Chapter 10: Ground Fault

It was a Friday morning. I was in the kitchen putting away dishes when I saw Thomas walking across the yard to the mailbox. He opened it, took out the mail, and carefully sorted it. Then he put it all back in the box and closed the door. He did so gently – even carefully. Then he walked slowly back to the Airstream and disappeared inside. It was a sunny day – already warm – and the light bounced off the trailer’s silver skin. I dried my hands on a towel and watched for any activity. Ten minutes went by with no movement from the trailer.

 We were supposed to leave for Big Bend in four days. This was my trip, really. I’d wanted to go for years and talked Thomas into taking me. He had left the planning to me, which was fine. He could be scattered – usually because he had too many things on his mind. I was excited about the trip. I’d scheduled a visit to the 1,500-foot cliffs of Santa Helena Canyon, planned a drive along the famous Ross Maxwell Scenic Drive, and was looking forward to visiting the Hot Springs Historic District.

But now I wasn’t sure. About the trip. About him.

About anything.

That morning after the party, he had been completely impossible about the dishes and his precious cast-iron skillet. He wanted to dance again. But I was hot and tired, so I told him no, and started to pick up. Then he muttered something, got in his truck, and drove off – gone for hours.

By the time he came back home, I had called Margaret to help me clean up. We had just met, but I had no one else to call and she had given me her number. We filled three trash cans, loaded five trash bags, and it took an hour to finish the rest of the dishes.

“What happened?” she asked, as we filled the second can with plastic cups and greasy paper plates. “Last night. You two seemed so – so perfect. And when you danced. Every woman there just about fainted.”

I wiped some sweat off my brow. “I don’t know,” I said. “It was dumb. We were doing dishes and I did – I did something wrong. I scratched a pan, then it kind of spiraled. He’s been a little, uh, uh, prickly recently.”

Margaret stood and looked at me. “What?” she asked in disbelief. “He drove off in a huff because of stupid dishes?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. He did.”

She left an hour later.

When finally I heard his truck park outside and heard its door close, it was almost four. I was sitting in an Adirondack chair in a shady patch on the patio, a towel wrapped around ice cubes across the back of my neck. I watched him get out of his truck, bump his Stetson on the door frame, then put it back in place. I smiled at that – the Portland guy and his Stetson.

I watched him as he walked toward the house without looking around. “Where have you been?” I asked, a little loudly to make sure he heard. He stopped suddenly and turned in my direction. We were both quiet. “For a drive,” he said after a moment. “I needed to buy some lumber.” He paused. Then he said, “You didn’t seem to need any help.”

I put my cold towel down and stood up. “You can not be serious,” I said angrily. “You knew how much there was left to do. I had to call Margaret – I had no one else I could – and she helped.”

He stood still, then kicked the ground with one foot and looked down at it. “Well,” he said. I heard a truck on the road – the clatter of a diesel engine. “Sorry.” He looked at me from under the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry.”

I was still hot. And exhausted. “Maybe say it ten more times,” I said. “It’s a start.”

After a moment he looked around and his eyes went to the trash cans and bags. “I can load those up,” he said. “Take them to the dump.” I sat back down. “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ve done enough.” I put the icy towel back on my neck and leaned back against the sloped chair back.

That was two weeks ago, but that day left a mark. We spoke only a little for a few days – he had indeed bought some lumber and plywood and spent hours in his shop doing, well, something. He came in late and ate late. I bought him a new stainless saucepan – which he barely acknowledged.

But one night he came up at 11 rather than midnight, took a shower, then came to bed. I still was awake, my back to him, and sensed him slipping across the cool sheets. An arm came over me, his breath in my ear.

“I am so very sorry,” he said. “Don’t go away from me. Please.” Then he touched me and I pushed against him. “I won’t,” I said.

That had helped – mostly. And now, two days after that, I was poring over Big Bend web sites and guidebooks. Thomas was supposed to be getting the trailer ready. He had been working on that all week – there was always something to fix or replace. He had mentioned something about installing some lighting upgrades, putting in a new solar port to replace a broken one, and fitting – finally – a new toilet that was low enough for me. He admitted the one he had originally installed was too tall for him, too.

At least, he had been trying to get things ready. But something was off. As I had told Margaret, he hadn’t been himself for a month. He was a little quick to anger, and to snap at me. He buried himself in books for hours at a time when I knew he had other things to do. And he was quieter. I had come to understand that he was not always a ready talker – he barely said a word for a week after the dishes fight – but now something else seemed to shut down. Then there was that odd mailbox ritual I’d watched – and not for the first time. It seemed he was expecting something. I had no idea what.

