try to catch my breath. “That’s not true.” It’s all I can think to say, and I know it’s weak and lame, but it’s all I have.

“Isn’t it though? All you seem to do is break hearts while other people look to make sure that you’re happy. Can’t you think of anyone else but yourself? Even now, why are you calling me? After all this time? You’ve already said that you want a favor. It’s about Dustin, isn’t it?” He barely gives me a beat to reply, and when I don’t fill that space, he’s immediately ranting again. “I thought so. I’ve spent long enough trying to help that boy get over you. You don’t need to go prancing into his life again and fucking with his head.”

“I’ve already seen him. He was at the funeral. He—”

“It could have been his funeral.” The words are hissed with such aggression that even he seems to be a bit startled by the force, quieting down until I can only hear his breathing.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“Not really an expression I’ve heard before.”

“You want to know? Fine. I guess your network of Jesus-loving housewives can’t tell you everything. After you left, when he was going through all your stuff trying to clean it out and finally move on, he took a bottle of your pills. Good thing I went to check up on him, or God knows what might have happened. You swore to him you’d be there in sickness and in health. Really all that you’ve accomplished is to show interest when it’s easy or when it suits you. Get over yourself, and don’t call me anymore. I have nothing to say to you and nothing that I could possibly want to share with you to help you with your own agenda.”

I hang up before he can, and I quickly slip my shoes on and race out the front door. I don’t know where I’m going, but the air is too stale inside the house. I feel the need to get away, an urgency that hasn’t really been this strong inside me since I was a teenager. I feel lost, like I’ve spent years of my life fighting on the inside but never actually making a move when it was necessary. What if he’s right? Is there any way to redeem myself?

I find myself stumbling through the front doors of the library. It’s not crowded yet, the kids are still in school and the odd homeless person tends to get herded out around lunch, but I still don’t see Dustin hanging around the computers. I march up to the front desk and see a wild-eyed librarian. Is that really a way to greet people?

“Dustin. I need to see him.”

“Excuse me. And you are…?”

“I just need to know where he lives. Please. It’s an emergency. It’s a…family thing. I don’t have his address, and I’ve lost his phone number. I need to go see him right now before he has to work.”

The woman looks scared. Really, I don’t know how she can put forward a good public face when she has to act like that when people actually need help. It’s just a bit silly of her. Still, I have to give her credit. She grabs a pen and scribbles down an address, even going so far as to add the cross-streets. She stops short of sharing his phone number with me, but that’s okay. I can find out from him.

The place he’s staying is only a few blocks away, but I run there anyway. I don’t want people to get a good look at me and my tears. I don’t want to be comforted anymore. I don’t want other people spotting the flaws in my life and telling me the one simple change I have to make in order to attain true happiness. I’ve tried to be good and pious, patient and true, and what has any of it gotten me? A divorce, a job I could have inherited from the family as soon as I graduated from high school, and living with my brother like we’re both still children. How have I grown from any of this?

When I reach the front walk, I’m breathless and have to rest my hands on my knees just to get some sense of balance. I keep my back to the street; it’s better for them to get a look at my backside and make comments about that rather than to see my face and remark on who I am and what I’m doing here, what I’m going through. They have no idea who I am or who I was, not really. How could they? How can I show anyone the whole of me when I’m still just a girl really?

His apartment is actually the basement of a two-storey house. The place resembles our old house, and I wonder if he ever managed to sell it. Last I heard, the church girls back there had been talking about pooling together some funds to transform it into some sort of home for the disadvantaged, a battered women’s shelter or something. Is he living this modestly because it’s all he needs as a bachelor, or is he still paying for our mistakes? I’ve never really stopped to think about that. Just because I didn’t ask him for support doesn’t mean that he’s free from any sort of financial burden.

Summoning up the courage to knock on the door feels more difficult than deciding to walk out all those years ago. I suppose back then I had a support system at the very least. And why wouldn’t people encourage me to leave him? All I did was cry and complain about the bad times. There was no reason to tell them about the way he’d stare at me even in the most crowded rooms, the way he’d hold my hand first thing in the morning, the way he’d leave notes that never left any doubt in my mind that he loved me. I just didn’t know if love could give me what I needed. But what did I need, and am I really better off?

I can feel the minutes dragging their companions along, and panic begins to brew as I picture him opening his front door to see me standing here, wringing my hands together and squeezing my eyes shut to pretend like I’m invisible. Walking away is more embarrassing than rejection because it means that I’ll have to come back with failure on my shoulders. I suppose that means all I have to do is knock.

The wood feels rough against my knuckles, and I wonder if he gets many visitors down here. Back in the other town, he wasn’t exactly a popular figure. He shouldn’t be here, not after what we did and how people blamed him for us disappearing, but I suppose my view hasn’t always been the most informed.

The door opens, and he peeks around with sleep in his eyes. It must be a day off. I immediately feel a blush rise in my cheeks because I remember what it was like to wake up to that expression. He would blink at me and then break into a glowing smile. That doesn’t happen this time, and I realize that I miss it more than I can even hope to say.

“Karen?” he asks, and I wonder if he thinks this is all a dream. Maybe it would be easier if he got that impression. Maybe I can encourage him. But before I can even speak, he holds the door open wider. “I’m sorry about the mess, but you can come in.”

This is far more intimate than meeting up in a café or something, but I suppose it’s private. He’d always hated airing our business in public. Things really aren’t so bad, mostly papers with Dewey decimals and that kind of stuff, but the occasional article of clothing has made its home on the floor or draped over a piece of furniture when he has a perfectly functional coat rack in the corner. I start to bend over to move a shirt before I remember that it’s no longer my place to pick up after him. I use the weird position to shrug out of my jacket. If he thinks it’s odd, he doesn’t let on.

