by Dan Lawton
He was suddenly itchy all over. Extremely uncomfortable. “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s it? Just okay?”
“What do you want me to say?”
He watched her eyes scan the room behind him and land on the bed.
“Going somewhere?”
He said nothing.
She stepped toward him, got really close. Her perfume burned his nostrils, sucked the air from his lungs. He was glad she could not read his mind.
“Listen to me, and listen good, because I’m only going to say this once. I know there’s something you’re not telling me. So you’re going to tell me exactly what you’re hiding, and we’re going to fix it. If you hold out on me, things will get very bad for you. Do you understand?”
He lifted his chin so he was taller than her. It was important that he appeared to remain in control of the situation, even if that was not the reality.
“So tell me what’s going on. Now. Or I’ll castrate you.”
He did. All of it. Because what other choice did he have? It was not out of fear she would actually snip off his manhood, but because she was right—he had not told her everything, and if this was to go down the way everyone needed it to go down, they had to be forthcoming with one another.
Okay, he told her most of it, not everything—some things were better kept to himself. Just like with being a digital ghost, he had to protect himself from the unexpected. Life was unpredictable. Especially his.
When he finished, Cheyenne looked neither upset nor disturbed and remained surprisingly calm. “See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
A hand clamped between his legs and squeezed. A jolt of anguish blasted through his gut.
“Speaking of not being so hard.” She smiled at him and twisted before eventually releasing him.
He groaned as he keeled forward.
Cheyenne reached down and grabbed the duffel she brought in, slipped her shoulder through the straps. “Get your shit, come on.”
He looked up through the agony. “Where are we going?”
She looked at him like he was a fool, the way a mother might scold a child who should know better. “Where do you think?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he came last night. Not just a drip or a partial ejaculation, but a full release—an explosion, a cleansing. Rapture. It had been so long, he forgot how euphoric the experience was. At the moment, he thought he was going to detonate with the buildup of the ecstasy. As for Sheila, he was officially head over heels for her. She seemed satisfied.
His body ached. He used muscles he forgot he had last night, but the soreness that engulfed him was more than welcomed; it was celebrated. It reminded him he was still alive, still a man with testosterone flowing through his veins, still desirable. He still had it. It changed his outlook on what he conceded his life to now be. Psychologically, it changed everything. There was still a sliver of hope for him to be the man he once was, for the man he longed to be. His confidence was back.
He rolled over and leaned on his elbow and slid a palm under his chin to support himself. Sheila looked like an angel next to him, unclothed with the white sheet tucked against her jaw. A small pillow formed a cocoon basket around her skull. Sunlight peeked through the curtain and shone against her buttery complexion, reflected against the carpet of freckles that trickled around her shoulder like skin art. She breathed easily, happily. Randolph smiled at the sleeping beauty. He felt amazing.
Something real was forming between them. He had been in love more than a few times, and he knew the feeling well. But he also knew infatuation came first, as did lust. Both were dangerous. He considered himself to be a strong-willed man, so he was determined not to make impulsive decisions about anything significant until his feelings settled. That was the responsible thing to do.
But damn, Sheila.
He wanted her again. The bitterness of the salt from her skin on his tongue was still fresh, and he craved more. The prick of her nails against his back stung like it was happening all over again. He heard the fervor in her voice, imagined the darkness that surrounded them the night before. He felt himself harden.
He closed his eyes and kept his hands off, daydreamed about her.
When he opened them, Sheila was awake and focused on her phone. He was not sure how much time had passed, but he was now as limp as a deflated balloon. She saw him and rolled over, placed her phone face down on the end table. The sheet pulled away when she did and exposed her nakedness. He looked without hesitation.
She turned back and smiled at him, then slid her body in close and snuggled against him. Her skin was as warm as wool, and he draped his arm around her shoulder as if it were normal. She smelled like perfection.
“Morning,” she said with her face buried in his chest.
“Morning. Sheila, last night was—”
“Amazing, I know.” She pulled her neck away and looked up at him. She beamed.
“I feel like I should be thanking you.”
“Thanking me? For what?”
“For understanding and for helping me break through the wall I apparently had up.”
She did not respond, just gazed into his eyes.
It felt like the perfect moment to tell her how he felt about her, about the things that were happening within him. But he remembered his commitment to himself and stopped. It was too soon. Much too soon. They ogled at each other in silence for a while instead.