I decided to check on things. Maybe I could be useful. But I didn’t want him to think that was my goal, so I made an iced coffee and took the cold glass with me.

Thomas was on his knees at the front of the trailer; the dinette table dismounted and shoved aside. There were bits of wire and tools scattered across the bare dinette seat – he had moved the cushion. I saw a crimping tool, wire strippers, a box I was pleased to recognizer as heat‑shrink solder connectors. His head was half in the plywood compartment that held the batteries and the power converter. He was wearing a Seattle Mariners ballcap – backwards – and a headlamp. "What's wrong?" I asked. I set the coffee on the kitchen counter.

"Nothing." He didn't look up.

I leaned over him to see what was going on. "I brought you an iced coffee,” I said. He turned enough to look at the glass, its sides already dripping condensation. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll get to it.” Then he turned and rummaged around in the compartment.

Like any RV, Airstreams were economical with space, and I could see his hands struggling to work in close quarters. “Ground fault somewhere – I think.” he said tightly. “I can't find it." The trailer was stuffy – it heated up fast when the sun hit it. And even though the rooftop AC unit was roaring, the back of his dark T-shirt was now almost black from sweat. “What about the negative bus?" I asked. "Could the ground…"

"No." The word came out with a bite. So, I zipped it.

He stared into the battery compartment, shoulders tense. "I don't need help," he said without looking at me. "Okay," I said quietly. "I'll go check the camping crates in the shed."

I walked back to the barn to resume a job I hard started a few days earlier – organize the camp equipment. One big plastic bin for what we used around camp, the other for trailer-related things. That meant the big camp lanterns and telescoping hot dog forks in one, wires for the solar chargers and the accordion-like sewer hose support in the other. “The poop chute,” he called the hose support when it was set up. We would both laugh at that.

I was debating where the clothesline should go when I heard a shout. "CHARLOTTE!" I dropped the cord and ran back to the Airstream and up the steps. He was still on his knees. When he turned to me his face was red and beaded with sweat. "Where did you go?" he snapped. "I needed help."

I blinked. "Thomas... you told me to leave."

"Well obviously this takes more than two hands,” he said crossly. I looked at him, at the wires, at his hands, which were shaking slightly. "What do you need?" I asked. He handed me the wire crimper. "Hold this." I took and the crimper and watched as he reached into the battery compartment and tried to gather loose wires. He almost had them together when a thin copper strand slipped under his thumbnail. "Ouch! Crap!" He stood up fast – then hit his head on the overhead storage locker. “GOD…DAMN…IT!” he barked.

 Oh God for a second that was pure slapstick.But only for a second. He kicked the plywood battery enclosure, and the sound was loud in the close aluminum shell. I didn't move.

"Thomas," I said finally. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing,” he said, wiping his forehead with a hand. “I'm just frustrated."

I set the crimper down on the dinette bench and sat next to it. "It's not just the wiring,” I said. “You know how to do this. You always say, ‘it’s just twelve-volt.’”

Thomas looked at me, his brow furrowed. Then he wiped a red handkerchief across his forehead. "You've been like this for days," I went on. " Snapping at me. Awake all night. You told me to leave ten minutes ago, then yelled at me to come back." He stared at me for a long moment. Then he sat down on the bench across from me. Something caught my eye outside, and I saw Jack ambling past the open door. I thought for a second he might come in, but he had other plans.

"I made a mistake,” Thomas said finally, scratching the stubble on one cheek. Some of it was turning a bit gray.

 "What mistake?" I asked. “With the wiring?”

“No,” he said. "I stopped taking my meds."

My head went back a little in surprise. "What meds?"

He looked at me and took a breath. "Lexapro,” he said. “It’s an antidepressant." So that's what this was. When we first met, he mentioned he often was depressed, but until recently he had seemed fine – at least to me. "When did you stop?" I asked.

"Three weeks ago. Maybe four."

Oh, I thought. “You mean, before the party?” I asked.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Probably two weeks before.”

I sat on the dinette bench opposite him and reached across to put a hand on his knee. "Why did you do that?” I asked. “You seemed fine before that."

Thomas looked at his hands. He’d cut one on something, and the Band-Aid was coming off. "I felt good,” he said. “I thought... I don't know. I thought maybe I didn't need them anymore."

“Why not?”

“Because I felt OK. I felt that maybe you and I…”

I heard the cows lowing,

“…you and I were together. That maybe I didn’t need the pills anymore. I felt better.”

I leaned back slightly. “How long have you been taking them?”

“Six years. Since my brother died.”

David. Three years older. I knew Thomas missed him even now. David was calmer than Tom. Thomas told me that they had texted or emailed almost daily, and even now Thomas was always coming across some predicament in the shop or in the trailer and he would say to me, “Dave would have loved this.” But Dave was gone, and there was a hole. Now there was just Eloise, their irascible eight-two-year-old mother.