He pulls out a chair for me at the table that’s in the undefined area between the kitchen and the living room. It’s all one big, open room except for the bathroom and the bedroom, neither of which I can see past closed doors. The other chair there doesn’t seem quite as steady, but he sits toward the front legs and leans just a little. I feel like a set should have four, but this is all that he has.

“I know why you’re here,” he tells me, and I should be startled more than I am. It would figure that he would be able to see through me and understand that I wasn’t content to be blown off the way that I had been. He brushes a few pieces of paper aside on the table, and then he uncovers it.

The leather cover is battered, some of the onionskin pages bent and torn, but it’s unmistakable: it’s the Bible that I left behind when I fled. I hadn’t packed much, and by the time I realized that I hadn’t taken it with me, it was too late to go back for it. I knew that if I did, I might not ever gather up the courage to leave again. Besides, leaving it behind would be some symbol of hope for him. I wanted to leave him, but I didn’t want to break his heart. It was at least something that he could cling to, and maybe he could find a lesson or something that would guide him and give him comfort through the endless nights apart.

“I’ve been reading it. I don’t know that I believe any of it, but it’s filled with so many stories. I still don’t get where you pulled half of those lessons or morals from, but I guess that’s your relationship with it, not mine. I can get my own copy though. I know that you want this one back, now that you know that I’m here.”

I stare down at it, the finality of this moment shaking me from the inside out. If I had sat down in his chair rather than this one, I’m sure I would go sprawling on the floor. “It’s not about that. You can keep it. I have another now.”

“Really, I want you to have it back. I should have just mailed it to you, but you didn’t leave an address, and I didn’t want you to know that I knew where you were. But then I turned up and it seemed too awkward to just come over and hand it to you.” His hand is smoothing over the surface like he can patch the damage done by all the years that have been so hard on the book. If the Bible can survive so long, surely people are just as resilient. I try to test that theory in my mind, but I can’t actually make myself believe in it. Not like I believe in what’s inside. “But if you didn’t come for this, what do you want from me?”

The last two words make me wince, like I actually pose a threat of some sort to the world that he’s been building. In a way, I suppose I do. I could so easily tear apart all the work he’s done to get away from me. And yet that’s kind of what I want. I don’t like the idea of there being a Dustin that exists out there without needing me in some sense. Slowly, just in case he has the sense to pull away, I set my hand overtop his. He doesn’t flatten out his palm to rest on the book’s title, but he doesn’t flinch either. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

His eyes slowly drop to our hands together, as though he can’t actually feel the connection of our bodies. He seems confused. Not pleased, not displeased, just confused. “Why would you possibly be sorry?”

“Because I let you think that everything was always your fault. Because I turned my back on so much. Because…” How can he even make out what I’m saying through the tears? Surely he’s seen me cry before, he’s brushed back my hair and kissed the stained trails away my cheeks. But not this time. “Because I never should have agreed to marry you.”

“Do you really feel like that?”

“I don’t think that we gave it enough time.” It feels funny, admitting it after so long. So much could have been avoided if I had just been a bit reasonable. We could have found out whether we were compatible. We could have lived together a bit, learned each other’s ins and outs. He wouldn’t have felt so obligated to take care of me, and I wouldn’t have resented him so much for failing to understand me. Maybe we could have grown tired of each other, but maybe we could have been friends first.

“Well, when passions ignite like that, it’s easy to go from love to hate.” I can hear him swallow thickly as he tries to make excuses for me. Maybe he’s always done that. Maybe he’s always blamed himself.

I press my lips against his cheek. The stubble is rough and immediately irritates my skin, but it’s the most refreshing thing that I’ve felt in ages. It’s the first time I’ve felt alive since I stepped out the door. “I never hated you,” I swear to him, and it’s the truth. “I just didn’t know how to share you with the world when I ran away to be with you.”

“Maybe there’s time to learn,” he suggests, giving me that shy smile that has always said that he doesn’t believe a word that he’s saying.

“Did you have any plans for the next twenty years?”

“Going to work in a few hours. But I can quit.” And there’s that mischievous grin again, the one he gave me so long ago when he unveiled a gun and I foolishly believed that it could be real. Back when I thought a boy and his toy could change my life forever.

“What would you do if you did that?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

We Ran: chapter 13 (Karen).

They did a beautiful job with Papa’s service. Of course as far as family goes there was only me to take care of the meal at the church afterwards, Andy being busy catching up on work at the shop, but so many of the ladies pitched in that I hardly had to lift a finger, even just to put a spoon into the green bean casserole. We went straight from the pews to the cemetery, and then we slipped back into the church’s basement for a feast. Papa loved to eat, but I don’t know that it can really justify three different kinds of pie. Still, it was nice to hear the hall fill up with warm stories about the work he’d done and what he’d meant to everyone. It was much better than the tears.

Afterwards I’m trying to collect the folding chairs and the paper slips we’ve draped over them to make the whole place appear presentable. The chairs themselves are a disgrace, metal painted a bluish gray with large patches missing to reveal a layer of red, but as long as the chairs still stand to serve their purpose, modesty says we cannot spare them. I like removing the slip covers because it’s like shedding a costume and crumpling it up to throw away. It makes it okay to be a little ugly and exposed.

“Karen Mae, what do you think you’re doing!” It’s more an exclamation than a question because it’s obvious that I should know I’m misbehaving. Mrs. Winters was my second grade teacher and was considered old at the time. Now she’s absolutely ancient, but all those years dealing with cunning children has kept all of her senses trained like a dog’s.