Eventually, they got up and showered and dressed and turned their key into the front desk just minutes before his card would be charged for another night. The same man from the night before offered them a map of the local area, made some recommendations on where to fuel up their bodies. There was a shopping center nearby which had something for everyone, he said. After they ate and filled the truck’s gas tank, they went there and shopped. Randolph insisted. Sheila’s clothes were creased and dirty and in need of washing, and her phone’s battery was nearly dead.
After, they found a laundromat. The patrons around them stared as they laughed and covered each other while they changed clothes in front of the machines. Sheila slipped on the new and washed the old; Randolph changed into one of the outfits he brought from home. A gray-haired woman stood in the corner and eyeballed them, crossed her arms and shook her head. A mother covered her young son’s eyes and pulled his head into her chest as if seeing a fellow human being in their underwear was the most traumatic event that could happen in the child’s life. If nothing else, they made the best of the mundane activity, successfully killed the time it took to complete the spin cycle and a quick tumble dry. Randolph immensely enjoyed her company and could not have cared less about the patrons who disapproved, which was a new experience for him.
By late afternoon, exhaustion set in after another half-day on the road, and the sun began to set. The exhaustion was more than about another day of driving, but rather what was to come. With an early start, they could be in Wyoming tomorrow. With that meant the end of their journey, or at least an arrival to their unspecified destination. Further decisions would have to be made then. At the time he proposed it, it felt like an unobtainable goal, a fantasy land they would fail to reach. Maybe he doubted himself that he would actually go through with it.
Yet, there they were. One day away.
A sign welcomed them to Valentine, Nebraska. It felt appropriate, like fate. Sheila must have felt that way too—minus the fate part—because she slipped her fingers into his and squeezed. Valentine for lovers. Life was good.
Greenery surrounded them, along with miles and miles of flat, paved roads. Other vehicles were few and far in between. Farmland lined the terrain. Corn stalk
s and rolled-up hay bales stood taller than people. A handful of cattle grazed in the pasture in the distance. The smell of manure crept its way into the cabin through the air vents to the point where they closed them and the windows. A gigantic tractor inched slowly along the side of the road.
They finally came upon civilization. Or at least Valentine’s version of it. Main Street stretched no more than a mile. First, a Baptist church with a farmer’s porch shared a tiny lot with a mom-and-pop hardware store, which had a handwritten sign on the lawn offering a steep discount on overstocked lawnmowers. Across the street, the fire station housed a single garage. Further down the strip, the sign above the pharmacy lacked complete illumination, the remaining letters forming a word that was not actually one. A corner store looked decrepit with cracked paint and a splintered front window, but promised beer and cigs for the locals. It was all about the important things, the essentials.
Randolph pulled into the lot of a garage that offered full-service. Refueling was not necessary, but directions were. The wireless network had been spotty for a while, so Google Maps was no help. They were lost. A bell rang when Randolph drove over the rubber hose that strung across the pavement. He held his finger against the button on his door and his window descended, and he waited. Sheila smiled at him.
Another bell rang. He peeked in the rearview and saw a man walking toward them, a slight limp in his step. Oil stained what remained of his overalls. The man arrived at the window and leaned in, twirled a toothpick between his lips. Black holes filled his mouth where teeth should have been. His hands were colored similarly.
“Whatcha need?” the man said.
“Hi there.”
“How much you need?”
“Oh, we don’t need fuel, actually. Just directions.”
“How much?”
“As I said, we—”
“You ain’t from around here, are ya?”
“No, in fact, we’re not.”—Randolph offered his friendliest smile—”Which is why, you know, the directions.”
“How much?”
Randolph shot Sheila a look as if to ask what he was missing. She shrugged. A few seconds passed, then she leaned forward and reached into her back pocket, came out with a crinkled ten-dollar bill. She held it out, offered it to toothpick. He took it and disappeared.
Randolph felt the clunk of the gas nozzle before he heard it. He cringed as the liquid sloshed in the tank, thought only the worst thoughts about its impact on the truck’s engine. Was the grade of fuel up to snuff in these parts? Where did it even come from? It was not long before the nozzle clicked, which was a relief. The machine read nine dollars even.
Toothpick reappeared at the window and leaned against it. He spat a brown liquid at his feet. The toothpick twirled between his triangular teeth. Randolph thought about asking for the change but reconsidered.
“About those directions,” Randolph said.
“What about ‘em?”
“Is there anywhere we crash around here? Maybe get a bite to eat?”
The man looked between them and grinned, then spat again. The blackness in his mouth reminded Randolph of charcoal.
“There,” he said, and pointed straight ahead.
Randolph turned and looked and saw it.
A Comfort Inn.
