What did it was the hug.
Frank’s daughter didn’t just hug him when they were reunited, she dug her girl’s hands into his upper arms so that he could feel her fingernails through his shirt. Everything that had happened, everything he had done, had made it clear that he needed to do something—anything!—about himself, but that hug had tipped the dominoes. The last time he had seen her awake, he had almost ripped her favorite shirt off her body. His daughter loved him anyway. He didn’t deserve it—but he wanted to.
The anger management program was three days a week. At the first meeting, it was just Frank and the therapist in the basement of the Dooling VFW.
Her name was Viswanathan. She wore large round spectacles and was so young-looking Frank figured she didn’t remember cassette tapes. She asked why he was there.
“Because I scare my kid and I scare myself. I also trashed my marriage, but that’s just a side-effect.”
The therapist took notes as he explained his feelings and compulsions. It came more easily than Frank would have guessed, sort of like expressing pus from an infected wound. In a lot of ways, it was like talking about another person, because that pissed-off dogcatcher didn’t feel like him. That pissed-off dogcatcher was someone who showed up and took control when Frank didn’t like what was happening, when he just couldn’t deal. He told her about putting animals in cages. He kept coming back to that.
“My friend,” said Dr. Viswanathan, this twenty-six-year-old girl with glasses the color of Kool-Aid, “have you ever heard of a drug called Zoloft?”
“Are you patronizing me?” Frank wanted to get himself together, not be fucked with.
The therapist shook her head and smiled. “No, I’m being jaunty. And you’re being brave.”
She introduced him to a psychopharmacologist and the psychopharmacologist wrote Frank a prescription. He took the prescribed dosage without feeling especially different and continued to go to the meetings. Word got around, and more men began to appear, filling half the chairs in the basement of the VFW. They said they “wanted to make a change.” They said they “wanted to get their shit together.” They said they “wanted to stop being so fucking angry all the time.”
No amount of therapy or Big Pharma happy-pills could change the fact that Frank’s marriage was kaput. He had broken Elaine’s trust too many times (not to mention the kitchen wall). But maybe that part was okay. He discovered he didn’t actually like her that much. The best thing was to let her go. He gave her full custody, and told her he was grateful for his two weekends a month with their daughter. In time, if things went well, it would be more.
To his daughter he said, “I’ve been thinking about a dog.”
“How are you doing?” Frank asked Clint as the Dubliners played and sang.
Frank was on his way to Thanksgiving in Virginia with his former in-laws. The Zoloft and the meetings helped him control his temper, but in-laws were still in-laws, only more so when their daughter had divorced you. He’d stopped in at O’Byrne’s to postpone his execution for a half hour.
“I’m hanging in there.” Clint rubbed his eyes. “Need to lose some weight, but yeah, hanging in there.”
They took seats at a booth in a dark corner.
Frank said, “You’re drinking in an Irish dive on Thanksgiving. Is that your idea of hanging in there?”
“I didn’t say I was great. Besides, you’re here, too.”
Frank thought What the hell and just said it. “I’m glad we didn’t kill each other.”
Clint raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
They toasted. Clint didn’t feel any anger toward Frank. Anger wasn’t something he felt toward anyone. What he felt was great disappointment in himself. He had not expected to save his family only to lose them. It was not his idea of a happy ending. It was his idea of an American shit-show.
He and Geary talked about their children. Frank’s girl was in love with some kid in Ohio. He was a little worried he might be a grandfather at forty-five, but he was playing it cool. Clint said that his son was awfully quiet these days, probably couldn’t wait to blow town, go to college, see what the world was like beyond coal country.
“And your wife?”
Clint waved to the bartender for another round.
Frank shook his head. “Thanks, but not for me. Booze and Zoloft don’t mix all that well. I should shove off. The outlaws are expecting me.” He brightened. “Hey, why not come along? I’ll introduce you to Elaine’s folks. Gotta keep on their good side; they’re my daughter’s grandparents, after all. Visiting them is sort of like hell, but with slightly better food.”
Clint thanked him, but declined.
Frank started to get up, then settled back. “Listen, that day at the Tree…”
“What about it?”
“Do you remember when the churchbells started ringing?”
Clint said he would never forget. The bells began when the women started to wake up.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Right about then I looked around for that crazy girl, and saw she was gone. Angel, I think her name was.”
Clint smiled. “Angel Fitzroy.”
“Any idea what became of her?”
“None at all. She’s not at Curly, I know that much.”
“Barry, the insurance guy? He told me he was pretty sure she killed Peters.”
Clint nodded. “He told me the same thing.”
“Yeah? What did you say?”
“Good riddance to bad rubbish. That’s what I said. Because Don Peters was the problem in a nuthell.” He paused. “Shell. That’s what I mean. Nutshell.”
“My friend, I think you should go home.”
Clint said, “Good idea. Where is it?”
Two months after what had become known as the Great Awakening, a Montana rancher saw a woman hitchhiking on Route 2, just east of Chinook, and pulled over. “Hop in, young lady,” he said. “Where you headed?”
“Not sure,” she said. “Idaho, to start with. Maybe out to California after that.”
He offered his hand. “Ross Albright. Got a spread two counties over. What’s your name?”
“Angel Fitzroy.” Once she would have refused the shake, used an alias, and kept her hand on the knife she always stored in her coat pocket. Now there was no knife and no alias. She felt no need of either.
“Nice name, Angel,” he said, fetching third gear with a jerk. “I’m a Christian myself. Born and born again.”
“Good,” Angel said, and without a trace of sarcasm.
“Where you from, Angel?”
“A little town called Dooling.”
“That where you woke up?”
Once Angel would have lied and said yes, because that was easier, and besides, lying came naturally to her. It was a real talent. Only this was her new life, and she had resolved to tell the truth to the best of her ability in spite of the complications.
“I was one of the few who never went to sleep,” she said.
“Wow! You must have been lucky! And strong!”
“I was blessed,” Angel said. This was also the truth, at least as she understood it.
“Just hearing you say so is a blessing,” said the rancher, and with great feeling. “What’s next, Angel, if you don’t mind me asking? What are you going to do when you finally decide to nail your traveling shoes to the floor?”
Angel looked out at the glorious mountains and the never-ending western sky. At last she said, “The right thing. That’s what I’m going to do, Mr. Albright. The right thing.”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to smile at her and said, “Amen, sister. Amen to that.”