I can’t tell her that tearing off each cover feels better than pulling a tissue out of the box. “I feel like I’ve done nothing but shake people’s hands or accept hugs today,” I explain to her, folding the slip in my hands over and over. I wonder how small I can make it before it starts to tear apart and what she might do if that were to happen.

“Well, now you can gather up all of your casseroles and load them up into your car to take home. You really shouldn’t be exerting yourself right now.”

“Why?” It’s not really something that you should ask. People want you to be wounded when you’ve lost a loved one, but the question’s already out, so all I can do is look back at her and wait for what she has to say.

After so many years dealing with emotional students and parents, she’s not easily flustered. She’s had to play every role from grief counselor to prison guard, and there’s no real reward for making it to retirement. She doesn’t have to really think about whether it’s okay to be blunt because being subtle isn’t going to accomplish anything for her anymore. “It must be very difficult for you to lose your father after all of the years that you two missed together. I’m sure that must weigh very heavily on your mind at this time.”

My jaw feels like an anchor has been lodged through my lower lip, yanking it down instantly. All day, nobody has mentioned what happened when I was eighteen. Why would they? It’s history, and it’s not like I haven’t apologized. It’s not like I can go back in time and tell myself that I shouldn’t skip out of town. As far as I’m concerned, everything that happened had its purpose, even if it’s been confusing to everyone who isn’t me. Nobody else was there. Well, nobody else but Dustin. “I am sorry that I caused my father pain, yes, but that was my decision. What happened between us was between us, and no, I don’t feel guilty about that when he died of cancer, not a broken heart.”

It’s hardly the time for me to get into a confrontation, so I throw the cover into the trash and walk up the stairs, hearing each step moan in accusation. By the time I make it to the top, all I want to do is run out the front door and go lock myself inside the house. Andy will be back from work in a while, and then I can tell him to come back for all the food that they’ve left behind. And the flowers. God, what are we going to do with that many baskets of flowers? They all smell so awful together, like everyone wants us to suffocate. We’ll have to pick a few to put on the grave, then a few for the house. The rest can go to a nursing home or the hospital or something. We’ll get it figured out eventually.

I’m about to dart outside to my car when I feel a hand on my arm. I don’t want to share another hug or go through another conversation about my loss. I don’t want to open up, and I don’t want to break down. I just want to be alone, and I honestly cannot remember the last time that I had the privilege.

“Do you have a moment?”

Pastor Norrell has obviously been ushering people in and out, giving them hope and comfort all day long, but I can tell by the look on his face that he’s not about to take me aside and pat me on the back. There’s something that’s urgent, and he doesn’t seem like he wants to have me put it off until later. “Sure thing. What is it?” I think I even manage a smile, but maybe it’s just the corners of my mouth twitching.

“I was thinking that we could go somewhere a bit more private than this. Could you step into the office?”

I’m not terribly familiar with this church, and even so, I’ve never really thought about it having rooms not dedicated to worship. Behind the pulpit there’s a door that’s somewhat obscured by the limbs of an artificial tree. He pushes it to the side with his foot and then unlocks the door. “You can never be too careful, even in the house of the Lord,” he explains with a kind smile as he opens the door for me. In his fifties, he’s just starting to lose the physique of his youth and settle into that of his later life. His hair’s gone pale, and his facial hair kind of resembles sandpaper, like he can’t be bothered anymore to get a smooth shave. Still, his face is one that reminds you of anyone’s father, and that makes him a calming presence.

Even his office is like that, with papers and books scattered all over the place in a way that reminds me of a student’s room rather than that of someone who would be a guide or religious teacher. “You could use some flowers in here. Do you want some? You can have your pick,” I offer, trying to keep the conversation light. He laughs, but it’s in that polite sort of way.

“What I wanted to talk to you about is your father. Obviously I’m very sorry for your loss, but as you know, he wasn’t well for quite some time. He anticipated his demise, and he wanted to provide for you. Frankly, I’m not a lawyer and have never cared for the law or anything made to be confusing rather than enlightening. But there was something else.”

“Something else? Like what?” I think about what my father had that he could leave behind. He owned a business, so there’s all the complicated stuff that goes along with that. Property, employees, the money made and the taxes that are probably owed. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s managed to find a loophole that doesn’t really exist. What if we owe more money than he’s left us? Why would he do that to us?

“There was a letter that your father received. Years ago. He wasn’t sure if you knew about its existence, but in the event of something happening to him, he wanted you to have it. I don’t know if there’s anything he wanted you to do with it. I haven’t even opened the envelope, though I’ve had this for about two years now. Let me tell you, I’ve thought about holding it over steam to unseal it, but I would never do that. Better to confess the temptation and grow from it. But this is yours now.”

I’m surprised to see that there’s postage and an address on the envelope. I expected a note that had just been sealed up for some reason, but this has never been opened. Judging by the way the ink on the front of the envelope is smudged, it’s been some years since it’s been sent. The address is my father’s, same as it ever was. And then I notice the handwriting. It’s Dustin’s.

I’m sure there’s some moment I should remember when he was writing something that he wouldn’t let me read, but there were so many secrets between us that it’s not like I could pick out a single moment and recognize that as being it. I slip my finger under a gap in the seal and tear carelessly, not trying to be careful about it.

His familiar scrawl is all over this sheet of paper, messy and spastic as though each word came to him through lightning. I can hear his voice in my mind as I read over the words. I can’t believe he did this. I can’t believe he actually took the initiative to write a letter to my father, a man who would never accept him, and apologize while remaining proud. I can’t believe he would do it and not even tell me about it.