“Did they help?” I asked.

“A lot,” he said. “I stopped dwelling on the past so much. Getting so angry.”

OK – now something made sense. I didn’t know much about what he was taking but I thought that maybe tapering would have been OK. Instead, he just stopped. And that had backfired.

We sat there for a minute. The Airstream creaked in the afternoon heat. "Why didn't you tell me?" I asked. "Before. That you were on them."

He shrugged. "It didn't seem relevant. I was managing it. It was just part of my routine."

"But then, why stop?"

"I thought I was doing better,” he said. “I’ve probably been depressed my whole life, and now I wasn't."

I guessed that was a compliment. It was hard to tell. "I don’t think that’s how it works,” I said. “if you were feeling better, you – you shouldn’t have stopped.”

"Yeah. I'm figuring that out."

I looked at the ice coffee and decided caffeine was not the answer. So I stepped to an overhead cupboard and took a glass from it. I filled that with water and handed it to him. “Drink this,” I said. He did. "Have you eaten today?" I asked.

He thought about it. "Not really,” he said.

"Okay. Come inside. I'll make you something."

He shook his head. "I need to fix the wiring."

I picked up the now-melted ice coffee and tipped it into the sink. "The wiring can wait,” I said. “I need you to take care of yourself."

He ignored me and went back to fiddling with some wires.

“Thomas,” I said. “You’re doing it again – and we just talked about it.”

He twisted a wire nut. “Just give me a minute,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I will not. You’re going to give me a minute and listen. Come inside and eat something. That’s just making things even worse.”

"Okay," he said, reluctantly letting go of the wires and standing.

I made tuna salad sandwiches and scattered some potato chips and apple slices on the plates. He sat at the kitchen table and watched.

 "I'm not good at this," he said.

"At what?"

"Talking about this kind of stuff."

I set a plate in front of him, and at my place. "I noticed."

"I'm sorry,” he said. I took a bite of sandwich.

"Stop apologizing,” I said. “Just talk to me next time before you make a big decision like that. After the party – the dishes. Do you know how much you hurt me? Snapping at me over dirty dishes?”

He ate some sandwich. "I know,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault."

I heard a truck on the county road. "No,” I said. “No – not it was not. I hope you understand that.”

“I do.”

“OK – good. Now what happens next? Are you back on your meds?

He chewed slowly for a moment. “Yes,” he finally said. “I’m trying something else – Wellbutrin. But I’ve read that it can make things worse before – before they get better. I think that’s where I am right now.”

"Okay,” I said again.

"And I might have trouble sleeping."

He was a night owl anyway. "Alright,” I said

He glanced at me. "And I'm sorry – I’m sorry in advance if I'm difficult."

I looked at him. "You're always difficult. And I don’t think whatever you’re taking accounts for all of that."

 Douglas smiled slightly. “You’re probably right,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

He took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Anyway,” he said. “Thank you."

"For what?"

"For not making this a bigger deal than it is."

I reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Thomas, it is a big deal. But we’ll figure it out.”

After lunch, we went back out to the Airstream. I stood in the doorway while he knelt back down in front of the battery compartment. "What can I do?" I asked.

"Hold the flashlight? The headlamp isn’t bright enough.” I stepped over, knelt beside him, and aimed his big metal flashlight where he needed it. He traced the wiring harness from the fuse box back through the frame. Found a loose connection at the negative bus bar. Tightened it. The lights came back on. "There we go," he said.

"Was that it the whole time?" I asked.

Thomas let out an exasperated sigh. "Probably."

"You spent an hour on that?" I didn’t mean it like that.

"Yeah,” he said. “Yeah – I did. I wasn't in the best headspace." I bumped my shoulder against his. "No kidding." He sat back. Wiped his hands on his jeans.

We sat there on the floor of the Airstream. Tools and wire scattered around us. "You know," I said, "I'm glad you told me about your meds."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah,” I said. “I was starting to think maybe you were just an asshole."

He looked at me. “Don’t call me that,” he said.

“But it’s true,” I said, feeling a flash of irritation. “You can be. And you need to stop it.”

A quiet moment passed. Then he stood and moved some of his tools around. “I’ll try,” he said.

“You need to do more than try,” I said. “I don’t deserve some of the things you’ve done to me.”

He wiped some sweat off his forehead and aimed it at the cool air blowing from the AC. “OK,” he said. “I’ll do more than try. I promise.”

I wanted to believe him. “Now – we have another job to do,” I said. “And it doesn’t involve wiring.”

“Like what?”

“We have some maps to look at.”

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