Chapter 1: A Hard Rain
The drive home from Talihina was wretched. Heavy traffic. Construction. Intermittent thunderstorms that cut visibility to what seemed like feet. Tom was exhausted. He wanted to get home. Hated wanting that. Hated everything. Her. Him. The weather. His work. His life. Every goddamn thing.
All of it. And more.
What he especially loathed was wondering how Charlotte would react when he got there. Because of the text he had sent a few hours earlier, lying about his schedule. He hated doing that. Hated thinking he had no choice.
The plan had been to get home by ten, catch her watching TV before bed. Instead, it was midnight when he pulled into the drive. The Ford’s headlights flicked across the house, the barn, Charlotte’s Ranger.
And something else.
What. The actual. Fuck.
A red Mazda CX-50. Florida plates. A rental. He remembered it from three days before.
It was Christopher’s.
Tom’s heart was already amped from the drive from Oklahoma to Austin, but now it hammered so hard and loud it nearly drowned out the downpour drumming on the roof. Lightning strobed against the house, searing its peaked roof. A light glowed in the living room – the lamp on the side table. Then it went out.
Fuck. Just fuck. What?
He turned the key and killed the engine. The headlights blinked off, and the constellation of raindrops they had held vanished. In the dimness, he saw the curtain open a fraction, then fall back.
Now he knew something he did not want to know. The knowing hit his gut hard enough that he opened the door, stepped into the rain and mud, bent over, and vomited. Another flash of lightning lit the half-digested remains of a Big Mac pooling in the muck like something dead.
He coughed weakly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Stayed bent for a moment, waiting for another convulsion.
Then he heard a sound from the house – the hard slap of the screen door. A man emerged, shrugging into a jacket, fumbling with his belt.
Tom stepped away from the truck.
The man paused, looking at him. The porch light burned behind him, leaving his face in shadow, unreadable.
But Tom knew who it was. Of course he did.
It was Christopher.
Rain pelted them. Another flash, then a rippling boom like metal tearing. The light froze them in place. Tom stared, drew a breath, tried to load his words with force. They still fell short. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he shouted over the storm.
Christopher tugged his bomber jacket into place, fastened his belt.
His fucking belt.
“Hey…Tom,” he said. “What – why are you…?”
Mud squelched under Tom’s boots. His shoulders tightened into knots. “Goddamn you,” he said.
Christopher bent, pulling on a shoe he’d been holding. “Look – look,” he said. “It’s not – not what you think.”
The shoe slipped. He fumbled it back on over a black sock. Tom took a step towards him. “Her violin,” Christopher stammered. “The bridge broke again. I – I was fixing it.”
“Oh please, you lying piece of shit.” Another garish flash. “At fucking midnight?”
Christopher glanced at him, then at his car. “Man, Tom…look. I’m sorry. I’m leaving right now. Nothing happened. We’re just friends.” He swept wet hair from his eyes.
“You goddamn son of a bitch,” Tom said, voice low and tight. “In my own fucking house.”
A few seconds passed.
Tom moved suddenly – a head fake, old muscle memory. Christopher flinched, bolted for the Mazda. His feet went out from under him in the slick clay. The porch light caught the spray of mud as he slammed down, legs kicking up into a wide V. “Goddamnit,” he shouted, scrambling.
He tried to get to his hands and knees, but his shoes slid uselessly. Tom, almost despite himself, relaxed a fraction. Hands on his hips, he watched the absurdity – this grown man flailing in the mud like a hooked trout.
Christopher kept struggling. “She invited me, you asshole. Yeah. She – she did.” He sucked in a breath. “So just…just fuck you.”
Tom felt it then – clean and sharp and clear. He wanted to kill him. Knew exactly how he would do it. Exactly. Then another sound – the door opening again. Light spilled from the kitchen. Tom glanced that way, then back to Christopher.
Christopher managed to get one foot under him, trying to rise. Tom stepped forward, fists tightening.
Then he registered the third presence – the final piece of this shit geometry.
“Stop it,” Charlotte yelled. “Tom, stop it!”
***
I know. That – that was a scene. And I think I have it right. That is, what happened that night. It’s kind of hazy – I was exhausted, and the jolt of adrenalin in that moment didn’t help. Later I learned it was hazy for her, too. That surprised me a little. But I guess a concussion will do that.
And him. That old friend from Portland, Christopher. Maybe he had a clear recollection. I wouldn’t know. Even if I had talked to him again, that is not something I would have asked about.
Anyway. He’s not a friend anymore, that much is certain.
There was a lot more to that night – and the nights after it – and I’ll get to that.
As for Charlotte – well, all that was complicated from the start. So maybe I should begin there. Or not quite “there.” But early on.
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