It probably doesn’t matter. After all, he failed me—us—in so many ways that even if he had brought it up, I would have just called him a coward or something. Still, reading this I see the Dustin that I fell in love with as a shy, young girl, the boy who put on airs and was quietly brilliant. We made up plans to take over the world together because we knew that we’d never get too far. Then we tried anyway and were surprised when we failed.

“Is there anything that you want to talk about?” Norrell asks, and my first impulse is to snap at him to just mind his business. But that would be cruel, so instead I just take a deep breath and try to ask the Lord to grant me the patience to deal with this situation. I know that He would never give me a challenge that I couldn’t overcome, but sometimes I wonder if He might not be mistaking me for another woman.

“It’s just something from a past life. I think I need to just sit down with this at home and try to figure out what I’m going to do next. Thank you for saving it for me and not reading it though.” I force another smile for him, wondering if expressions count as lies and if that’s blasphemy in this situation. Something else to weigh on my mind, as though I don’t have enough.

Pastor Norrell shows me to the door of his office, giving my shoulder a squeeze and assuring me that he’ll pick out a few plants to take off my hands. At least it’s something going my way. The flowers, the leftover food, the women who want to all be the most comforting presence around—they can all wait until I’ve just had a bit of time to remember how to breathe.

As I’m walking to the car, I notice that there’s still someone by the grave. At first I think it must be Andy, maybe he managed to finally get out from under the pile of work that he had to do, but I know that it was more of an excuse than an actual reason to avoid the funeral. He’s never been good with that sort of emotional thing, and after staying away from home for so long, I’m hardly the person he wants he show a united front with. In a way it paid off, making me look like more of the doting child while he took care of business, but if it’s not him, it would only really be one other person.

My brain is screaming at me to get in my car and get away from here as quickly as possible. It would be for the best, to prepare myself for the moment that I’ve been avoiding for years. But I’m not a timid girl anymore, and it’s not like he has any hold over me either. He’s risked a lot coming here, and the least I can do is say hello.

My heels sink uneasily on the ground as I walk, and I get a chill as I wonder whether I’m walking over any graves that have been mislabeled or displaced over the years. It’s no fate that I ever want to have, but it’s not like I’ll actually realize it anyway.

As I get close, I can see why nobody has started to gossip and panic. When we left town, he was a gaunt teenager, clean-shaven with short hair and bright eyes. The years have been kind to him, but at the same time they’ve beaten him down. There’s a new hunch to his shoulders and shadows beneath his eyes, scruff along his jaw line, and he could certainly use a haircut. I think there are even streaks of gray that have managed to creep their way into his hair; they never were there when we shared a bed together and I woke up to the back of his head. Inexplicably, a bouquet of roses dangles from his hand. I don’t think he’s ever bought me flowers in his life.

He straightens up to his full, intimidating height when I approach, more than a couple of inches over six feet, and I wonder when it was that we both stopped being teenagers. This isn’t the way that we’re supposed to be here in this place, not where we used to hide away from the adults and plot our future together. Seeming to understand how ridiculous the flowers are, he lifts them up sadly and then holds them out to me, blossom first. There’s no convenient way to accept them, so I just stare at them. “I would have gotten something a bit more appropriate, but I think I might’ve caused a fuss if I did that.”

“You’d probably do that anyway. I’m surprised there aren’t helicopters circling this place right now.” I’m trying to tease him, but I can feel how flat my voice sounds.

“Guess we weren’t quite as special as we fancied ourselves to be then.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He gives a sad smile, and I can tell that he hasn’t slept. It’s the same expression he’d give me if he’d spent an entire night out drinking, or if he had driven for hours without a break just to get back home when he knew that I was nearly to the breaking point of missing him. “I think this is where I tell you that you look good.”

“Only if you actually think that I look good.”

“Well, there’s no question about that.” It’s something strange for him to admit while we’re standing at my father’s grave, and he seems to realize that as his eyes drop to the dirt that was packed down and smoothed out while we were inside. “Have you dyed your hair darker?”

I tuck a strand behind my ear absently, feeling odd that he would be able to pick out this detail when we haven’t seen each other in years. I don’t know how he has a way of getting under my skin, particularly when we don’t own each other anything anymore. “I thought it was time for a change. You’re getting a little salt and pepper yourself.”

“Well, I thought that it might make me seem a bit more mature if I kept it that way.”

“I think it suits you, in some way.”

He grins timidly at this, and I see a shadow of the hesitant boy that he had once been when we’d started to get to know each other. We’re far too old for all this, but there’s nobody around to tell us otherwise. He takes a sharp breath in through his nose and finally lifts his eyes back to mine. I forgot just how blue they could be, like he has any sort of control about those sorts of things. “Look, I’m really sorry to hear about your father. I read about it in the newspaper. I’ve been in town…”

“I know. I’ve known for a while. You know how people—”

“Always talk around here?” It was something that we always used to complain about, and even when we moved away, he wasn’t thrilled by the notion that anyone else was in his business without him filling them in.

“At first I thought you were coming after me or something. Like you thought that you could win me back.”

“Well, maybe I thought that. Maybe I thought a lot of stupid things when I came back here, but I’ve mostly spent my time just trying to make peace, you know? Going back and making my apologies to people, seeing if there’s anything that can be done there.”

“How’s that been going for you?”

“Mostly shitty,” he says, wiping his nose as he does so. At first I think that he just has a cold, but when he turns his head a bit, I see his eyes shining. He’s always been a bit on the emotional side, but I haven’t often seen him cry. It’s an uncomfortable feeling since I know that logically, I should be the one sobbing over my loss. Instead I’m wondering if it would be logical for me to hug my former husband or if we should just keep this distance between us. “I called your father.”