How about that?
“Thanks,” he said to toothpick, who backed away from the truck and held up a hand. Randolph drove off without another word. He could not have been happier to get them out of there.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was morning. Glorious morning. His phone rang, but he could not find it twisted in the sheets with their bodies. He could not recall when he had it last or where he left it. Sheila was asleep next to him, breathing softly, unresponsive to the jingle. He slid out of bed and followed the sound, which led him to his bag on the floor near the bed. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere—his and hers. Their shoes were nowhere to be found. It was a wild night. He bent over and unzipped the bag and shuffled through the pile. The volume of the jingle increased as he did. He grabbed it when he found it and blinked away the morning blur. But the name on the screen stayed as it appeared the first time, and he knew it could not have been good. He picked up.
“Patricia?”
“Where have you been? Where are you?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“When will you be back?”
He thought about it. “Not sure.”
Patricia grunted through the phone. He knew her eyes were rolling. “Do you know what today is?”
He felt for his watch but was not wearing it. “Should I?”
“The mortgage is due.”
“I’m surprised you know that.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“Never said you were.”
A brief silence.
“Well?” she said.
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to pay it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s about time you took some responsibility for your life, don’t you think? Why don’t you pay it?”
“With what money, Randolph?”
“That’s part of independence, darling. Figure it out.”
“Don’t be an asshole. What has gotten into you?”
He looked over his shoulder. Sheila rolled over, snuggled close to the comforter. She looked peaceful and content. Happy. That was something he had forgotten all about—the look of happiness. He went into the bathroom and pulled the robe off the hook on the door, admired his old but not too old yet reasonably fit body for his age in the mirror, then crossed the room and slipped onto the porch. The hotel overlooked the flatlands, so there was not much to see. The service station with the creepy toothpick of a man lurked on the other side of the swamp in the field. Randolph’s stomach growled as he inhaled the morning and tossed the robe over his bare shoulders. His prostate ached.
“Are you there?” Patricia said into his ear.
“I’m here. What?”
“Are you listening to me?”
He was not, but she kept talking anyway.
“Listen,” he said, cutting her off, “I’ve been thinking. About the divorce. I think now’s a good time.”
Silence on the other end.
“Patricia?”
“What?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I thought you didn’t want it?”
“That was before.”
“And now?”
“Did I not just say I’d sign?”
More silence.
“Do you still have the paperwork for me?” he asked.
“Well, yes—”
“Good then. I’ll call Larry and have him contact your lawyer, get it all figured out.”—Larry was his attorney—”Same guy?”
“Yes.”
Patricia seemed off. Not as confrontational as usual, less angry. It was almost as if she no longer wanted the divorce, despite her years of badgering about it. It must have been the surprise of it, finally getting what she wanted. Reaching the pinnacle was oftentimes less gratifying than the journey itself; he wondered if that was what was happening to her.
“I’ve got a connection at the courthouse,” he said. “I’ve spoken to him about this in the past, and he said there’s a way to have this expedited so we can both move on as quickly as possible. Shouldn’t take much longer than a few weeks, I’m told, depending on how many cases are ongoing.”
“Okay.”
She was definitely off. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing, Patricia. We’ve been married for thirty-two years; I know when something’s bothering you. What is it?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Wrong. Maxwell was born the same year we hit the thirty-year mark. I remember it well. And he’s two now.”
“Fine.”
Score one for Randolph.
“So, tell me,” he said. “What is it?”
“Well, I wasn’t going to tell you like this. But you’ve left me no choice.”
He waited.
“Don’t you think you might want to handle your other legal matters first? One thing at a time, as they say.”
What was she talking about?
“What are you talking about?”
“I take it you haven’t heard. I’m surprised Larry hasn’t called you.”
“What? What is it?”
“The supermarket. The explosion. There’s video footage of what happened.”
“And?”
“And you were there.”
“So were hundreds of other people. So what?”
“That’s not what the police are saying.”
His chest pounded with a dash of adrenaline. “What are they saying?”
“That you’re involved. With that woman you’re with.”
Patricia’s verbal fist knocked the wind straight out of him. He felt weak and out of breath and leaned against the rail for support. How did she know who he was with?
“You still there?” she said.
“I’m here.”
“You can do whatever you want, but if it were me in this situation, I’d make this priority number one.”
His chest felt tight. He sucked deep breaths and exhaled to fight the pain, but he managed to keep it together long enough to say, “This is important, Patricia.”—the pain twisted, but he fought back; he would not let her hear him struggle—”What are the police saying?”