“Looks like quite a mess you’ve made for yourself,” my wife says.
“Looks like it, yeah.”
“It didn’t have to be this way you know.”
I smile, but it’s a cold one. “Yeah, I do, but please spare me the list of reasons why. I don’t have time to hear ’em.”
The smoke coils in my vision. I’m tempted to close my eyes but that only leads to the dreadful thought of what she might do to open them, so I stare at the dashboard, at the undulating tendril that’s keeping her tied to the mangled stereo. Somehow, it’s still playing that song.
“You’re still actin’ the fool, Tom. Still pretendin’ life will eventually work out just fine if you keep walkin’ through it with blinkers on. What you can’t see can’t affect you, right?”
I say nothing. Have nothing to say.
“You shouldn’t be in the least bit surprised that it’s come to this.”
“I’m not. Just didn’t figure it would happen so soon is all.”
“What wouldn’t happen so soon? Do you even know what this is?”
I shrug, still can’t look at her.
“It’s not Hell,” she says softly. “It’s not damnation other than the one you condemn yourself to. The Hell inside yourself. Shun love and ignore hate, hurt people and dismiss those who truly need you…that’s the best way to find yourself stopped at an intersection in Milestone lookin’ up at a traffic light that hasn’t worked in ten years, without any idea how you got there. When did you get here, Tom? Do you even remember?”
I nod slowly. Sure I remember, but I don’t want to. Thankfully, it’s a question that requires no answer, because she already knows it. What I can remember without fear is the woman who worked in the library in its last year of service, the woman who at first sight encompassed every adolescent fantasy I’d ever had of the quiet bookish brunette, hair tied back, spectacles perched on her nose to downplay the sultry beauty you knew in your heart was there. But Jessica was so much more than that. Within ten minutes of getting up the courage to talk to her, I realized she was way out of my league, not only with her looks, but with her frightening intellect and resolve. She was witty, clever, and iron-willed. The mating ritual was of little interest to her. No let’s do dinner, then play phone tag until I trust you enough to fall into your bed. She was stuck in a small town that died a little every day. Her job was in danger. She needed a man to love her and provide for her, but railed at the slightest suggestion that it meant she would stay at home and play the good wife. No. She intended to study, paint and make enough money so she could get out of Milestone, maybe go back to school, and someday teach. A damsel in distress she certainly was not. A homemaker only under duress. Aprons would be worn not to bake cakes or apple pies, but to prevent the spatter from her paint from ruining her clothes. She was a bohemian, and if a prospective mate couldn’t understand that, or considered it something that would pass once she discovered the joys of Betty Crocker and Martha Stewart, then they would be sorely disappointed.
She frightened me, she enthralled me, and I knew the day I left her company for the first time and stepped out into noon sunshine that looked a little brighter, a little cleaner than ever before, that I had to have her.
She frightened me then; she frightens me now, for the same reason: She was always right.
“I’m sorry.”
The smoke clucks its tongue. “Too late for that, and I’m not the one you should be apologizin’ to, unless you’re goin’ to play the same game with me that you’re playin’ with Kyle.”
“I’m not—”
“Save it.” Her face whorls, and reforms right in front of my face, close enough for us to kiss. It’s hard to see her as my wife, so I avert my eyes once more. There’s no denying where the voice comes from though.
God, I still love her.
“Why didn’t you tell him?”
I shrug and it’s pitiful. “There was never a good time.”
“Bullshit. It would have required too much of you. It would have meant you’d have had to sit your ass down and talk to him like a man. You’d have had to face up to somethin’ for the first time in your life, but like everythin’ else, you turned your back on it. Just like you turned your back on me.”
“I didn’t—”
“What else do you need to lose before you see what you’ve done to yourself and the ones you love? How many more people need to die before the sun breaks through the clouds around that thick head of yours?”
“I have to go.”
“No.”
“I have to help him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s…because I have to.”
“It’s too late.”
I slam a fist on the steering wheel. “It isn’t, and don’t you say that.” Panic courses through me. Like I’ve said, she’s always right, and right now, more than ever, I don’t want her to be.
Again her face falls an inch or two, trying to stay level with mine. “Why do you care? Why now is it so important that you race to his rescue?”
“I don’t have to explain it.” Because I can’t, and I don’t want to have to think about it. “He’s my son.”
“He doesn’t think of himself as your son. I don’t think of him as your son, and on any other day you wouldn’t either. Do you think this will save you?”
I give a bitter chuckle at that. “Save me? From what? Myself? This town? That old bastard with his coins? There’s no salvation here and you know that as well as I do.”
“Then why fight it?”
“I don’t know. For Chrissakes I don’t know, all right? Why does there have to be a reason? Would you prefer I just sit here listening to you while whatever happens to our son happens?”
“Why not? It’s what you’ve been doin’ your whole life.”
“I don’t need to listen to this.”
“Then why did you turn on the stereo?”
I scowl and reach for the keys. “To get rid of the kid.”
“You’re lyin’.”
“You think so? Take a look around. The kid’s out there on the road, not here with a goddamn Rambo knife to my throat. That’s why I turned you on…”
I feel her smile and the urge to share it is almost overwhelming, but I kill the compulsion by reminding myself that for whatever reason, she’s trying to keep me here.
“I’m going, and I’m switching this thing off.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have time to talk anymore, that’s why.”
A sad sigh. “Nothin’ ever changes in your world, does it Tom? The whole town could wake up buried under a hundred feet of ice and you’d still plod along with that badge pinned to your chest, swearin’ to protect while watchin’ them all freeze. And an hour later, it’d be forgotten, locked away for good in that holdin’ pen in your skull.”
I start the ignition. The truck rumbles to life. Wintry’s shadow eclipses the light through the passenger side window, where he stands, and waits, aware that the business in here is not something he wants, or has any right, to be a part of.
Finally, I look at her face, into her eyes. Death has made her one of her own sketches, a pale imprint on blue paper. Only the eyes look alive, miniature galaxies swirling in pockets of deep space.
“I don’t know any other way,” I confess, and quickly look away.