“Oh.” I feel the letter already burning its way through my pocket. There had been such a defiant tone to it, the confidence of youth clear with every pen stroke. Had he been apologetic when he had spoken to my father, or had he just spoken in cold, hard facts about what had to happen back then to go with our emotions. “When did you do that?”

“A while ago. When I first got back into town, actually. I called my father, but you know how he was. He’s still the same. Or was. I don’t know what he’s up to these days. So I figured I could do something melodramatic like try to put myself out of my own misery, or I could just start to go backwards. He told me that I couldn’t cross back over bridges I’d already burnt, so I figured it would be good to figure out which ones that would be.”

“What happened?”

He crouches down by the headstone, nestling his bouquet down amongst all the other flowers and other arrangements that have been placed there. I know that it’ll only take a day or two before these things disappear, scattered around unloved graves or stolen by people who are just too cheap to get their own. “He said that he was sorry for ever judging me. For thinking that I couldn’t provide for you. If he’d just accepted me, then we probably wouldn’t have done what we did.”

“Do you really believe that though?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have knocked your brother over the head. I don’t think I would have risked my balls like that if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary. Your dad was still not too thrilled about that one, but I think he had a sense of humor about it after so long.”

“Because I was back.”

“Because he knew that I didn’t pose a threat to him anymore.” Without the roses, he has nothing to do with his hands except shove them deeply into his pockets, hunching over as though that might let him find something that he’s lost. I want to tell him that it’s not true, but there’s just too much that’s gone between us. I can’t lie to him, but I can’t hurt him either. He clears his throat nervously and shifts around, something that I haven’t seen him do in ages. “Anyway, he told me about the cancer and said that he was trying to patch up the holes in his life before he went. I don’t know that he would have forgiven me if he didn’t have that weighing on his mind.”

“Why would he have to forgive you though?”

“Because I took you away from him.”

“But he knows that’s not what happened. I told him so.” It’s not that cold out, but I still bundle my coat around me, trying to make it part of my body as though it can hold off the chill that’s building up inside of me. “When I came back, I was just going to get my own place, but I didn’t have the money for it. I didn’t know where else to turn, if anyone else would just call me a whore and leave me out in the cold, so I just knocked on his front door and hoped that it was still the same address we’d always had. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he kicked me out, but he just opened his arms and held me to his chest. He said, ‘Welcome home,’ just like he always expected it to be that way.”

I hadn’t really shed any tears about my father’s death, but now I feel them stinging at my eyes because for just a moment, I forget that he’s gone. The illness had already started then, they’d found a lump, but he hadn’t told me about it. We’d just been together, a family again, and I was his little girl. “I told him everything that happened. How we planned it. What happened when we were gone. It was weird, but everything that took years to live just took a couple of breaths to tell him. And then he told me that it didn’t matter anymore. But I knew that it did. I knew that I’d destroyed some part of him.”

There’s pain on his face, but he doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Instead he just shakes his head and moves on. “Even if you did, you came back to mend it up again. That’s what counts. I’m sure his last years were his happiest. I know that you loved them all a lot. I never should have asked you to stop talking to them.” A weird sort of half-smile comes across his features. “Not that you ever were completely out of touch with them, of course.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He gives a helpless shrug of the shoulders, but I’ve known him long enough to be aware of what that really means coming from him. There’s more up his sleeve than he’s let on, of course. “I’ll be straight with you then. I know all about it. I know about Damien and how you knew where you were going all along. How he would report back to you even after you left. I know you’re family. Didn’t you guess all that when I found my way back here? Did you think I’d come back here on my own?”

I hadn’t expected so many words to come out of him all at once, and just blinking after all that is an effort. I try to take it in, dividing up his words into chunks that I can try to digest individually. He knows that we didn’t just settle down to a new life in an unknown city where nobody would recognize either of us. He knows that Damien is my relative. He knows that we’ve been in touch. And so he knows that he’s not the only one here who has been less than truthful. “So you were chasing me then?”

“It doesn’t matter what I was trying to do. It’s not about me. It’s about you. You love your family, and that’s fine. If I’d known the extent of that sooner, maybe we could have avoided a lot of heartbreak. But maybe not. That’s all there is to it. But you’ve lost a lot, and I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry I took those years away from you.”

“No. Everything that you have to be sorry for is so far in the past. It’s pointless to apologize for it now since it’s not going to do anything. But thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally admitting you were wrong, even if I was half the time.” I don’t know why, but for some reason I’ve thought about this moment before. I’ve turned it around so many times while lying in bed or in the shower, getting ready for the day or winding down. It’s been a comfort of sorts, to think that eventually we might not be at odds with one another. Dustin was more than my husband. When we were young, we were the only people who understood one another. We stood in our corner together, convinced that we were going to take over the world. Of course we would make up, but I never thought it would be like this. I never thought apologies would be exchanged over my father’s grave.

“Well, maybe it would have actually meant something if I’d done it a decade ago.”

“It does mean something. It means a lot to me. You showing up here now, it’s really special.”

Is that a blush that crosses his cheeks, or is he just starting to feel the sting of the wind against his cheeks? “I guess I just figured out a long time ago that you can’t make people want the same thing you do. All you can do is put it out there in the universe, and if you don’t get that energy back, you have to just move on to something else.”

“What have you moved onto then?”

“Who says I’ve moved on?” he asks, and a chill runs through me. There’s just a moment’s hesitation that he affords before he shakes his head and gives a quiet laugh. “No, I thought that people were better gossips than all that. I suppose they just want the best bits though. I’m in the bar every night, behind the bar and still standing before I leave. Learned a bit of the old mixology from your cousin. I’ve been helping out at the library here and there. They’re trying to get their catalog all converted so they can put it on a computer. It’s a lot more work than they were anticipating, and they need most of their real employees to actually help the visitors. They think I’m really good there though. They want to offer me an opening when they have one for someone who didn’t go to school for that kind of thing. They—you’re laughing.”

I don’t know why accuses me of that. Wait, I do. I am. It surprises me. I’m laughing and can’t even help myself, not hysterical with grief or anything that I know I really ought to be feeling right now. Instead it feels good just to let out something that’s not negative or forced or outside my comfort zone. It’s just plain, simple laughter. My eyes are blurry with tears, but they’re the purest ones that I’ve felt all day. “I’m sorry, really I am. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I can’t really stop. I think it’s really great that you’ve gotten back on you feet like this. I just never really could have pictured you doing something like volunteering in a library.”

“Because Bonnie and Clyde never would have stood for something like this?” he asks with a little smirk. It’s basically what I’m thinking but can’t really put into words. We were never supposed to turn into normal people, but maybe we were just ordinary teenagers anyway. “What about you? What are you doing?”

“Bookkeeping at the shop. With Papa sick the way he was, it just seemed logical, you know? Help out any I could. It was the least I could do when they gave me a place to stay.”

“Andy still work there?”

“Yeah. He’s got ownership of it now. Well, we both do, but you know what I mean. He’s the one who’s going to be able to run the place. I can just keep the wheels turning, but he’s the one who makes the wheels do anything at all. That’s where he is right now. Lots of work that we fell behind on before, but nobody’s going to be coming in for a few days, so he reckons he can just push his way through the backlog for a bit.”

“I was wondering why he didn’t turn up today. I sat in my car until the whole thing was through. Even if your dad forgave me for everything, I don’t think he would. Not with the knock I gave him back then.”

“He even has a scar on his head from it. It’s really small, but he can’t grow any hair there, so it makes him really angry.” Just remembering what we went through so long ago gives me a tiny hit of adrenaline, and I so badly want to go back to when things were that simple that I consider suggesting that we just jump into his car and go, just to see who would come after us. But nobody did back then, and there’s even less of a reason now for anyone else to care. We know now just how important we aren’t.

Taking a step forward, I let my fingers brush against his wrist. It’s the only bit of skin that’s exposed between his sleeve and his pocket aside from his face, and it would be too personal, too painful to reach up that far. “People are going to talk if we keep standing out here like this.”

“Are you really still so scared of what people have to say?”

I close my eyes and try to remind myself that there’s no point in being infuriated when I can turn and walk at any time. “What I mean is, we should go somewhere else to talk. Do you want to go to a diner or something? There’s one just down the block. Then again, you probably already know that.”

“I know where it is. But I don’t think that’s a good idea. Take care of yourself.”

And just like that, he walks out of my life.

We Ran: chapter 12.

There are no waving torches or pitchforks when I cross the city line. I expect people to come banging in the doors of my car, police officers to demand that I pull over so they can handcuff me and march me immediately off to jail for my past crimes. They’ll find my bag of cash, of course, and it will take no time at all for them to concoct some story about how I must’ve knocked over a bank or taken advantage of someone in a desperate situation. Even if I could get Damien to back me up on the truth, they would just assume that I’d done something to convince him that paying me off was the best option.

Still, it doesn’t matter what I anticipate because none of it happens. The only thing to welcome back to the old town is the steady sound of rain splattering itself across the hood, roof, windshield of this car. It’s a piece of shit really, barely made it back here in two or three pieces, but it’s served its purpose. There’s a part of me just couldn’t justify spending that much money on a car that could get me to town and hold together if I wanted to keep driving off into nothing. I know that without some proper care in a garage, or in a parking lot if I can get the supplies myself, this thing is going to break down the first place I stop. And so be it, really. Wasn’t I trapped here once before? An escape wasn’t as difficult as I had always imagined it to be.

The old movie theater is still standing, much to my surprise. My internal autopilot is still strong after more than a decade of being away, guiding me to pull inelegantly into a parking space thanks to the sheets of rain pounding down as though a Hollywood stagehand is filling up a bucket and hoisting the contents at me. It feels appropriate as I kill the engine, listening to it drown. If it doesn’t start again when I get back inside, I could have a problem. Well, another one.

Still, I feel light when I open the driver’s side door and make a dash toward the entrance. The doors have changed; rather than being panes of glass that have been smashed in by young hooligans like the one I was once, there’s just one door that’s made of heavy wood and propped open inexpertly by a book that looks like it might slip at any given moment. It takes some willpower not to bend down and try to make out the title. Instead I step inside because there’s a light on and it’s dry while I’m dripping.

It’s the same and yet not at all. The lobby is still broad and spacious, graced with red velvet curtains and the most confusing carpet pattern that I have seen in my life. Still, there’s no marquee, no popcorn machine, no concession stand. In fact, there’s no indication that there’s any entertainment on offer here anymore. And yet…

“Did you want a room?”

“Excuse me?”

The teenager who’s standing behind a desk where the ticket booth ought to be rolls her eyes as though I’m causing her physical pain with my slowness. I can’t blame her, of course. I’m some stranger who’s rolled in with the storm, dripping with rainwater and gawking in her lobby like it’s any business of mine to be here. “Do you want to get a room or not?”

“This is a hotel?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Well, a movie theater, to be honest with you.”

“It was, once upon a time.” She tells the story with some boredom, as though it’s just something that she heard as a myth rather than a fact. Of course, to her it would just be a story. I’m not eighteen anymore, and she’s nearly part of another generation rather than remembering what it was like to see the film cough to life and threaten to pull apart for the transition of every scene.

“I know it was. I used to…I’m from around here, originally. I moved away a long time ago.”

“Back visiting people then?” She sounds skeptical or bored, I can’t decide which, but it doesn’t exactly matter since she knows it has to be wrong. Why would I have to visit a hotel otherwise? And why wouldn’t I be tugging along a suitcase anyway?

Still, this is a convenient accident. “Just rediscovering my roots, I guess,” I tell her with an apologetic smile, hoping it comes across as sincere rather than creepy. She is, after all, quite young and quite alone.

If she’s intimidated, she doesn’t let on, instead turning the guest registry and passing me a pen. She doesn’t ask me for any cash or a check. God bless the small town mentality. It’s good to know that trust still exists in some isolated pockets of this country. “Do you have any preferences about your room? It’s not like we’re exactly booming in the business here.”

“As long as it’s just room for one, I’m not all that particular about my surroundings.”

“Then you’ll take room nine. When you go out, just make a right and keep going until you see it. Stay under the awning if you want to stay dry this time.” She swivels on her office hair and manages to yank the key down from its peg just by stretching her endless arm up in the air. Turning around, she holds it out to me with a stony face. “Do you have any idea how long you’ll be staying with us.”

“I’m afraid not. Can I pay by the day or week?”

“Come back in the morning and let me know which you think it’ll be. I’ll require payment then. Have a good night.” And then she’s disconnected from me, switching on a radio as some music I don’t even recognize comes over the airwaves. I think it’s called grunge.

“Good night to you too. See you in the morning.” I tip the keys to her like they’re a drink that I’m about to enjoy, but she’s already engrossed in some magazine that’s on her desk. I don’t mind all that much. It means that I can have a bit of privacy.

It’s surprising to me how quickly I’ve gotten used to being on my own. I was married for years, and yet we never really seemed to be together after all. We slept in the same bed, we had breakfast together, Karen fixed my lunches, but most of our hours were spent apart one way or another. She would read her Bible, I would scribble messages in my notebooks about something or another that I needed to remember in order to be a better employee, and we would fall asleep with different people in our minds and our arms tucked under our pillows rather than around one another.

If I load the film back into my memory, I know that I always capture Karen at the same moment in her life. Her hair is a dark chestnut, long and wavy and worn loose as the coils tumble down nearly to her waist. She turns those almond-shaped eyes to me and always seems to see through me. She’s never really worn lipstick except for the rare occasion of painting her lips red, and I always found it charming that whenever she’s made the effort, it’s been bold and obvious. She’s never been one to have makeup that just blends in and seems like a lack of effort. She’s tall, thin, but her curves are usually obscured by longer skirts and shapeless cardigans. I’ve always enjoyed this. That meant that I was the only one who was able to see how her waist dipped in and then eased out, how her breasts pressed confidently away from her chest and how she cocked her hips at just the right angle. It drove me crazy and sated me at the same time.

But of course she’s not going to be waiting for me when I get to the room. It’s strange how the inside of this place and then slipped divisions inside. There are no more velvet seats, no more remnants of people actually enjoying themselves. I can’t tell about the other rooms, but mine is a stark white with lights that glow yellow. Still that hideous carpet though. Did they find a way to match it? It seems brighter here somehow. I don’t know why anyone would ever want to do that. It’s a strange place to convert into a hotel, the sloped floors straightened out and the tall ceilings dropped to add extra floors. It’s like walking into history to find out all of my memories are wrong.

My stuff’s still out in the car, but I shrug out of my wet jacket and shoes and leave them by the radiator. I’m not sure if the heat will ever be on, but it feels like the logical place for them. Maybe they’ll get dry, or maybe I’ll get electrocuted. Sometimes you have to put your life into the capable, curious hands of fate.

The bed is hardly the most comfortable I’ve ever encountered, but considering I’ve been living on a couch, it’s really not so bad. It’s space to myself, anyway. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt comfortable with all this much space to myself, but I know that lingering in one place isn’t going to accomplish anything for me. Would Karen want me to have restful nights without her? It doesn’t matter what Karen would think. Karen’s gone. She’s in town, but that has nothing to do with me.

So none of this matters.

It’s a ridiculous conclusion to come to, but it’s the only one that really makes sense. She’s been living her life without me, and even if she’s asked Damien how I am, she can’t possibly be moved by my situation. If she’d heard about my suicide attempt, and I do doubt that he gave her the full picture on that one, she didn’t exactly rush to my side or even give me a call. In fact, she didn’t even give any indication that she knew I was alive.

Maybe I left her on her own too often, but that’s no reason to do the same to me now. It’s not proving a point. It’s not going to make life any easier. It doesn’t make her a bigger person, it just belittles what we had for that brief time that we shared with each other. I may have been a shitty husband, but at least I honored my vows and loved her forever. That’s more than she can say for herself. That’s what she promised in front of her God. What would He have to say about her behavior?

There’s no need for me to get frustrated about this now. I’ll look her up in the morning. In the duffel bag that’s sitting in the trunk of my car, I have the last address that Damien ever had for her. They’d even exchanged fucking Christmas cards every year, and I had no clue about it. Anyway, he was sure that he was going to be cut off the list after this. Even if nobody knew where I was going or what I was doing when I left town, it wouldn’t take long for the gossip to start and speculation to mount. And it wouldn’t be all that difficult to guess correctly.

My room is equipped with just the basics: an ugly television that looks older than anything else in this place, a dresser whose drawers I don’t exactly trust, a closet without a door for security purposes, and a nightstand with a lamp. I check the bottom drawer for a Bible, but there isn’t one. I wonder if this is a first. Instead it’s a phone book, proudly yellow and boldly announcing that it has more numbers than ever before. Are we all just getting more connected? Will there come a time when there’s no way we can even imagine unplugging from each other?

The telephone is a pale shade of mustard and covered in taped messages about the cost of local and long distance calls. I wonder how many times they’ve changed the rates and whether it’s reflected the economy or greed. I suppose in a way they’re the same.

My fingers find the digits on the phone from memory. I’m not sure that they’re even the right ones anymore, but there’s no reason for me to just sit here with the receiver in my hand, wondering what it is I can do with my time besides driving past the house and hoping that she hasn’t moved since December.

The ringing begins, and it’s comforting in a way. I can count the sounds, reduce them to numbers. One comes after another. It’s relaxing. One, then two, then three. Four is next, which is also two times two or two squared, which leads to fi—


My eyes well up at the sound of the voice because it’s not at all what I expect. Appearances change, sure, but unless someone’s a heavy smoker, you don’t really stop to consider how someone’s voice might evolve over the years. All I’ve had for years are memories, but even those haven’t acquired the dry crackle of a vinyl record no matter how many times I’ve taken the mental needle and applied it to the groove.

“Hi. It’s me. Dustin.”

There’s a tender gasp, and I hear the receiver fumble a bit before it finally aligned to a mouth again. “You son of a bitch,” comes the growl. “You think this is funny? I’m going to find out where you are, and then I’m going to find out who you are. And then…you should just hope that you’ve cleared out by then. That’s the only advice I’m going to give you.”

“But it’s really me.” My father has transformed into an old man in my absence. I guess that’s something that startles everyone eventually, the fact that our parents aren’t actually immortal, but I’m not sure if my awe comes form the fact that he’s aged or that he’s actually lived long enough to do so. “It’s Dustin, I swear to God.”

“This isn’t funny. I’m going to hang up now. I’m going to call the police, you fucking—“

“When I was a kid, I lived for books. You’d taken one of mine, a Curious George one, and you wedged it under your television stand because you’d built it and it wobbled a bit on the carpet in your bedroom. I hadn’t read the book, so I decided to snatch it out while you were at work.”

The story’s one that I’ve shared with people before because I fancied myself something precocious, but it’s not like any of those people were malicious enough to pretend to be me using that inside information. My father seems to understand this as he lets out a hesitant laugh. “I came home early to surprise your mom only to hear that crash as soon as I walked through the door.”

“You saw the TV on the bed and thought that I must’ve gotten crushed or decapitated, but I was bent over between the bed and the stand, holding onto my prize. I never actually got to read it, you know.”

“Yeah well, that’s what really happens when you’re curious.” He goes off into a coughing fit, and I wonder if he’s sitting next to a tank of oxygen or a half-finished bottle of beer. “I don’t really know what to say to you.”

“I don’t really know what I’m doing either. Every time that I picked up the phone to call, I’ve told myself that I should have a plan first.”

“You and your plans. You were always a schemer. Tell me, how have those plans treated you? Surely you aren’t just calling so you can get in some bragging.”

He doesn’t mean it maliciously. At least I think he doesn’t. Still, there’s something about age that makes people blunt in a way that will always sting. “Like shit,” I admit. There’s really no point in pretending, and if he wants me to feel any pain, he can just have this satisfaction.

He takes a long breath, and then I hear something in the background. Shouting, staged gunfire, the call of Indians in battle. He hasn’t talked to his son in more than a decade, and when he does, he can’t even be bothered to switch off his stupid Western program. Part of me wishes he would react with anger just to know I’m out there, but all I’ve ever had from him is apathy. “What about that girl you were crazy about?” he asks, just raising his voice to be heard over the television. “How is she?”

“She left.” I mean to add the word “me” to the sentence, but the two letters manage to wedge their way sideways in my throat. And she did leave, just told me off in front of everyone and then went home to improvise suitcases out of any bag possible. “She’s been gone quite a long time now.”

“Oh. Always thought she was the reason you couldn’t be bothered to talk to us. She always acted like she came from better stock.”

“Insulting her isn’t going to help,” I snap, and I regret it as soon as I speak. He’s just trying to show his support in his own fucked up way, and there’s no reason for me to defend Karen. Maybe he’s right and I was just too far in love to ever notice the way she treated anyone who wasn’t me. “I wish I’d never left with her. I wish I could have been patient.”

“Well, you can wish in one hand and shit in the other, then tell me which one fills up first.”

“Thanks, Dad. From the bottom of my heart.”

“You were never my son, you know. Didn’t you pay attention to the rumors at all? People talk because they have reason to. They were true. I gave you my name and my home, and then you just threw it all away the first chance you got. Now you call when everything’s gone to shit for you? It doesn’t work like that, kid. You don’t get any credit for lessons that are learned fifteen years too late. You can’t walk across a bridge you’ve already burnt.”

He doesn’t give me time to say goodbye before he’s gone, and I know this will be the last time we speak even if he manages to squeeze another thirty years out of his miserable, dried up husk of a body.

He’s right, of course. I’ve always assumed my way would be perfectly acceptable, and any time that I’ve encountered opposition, I’ve gladly been the asshole lashing out in ill-conceived self-righteousness. Since I’ve left, what have I accomplished? What is one thing I’ve gained that I haven’t lost through being a drunk, a fool, or both?

Pulling out the phone book, I skim the tiny print and dial again.


“Hi. It’s Dustin. You know, Dus—”

“I never thought I’d hear that voice again.”